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kydrogendragon · 4 months

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Hi! I was thinking about Dream dating Hob because a wager with Death. Time passes, Hob can't believe Dream is interested in him/his experiences, but he is so happy, he has so much to live for. Until he finds out about the wager and... He is ok with that! He tells Dream that he thinks they made the wager because Dream was lonely, and it's ok because he was lonely, too. But Dream doesn't hear him, he is so offended, he says "You dare..." and he storms out. Time passes again and, I don't know, there is a happy ending, of course.

Third prompt for the day! This one was fun to write. I feel like it could easily be it's own multi-chapter fic cause it's a real fun concept, but alas, I have too many wips as is, so we'll take the bite-size version :P

Thanks for the request!!

Relationship: Hob/Dream Words: 2293 Warnings: None Ao3 Link

“You know, your sister told me about the wager,” Hob says, looking down into his water glass. Tonight was he and Dream’s six month anniversary. They’re tucked into the back corner booth of the Italian restaurant just down the road from Hob’s own apartment. The place was a pricier one, yes, but Dream had talked about missing their carbonara last week and Hob wasn’t about to let his boyfriend suffer a moment longer without it.

Hob remembers when Dream first approached him in the White Horse back in June. He’d been relaxing with some of his coworkers, celebrating the end of term a bit late, when the most breathtakingly pretty man approached their table. He looked like he’d stepped out of some sort of fantasy novel, like he was the Fae Prince himself. And then those icy blue eyes of his met Hob’s and Hob knew he was done for.

Dream had asked if Hob meant it when he’d claim to know true love the moment he first saw them. Hob had just smiled and said yes. Because he did. And the moment he and Dream’s eyes locked, Hob knew that he was going to love that man. Hob said just as much, which earned him a hearty eye roll at the time. But Dream had said he’d meet him there, at the White Horse, again next week if he’d meant it.

So, of course, Hob had gone back in a week’s time and found the handsome man sitting near the fireplace, nursing a glass of wine. They’d chatted, well, Hob chatted, Dream listened. Hob went on and on about his life, his work. He talked about his friend and family, about his childhood and the new TV show he’s been obsessed with. Then Dream asked him, a few hours later, if he still meant it. If he still thought Dream was his true love.

And Hob said yes.

They continued meeting once a week, which shortly turned to twice a week, then sometimes even sooner, depending on each other’s schedules. Most of the time, they met up someplace in the city for dinner or drinks. Dream had taken him out to the park to feed the birds, which quickly became a common date for them. Then, Hob invited Dream back to his, and Dream said yes. They didn’t do much, just relaxed, watched a movie and ordered take-out, but it was a change in their dynamic. And over the course of those few months, Hob could see Dream relaxing more and more.

The Fae-like man had always seemed overly tense. He carried a weight in his shoulders and his stance that looked just moments away from crushing him. Hob had resolved himself to doing whatever he could to ease some of that stress away from him. And over time, it seemed to work.

The first time Dream had kissed him, Hob thought he’d died and gone to heaven. It was a hesitant thing. They’d been relaxing on Hob’s couch as they had for week by this point. Perhaps they’d had a few more glasses of wine between them than they usually would and maybe sharing a blanket was just an excuse to be close to one another. Dream had turned to him with a look in his eyes that Hob had seen many times before. It glinted with fear, but hope. Then Dream leaned in, slowly, giving time for Hob to back away. Then those rosebud colored lips were finally on his own and it was wonderful. Hob was addicted in just one go.

They didn’t kiss much after, much to Hob’s disappointment, but the times they had felt like magic, but that kiss changed their dynamic. Hob found that Dream was more open to hugs or cuddles in the evening afterwards. He’d even gotten the man to lie his head on Hob’s lap which quickly became a favored position. Hob loved it too. It gave him a chance to just run his fingers through that kitten soft black hair of his. Then six months had passed which felt like forever and also no time at all. If Hob ever doubted his love for this man before, these past months solidified it.

Dream’s sister, Death (a very odd name, but his boyfriend’s name was Dream so who was he to judge?), had tracked him down at the White Horse a week back, which is how he’d found out about their initial wager. She hadn’t told him intentionally. She’d assumed Dream had explained things (he hadn’t) so she’d taken the liberty to explain the situation.

Hob’s pretty sure she thought he’d be angry about it. And yeah, sure, it was a bit of a surprise to hear that Dream had only continued to meet with him after that night because of a dare. But the more he thought about it, the less he really cared. It brought Dream into his life, after all. How could he be mad about that?

Dream looked up at him from over the top of the fancy leather menu, his eyes wide. Hob shot him a smile to try and ease whatever thoughts are running through his boyfriend’s mind. Dream looks back down and slowly closes the menu, setting it in front of him on the white linen tablecloth. He takes a breath before he speaks.

“And what did she say of the wager?” His shoulders are pulled back and his face is carefully masked. Hob knows this posture well. He’s preparing himself to be hurt. The notion makes Hob’s heart ache, so he extends his hand, tilting it upwards just in front of Dream. He doesn’t reach for it, though Hob can see his gaze dart to his open palm.

“Well,” Hob starts, tilting his head down to try and see Dream’s face better. “She said you two overheard me and my boasting that night at the pub. She also said she thought maybe I’d fall in love with you at first sight, which you apparently, and I quote, rolled your eyes so hard she thought they’d get lost in your head.”

Dream rolls his eyes, but Hob spots the twitch of a smile. “She said you thought that was ridiculous and that even if I thought you were striking, I’d soon grow tire of you.” His voice trailed off, softening at the end. Dream swallows, his jaw clenching. It was a fear of his, Hob knew. Dream never said so, not in so many words, but he said it through his actions. Through his carefully constructed face of neutrality, through the fear and the hope that radiates from his eyes when he does something he thinks Hob would dislike. In all the small actions and tentative steps, Dream’s made very clear the fears inside his heart and Hob’s sworn to himself to love each fear away.

“And have you?” Dream asks, his voice quiet.

“No. Never. Told you, one look and I know. I knew. That night, I knew.” Hob replies instantly. He can see the slight shimmer of a tear down Dream’s cheek as he closes his eyes. Dream remains, stiff in his chair, hands in his lap. “I’m glad you made that wager. That your sister made you keep hanging out with me, dating me. I think it’s been good, for both of us. I think… I think maybe she pushed you towards me cause you were lonely. That you needed someone to show you you were worthy of love.”

Dream’s eyes dart to his, a mix of surprise and fury in his face. He’d seen many emotions from his boyfriend over the past six months but anger was rarely one of them. Frustration, irritation, sure, but the way his lip is snarling and his nostrils are flaring, this is true anger. Hob shifts, lifting his hands up in a placating gesture. He rewinds the conversation, combing through each sentence trying to figure out what it was that earned him such a reaction.

“You dare?” Dream spits. “You dare to know how I feel? You dare to claim that you know me? To know my heart so?”

Hob blinks. “Yes,” he replies, utterly confused at how this conversation has so drastically shifted. “Yes, I do.” Dream huffs as he tosses the napkin in his lap on the table and stands. Hob’s up on his feet as Dream stalks away, following after him. “Dream!” He calls after, weaving between the tables and the onlookers. He was suddenly glad that their waiter had been taking a while to get to them.

Dream storms out the doors into London’s pouring rain. He stomps down the sidewalk as Hob rushes after. For as thin as the man was, he walked faster than Hob would have expected. “Dream, Jesus, just-just wait, please!” He calls against the rain. His boyfriend’s steps stutter, and it gives Hob just enough time to close the distance. He grabs onto his shoulder and spins the other man to face him.

His inky black hair is soaked already, just seconds into the downpour. Hob doubts he’s much better. It sticks to his pale skin. The rain coats him completely, Dream’s eyeliner already beginning to run. Hob feels the flutter of adrenaline under his skin, afraid that one wrong move and he’ll lose this dramatic wet cat of a man that he so desperately loves. He needs to tackle his carefully, thoughtfully. Hob needs to treat Dream with a calm hand and a gentle touch.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Not what he should have said. Dream’s brows furrow, the scrunch of his nose and the sneer of his lips already beginning to paint his face. Hob tightens his grip on his shoulder, his other hand moving to hold Dream’s wrist. Dream tugs, but Hob doesn’t relent. He stares into Dream’s reddened eyes as he speaks.

“We’ve been dating for six months now. Today’s our anniversary, in case you didn’t know. And maybe I don’t know you completely, but I feel like I’ve got a pretty damn good grasp on you. I know that you hate the mornings, not because it’s early, but because your favorite bookshop doesn’t open until ten. I know that you take your coffee with more sugar and milk in it than actual coffee, but you’ll drink it black in the presence of others because you think it looks better. I know you choose each word you speak with such a meticulous nature than I can’t even begin to fathom because words are important and they mean a lot to you. I know you worry about the amount of bread the pigeons and ducks in the park eat, which is why you always make sure to get the special feed mix from the farm supply shop, even though it’s a half hour drive to get to. I know that you overthink each action you take because you’re afraid of how I’ll react. And I know, from tonight, you think that if you push me away first, then you think it might not hurt as bad as if I pushed you away instead.

“But guess what, Dream? I’m not letting you go. Not if you don’t want me to. Not if you love me even just a sliver as much as I love you. Cause I do. I love you, Dream. Have since that day you first walked up to me. Told you that. It hasn’t changed. If anything, I’ve just fallen even harder for you since. So you can yell at me, you can push me away, but I’ll still be here. Forever loving you. Just like I promised you six months ago.”

Dream stares at him, the anger falling from his face and morphing into a pained expression as Hob talks. The adrenaline has started to fade from his veins, leaving Hob tired and shaky. Dream doesn’t say a word, he just stares and with each passing second, fear begins to creep in. Is this how it was going to end? Six months in and that’s it, all because Hob dared to say he understood the man in front of him.

Then lips are on his and there’s a pair of hands clinging to the flaps of his jacket, pulling him ever closer. Hob melts into the kiss, his hands falling to Dream’s waist. It’s an awkward kiss, their noses are jammed against each other, but his body is warm against Hob’s and he’s holding him close and Hob hasn’t lost Dream. That’s the most important thing.

They part, panting against each other in the pouring rain. Dream’s icy blue eyes peer into Hob’s. He’s so close. He can make out all the individual lines of color in Dream’s irises. He can see rough edges of his eyeliner and the bits of mascara that cling to his lashes. He is a work of art, not that Hob’s ever thought otherwise, but here, as the golden glow of the restaurant’s lights reflect against the trails of tears and raindrops against his pale skin, Hob wishes he could take a picture and keep it forever.

“You are a ridiculous man, Robert Gadling. Impertinent. Foolish,” Dream whispers against his lips. “You could have anyone.”

“I could,” Hob replies. He moves one hand up, cupping Dream’s cheek. He rubs his thumb across the chilled skin. “But I want you.”

“A terrible choice,” Dream says, kissing him once more. Hob’s eyes drift shut as he loses himself to the warmth of soft lips dancing with his own. They’ve a long way to go, Hob thinks to himself. But he’s a hopeful man and a determined one. And he plans to spend as many lifetimes with this ridiculous man in his arms as he possibly can.

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman #ky writes #Kydrogen's Birthday Prompts

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acupofqueercoffee · 1 year

Text

“Offer me the deathless death”

Andromache the Scythian x Female Reader

request ( found here ) by @nightly-polaris

|･ω･) go wild, you said and go wild, i did. i included as much of the provided details as i could. hopefully, you’ll find it agreeable

cw : 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ // dubcon-ish // ✂️ ✂️😼 // overstimulation

casually quoting hozier for all my andromache fics. that fight scene on the plane and the way she grabbed nile by the jaw tho 😩 wanted to incorporate it in a fic ever since i saw it, and fucking finally did

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Hallucinations. A fever dream.

Anything but reality is what you tell yourself, and what a job you have been doing thus far! Fantastically foolish if nothing else. Cocooned in a bubble of lies that spill forth none other than your lips, and illusions that are carved by your very mind itself, you harbour not a droplet of doubt that the reality in front of your eyes is nothing but bona fide.

People after all are the most masterful at fooling themselves.

Ensnared in a web of deceit weaved by your fingers lie no hapless preys, but you, yourself, who revel in the sweet taste of false security as you do in the richness of the creamy warm chocolate drink that coats your tongue.

Even though business in your shop today is notably satisfactory if not the most profitable, it is not the digits that matter to you the most. Your little shop is borne purely out of your profound passion and desire; obligation is out of the picture. It is where you feel the most at home, doing what you love while bathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and cocoa.

Amidst brewing a cup of americano as per the order of a customer with stylish sun-glasses and a striking jawline, your dress is accidentally soiled. Little do you know, the scatter of black and bitter constellations along the pristine white of your sleeve is merely the dawn of a darker, more bitter happening.

──────── ༻✿༺ ────────

Finding you has been relatively easy.

When the familiar dreams begin plaguing her usually dreamless nights, a telltale sign of a new immortal on the horizon, Andromache has half a mind to ignore them altogether. Had she not seen the places that stoke recognition amongst the wild tapestry of images, she certainly would have. But alas, her target, as it so happens, is no stranger to her. By no means does the Scythian know you. Nor you, the Scythian. New immortals bring together with them an assortment of risks, one of them being the exposure of their secret. It is with such knowledge in mind that Andromache feels obliged to set out for you despite her reluctance. You living in the neighbourhood of her temporary place of residence only makes the search all the more convenient.

Being a warrior for many a millennium has developed a vast array of tactical traits into personal trademarks. Those that once upon a time had had to be mindfully exercised, now occur as easily and effortlessly as breathing, involuntary more often than not. Beneath the dark shades of a spectacle perched on a well-defined slope of a nose lies a pair of sage green eyes, scanning the vicinity of wherever she goes like an eagle on a hunt. They have landed on it then, during her visit to a store, standing adjacent to it is a cafe in the name of “Trouvaille”. The Scythian is not one to be easily intrigued, but what a lie it would be to say that the charming building with its vintage air and curious name had not tickled her fancy. Or its owner whom she has noticed is all sweet smiles and dulcet eyes.

Eyes which she has only seen from afar then, now she stares directly into them. Protected by the shades, the intense greens study you with brazen openness, roaming all over your frame, from the tiny clips that decorate your cascading hair like colourful Christmas lights to the butterfly pendant that dangles from a simple silver chain, hovering directly above the dip of your throat, from the little flower prints on your dress, the skirt of which softly caresses your thighs, to occasional glimpse of seemingly soft flesh that teases the Scythian, left uncovered by a pair of white thigh-highs.

It is retrieving you that is the hard part.

Immediately upon arrival, Andromache has read your features for perhaps a trace of recognition. You paying the Scythian a visit in her dreams can only mean one thing after all: that she, too, must have appeared in yours. Yet, no widening of your eyes greet her, only a smile that does not waver.

“Hi, welcome to cafe Trouvaille. What can I get you?”

“Americano will do. Hot.”

Beside the fact that it is broad day light, a few people roam the place. As capable as Andromache is of manhandling you, it is not in her best interest to attract attention. The situation calls for patience. Rushing will spell only more trouble at best. Wait she must, and so, wait she does.

Leisurely, the Scythian sips her coffee, studying you periodically as she does so. It is after some minutes have ticked by, the cup of coffee sitting on the table, empty and cold, that she decides to fish a book, leather-bound and well-worn, out of her backpack. Thumbing through old pages, Andromache spends the better part of the wait indulging in literature, until one by one, people start trickling out of the shop.

In due time, it leaves only the Scythian and you.

The sky has taken on a deep orange hue by the time she stands to approach you. She eyes you surreptitiously, and upon confirming that she is not at the receiving end of your attention, the Scythian moves to lock the door. Ever the diligent wielder of caution, she does not forget to flip the little dangling plate. The letter “We’re closed.” that is carved into the wood will help ward off potential visitors.

Even as she walks towards the counter, you do not seem to notice her for you are kept occupied by the book in your lap, fingers busy scribbling onto paper. It is the tinkle of porcelain on marble as she drops the cup and saucer atop the counter that finally has your eyes zeroing in on her. She watches you watch her. Backdropped by the sunset with her shades finally tucked away into the pocket of her jacket, the sight of the Scythian brings about a subtle shift in your mien. Although fleeting, the furrow of your brows that must have been imperceptible to others, does not go unnoticed.

“Hello, again. I hope you’ve had a good time.”

The smile that you give her is sweet, if not the most genuine.

“Why don’t we save the pleasantries, hm?” The smile that touches her lips, in contrast, has a hint of sourness. “You’ve seen me before.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I have.”

Your answer only brings about a twofold increase in the Scythian’s irritation. Judging by the slightest delay in your response, she knows that you are well aware that she has not meant it as a query, and so, she says as much.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

The adamant denial from you has strong, slender digits tightening around the strap that is slung over one shoulder.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? You died, and then you woke up, saw a bunch of people you had never seen before in your dream, including me.”

“But, that was- No. Surely it was-.”

“Look, kid-” Forming into a thin line are Andromache’s lips as she takes a moment to compose herself, slowly huffing out an exhale through flared nostrils. “-I know you’ve got questions but I need you to come with me first.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. This isn’t real. None of this is real. Leave, please. I need you to leave.”

Lips that slowly curl into a smirk and a chuckle that comes out dark and dangerous. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

Battered boots that come to rest just shy of polished loafers.

“You know…your folly is, dare i say, commendable. Reality is not just something you can rewrite, and yet, you managed an impeccable job of tricking yourself into thinking what you believe to be the truth is the truth.”

One foreboding frame that looms like a predator and the one that cowers like a cornered prey.

“Alas, I almost feel bad for shattering your little illusion. But then again, I’ve done a great many questionable things in my life having lived as long as I have. What significance would it make to add another?”

“What I saw in my dream. They really happened.” It is a question albeit not being voiced like one. The Scythian does not find the need to answer. Why bother when the answer already lies in your hand?

At her silence, a look of horror dawns on your features. “You’re a murderer. You and your friends. I’ve seen them. I- I’m not- I can’t.”

“Oh darling, a rose without thorns is but a weed, easy to be plucked, to be trampled on. You’re one of us now. You will come with me whether you like it or not, and you will do so this instant.”

Every single step you hesitantly take back is met with an immediate footfall of boots as they fall right onto the place that your loafers have just vacated. It goes like this for a while, you actively ruining the close proximity, and Andromache rectifying it, until there is nowhere for you to flee, and your hips collide with the counter edge.

“Why me?” She parries your plea with a nonchalant shrug, face impassive. “Beats me.”

“Please, I-” Tears glisten in your eyes, murmuring beseechingly. “Let me go. I can’t kill. I know nothing about fighting.”

While her hands grip the counter on either side of your waist to cage you in strong arms, her lips lower to the shell of your ear, breath warm as she speaks. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You can kill. In fact, anyone can. You just have to listen to me.”

“No! Let me go! I don’t want-” Yells dissolve into a yelp by way of digits seizing your jaw.

“I’ve gone out of my way to exercise great forbearance, but it is running terribly thin. It would do you well not to try it any further.” She husks threateningly, feeling the softness of your cheeks giving under the roughness of her battle-hardened fingers. Salty droplets drench her digits as tears start spilling in rivulets down your cheeks.

“Go on, bite me with those baby teeth. Scratch me with your little paws.” She taunts. “Why, would you look at that! All bark and no bite. How pathetic.”

It is as she says this that your teeth sink into the palm that is pressed tightly against your mouth. The unexpected retaliation has her stance faltering, and although you manage to break free from her bodily confines, the Scythian, being far more nimble and dexterous, hardly has to break sweat in recapturing you.

“You're a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Two can play that game, although don’t say I didn’t warn you. Breaking men, after all, is considered one of my fortes.”

Wrists locked behind your back in her iron grip, and body bent over the marble counter, Andromache revels in the quavering of your body beneath her own as one wicked hand, like a sneaky serpent, slowly slithers up your thigh.

“Are you-” A whimper flies past your lips when your arms are pulled taunt, shoulders craning uncomfortably. And then, she yanks, hard and unforgiving, until you are forced onto your feet, back colliding with her front. “Are you going to kill me?”

Andromache cannot help but laugh at your question, a rich throaty sound that brings about the erection of soft little hair on the nape of your neck.

Your wrists are released at the cost of your cheeks bearing the brunt of her ire as rough fingers dig into your flesh. They flee from their cage between the two of your bodies to take sanctuary on her forearm, soft fingers grasping the sleeve of her jacket. “Where’s the fun in killing you when I can just have my way with you, hm?” Her hold around one of your thighs remains unrelenting while the hand on your jaw coerces you into craning your neck. Your head rests on her chest with a grunt, and you drown, held spellbound by the intense green of her eyes. “I’d rather enjoy the view of you crumbling beneath me than watch you bleed out only to come alive again.”

Although it douses you in shame, you have to admit that you are not entirely immune to the woman. How can you when she oozes charisma, frighteningly beautiful even as she looms over you with all the grandeur of a great menacing panther.

And then, too many things happen all at once; fingers that crawl into a forest of hair to grab a fistful, with a yank to the side, a throat that is bared for the predator above to conveniently sink her teeth into, the frenzied little flutter of a pulse beneath the flat of a warm tongue, chocked sobs that dissolve into a strangled gasp as a cold hand journeys into the waistband of an underwear.

Previously, your hands have found home on her thighs, fingers grappling fabric, but upon feeling wandering digits inside your underwear, one of them flies towards the offending hand, locking around a wrist.

“N-no. You can’t.”

“You would do well to remember that I am in control here.”

The Scythian’s growl is not only heard, but also felt on your skin as teeth nibble, mouth suck, and lips soothe the stings that afterwards will linger on your body in the form of dark blues and bright reds.

Horror and humiliation dance a wild tango whereas fingers waltz delicately along your folds, a condescending tsk echoing off your nape when they come away wet. Betrayed and backstabbed by your own body, mortification colours your face as not one but two of her sizeable digits sink into your heat with little to no effort. Although sudden, it does not hurt, though it stings, leaves you breathless still. Dewdrops bloom on your lashes and they drop down your cheeks when fingers in your core bury knuckles deep, abuse your tightness. You feel them in the very depths of your body, filling you so deliciously that when they wiggle so much as a little, it is more than enough to sucker-punch a breath out of your lungs.

Between her hot mouth kissing your neck all rosy and sore, her fingers cleverly caressing your insides, and her hand toying with your breasts beneath your dress, it is no surprise that your undoing greets you with a tidal wave of pleasure.

It is, however, a surprise to find yourself being shoved back-first onto the table, legs being pulled wide by fingers twining round your thighs. You are still suffering through a series of aftershocks from your first orgasm when her mouth attaches itself to your quavering folds, that wicked tongue immediately slithering into your hole. It does a cruel little nudge and your fingers wind up entwined in her hair. Instead of a reproach, it is a hum of satisfaction that you earn as the Scythian grabs a handful of your buttocks and devour you like a starved man.

By the seventh one, you are well beyond exhausted, brain foggy courtesy of being fucked into oblivion, and body agonisingly sore, littered with deep hues and teeth marks. Somewhere between third and fourth, if you recall correctly, she has stripped you bare, bar your thigh-highs, and completely rid herself off clothes, magnificent muscles coming into display. You have ogled them with barely restrained awe until your attention is swayed elsewhere by her mouth leaving traces of herself all across the expanse of your body.

Now, once again, you marvel at them, entranced by the impressiveness of her muscles that ripple with every roll of her powerful hips.

You barely recognise the face that is staring right back at you, reflected in the surface of sea green eyes, or the sounds that are oozing out of your lips. Sweat clings to the forehead of the woman towering over you as it does to yours. One of your legs is slung over her shoulder, and the other lies limp and useless between her thighs, as she rubs herself into your core with wild abandon.

“I- I can’t. Too much. It’s too muc- ah!”

“Yes, you can.”

She has taken the hand that goes to rest on one of her hipbones only to weave her fingers with yours. Now, they hover in the air, tightly intertwined, suddenly made much tighter by the white knuckled grip of your hand.

“Slow- nghh please! Be gentle.”

“You do as I say. Not the other way round. Is that understood?”

The desperate nods of your head is met with a bite to the succulent inside of your thigh just above the brim of your sock.

“Answer me.”

“Yes!”

“My word shall be your command, and you will dance to my every desire, won’t you darling?”

“Yes! Yes, I will.”

“You are mine after all, aren’t you? Mine to do with what I please. Mine to use how I see fit. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m yours- ngh- all yours.”

“Good girl.” She moans, movements escalating from lazy strokes to untamed gyrations.

“Andy.” She rasps breathlessly. “I want to hear my name dripping down those pretty little lips when you fall apart.”

And hear she does. Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy. Her name is all you can cry out as your juices mingle with one another’s, the combined essence soiling your thigh-highs as well as the couch beneath you.

Back curving, toes curling, you soar high, high into heaven, swimming amongst clouds, drowning in euphoria. And then, you plummet, down into the pit of hell, down into another one of those little deathless deaths. An intense blinding white replaced by an absolute dark.

When you awake, it is to the heart-melting sensation of lips softly caressing your forehead. You find yourself on the same couch that you have passed out, cocooned in toned arms, face tucked snugly into a warm, musky throat. Reflexively, you begin nosing the soft underside of her jaw before you are startled by fingers wandering down your very naked thigh.

“Look at me.” Obediently, you oblige, reluctantly leaving the pleasant warmth of her neck to do what she desires.

“What have I told you?” All too delicately, or as delicately as the callouses on her hand will allow, the pad of a thumb grazes the apple of your cheek.

Fighting against the urge to slip your eyes shut, you sigh dreamily instead. “That as long as I remain a good obedient girl, no harm will befall me.”

“That’s right. And are you?”

A nod as an answer prompts a pat of a forefinger on your cheek, and then, another. You know what she wants, so you give her just that.

“I’m a good girl.”

Not only do you see the smirk on her face, but you also feel it on your skin as she leans down to drag her lips across yours. “You forgot to mention whose, darling.”

“I’m a good girl, Andy. Your good girl.”

“And will my good girl obey my every command like she had promised?”

“Mmhm.”

A breath catches in your throat as her lips journey down down down, admiring the traces of none other than herself until that ravenous mouth adjourn to your hip, sucking the tender spot on your hipbone to make it all the more vibrant.

Although it has not been the main purpose of her doing what she has done, it is without doubt that Andromache gets a sick sort of pleasure out of seeing you covered in her marks. Every inch of your body and soul, all irrevocably hers.

You have said it so yourself, willingly given yourself up to her. That being said, it is purely her own greed that has her craving more and more and more of you. The scent of you that is sinfully sweet, heady and uniquely yours, makes her ache. The sight of you, like the dewy petals of an exquisite flower, pretty and pulsating, makes her mouth water.

It is with this insatiable hunger swelling inside of her that the Scythian sinks to her knees between your luxuriously smooth thighs.

“One more, darling. Give me one more before we leave.”

And you do, oh how you do even as one bleeds into two and two into three, because a good girl does what she is taught, does she not? And you are a good girl, Andy’s sweet little good girl to do with what she will.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

#andromache the scythian x reader #andromache of scythia x reader #andromache x reader #andromache x you #andy the old guard #andy andromache of scythia #andromache the scythian #andromache of scythia #character x reader #charlize theron x reader #charlize theron #the old guard #smut #gif #movie gifs

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fishermanshook · 3 months

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SEE YOU AGAIN (barmaid x gn!reader)

# HAPPY (early) BDAY DEMI! , day 10 of @philomena-propellente ‘a valentines event , C4L , grammar and spelling warning

INTRO

Once a customer, always a customer, even if your journey ends here. Care for a drink?

꒰wc꒱ 711

The sound of chatter and drinks clinking fills the Bourbon's tavern down the main street. Except for a lone seat at the bar, every chair has been occupied in just the first hour since the bar opened for the night. The drink orders have been coming in at rapid speed this night, and the duo can only try to keep up. Demi busies herself by getting out more ingredients for her brother, Sam, as he preps their secret to success: Dovlin. The next hit in the industry has people coming in from every corner of the world trying to get a sip.

But alas, her eyes refuse to leave her brother as he mixes and shakes the unknown ingredients together to make Dovlin's recognizable color. A deep, penetrating red that looks as if it's been pulled from humans itself. While she isn't entirely sure what lies in the drink, she trusts that her brother knows what he's doing.

Unfortunately for her, a bell near the front indicates that a new customer has arrived. Neither of them can take another drink order, but Demi reassures Sam that she's got this. The Barmaid takes a deep breath in before plastering on her best-serving smile and-

And she's greeted with you. Your eyes widen at the site of her, and a big smile graces your face as you almost leap to hug her. Demi laughs into your shoulder as she spins you around. "Hi hun, how are you?" she squeals. Demi takes your light giggle as 'good' and takes you to your unofficial seat in the tavern.

You've already been stripped of your coat and spot Demi hanging it up in the back so it doesn't get stolen. Immediately, the Barmaid's attention goes directly to you. You've been gone for some time now, guess all you can do is play catch up at this point. You're distracted by the magic that Demi performs, as she does all sorts of bartender tricks with your glass. Even earn some stares from the surrounding tables as they watch the Barmaid flip the glass and pour the wine. (Low clapping can be heard in the background of the tavern. For you, Demi would practice that trick during the time you were gone. Hoping to impress you by the time you arrive.)

After she's finished, Demi has produced your favorite drink. A purple, grape-flavored juice that invades your veins with excitement. The drink itself is familiar as well and makes you feel more at home in the tavern.

"You've been gone for a month [name] now just where did you run off to?" Demi questions you as she jabs you in the shoulder. She's more than happy to see you, but that still doesn't excuse the time that's passed since your unannounced departure. You take a sip from your drink. It's cold and fizz sending your stomach in a spiral. You wipe your mouth before speaking again.

"I apologize for going AWOL on you, I promise it won't happen again," You say with an apologetic look on your face. "I got caught up on a business trip and was forced to leave as soon as possible." You can't deny that your job doesn't pay you well, which forces you to go back and forth between different departments. That's why you've been coming to this bar for god knows how long. The leather seats have ripped with age, but the nostalgia grows stronger the longer you're separated from the tavern.

You take another sip from your glass. This time, the fizzy feeling became less prominent. "I also have received a rather... interesting letter. The sender is anonymous, and I couldn't pull any more information from it besides the fact that it's offering a large sum of money in exchange for my presence in a game." You hand Demi the letter. It feels smooth in her hands, like a ticket. A ticket to freedom. To a better life. "It's a promise to something greater in this little life of ours, and I'm contemplating taking them up on the offer. Do you or Sam perhaps know anything about Oletus Manor? Hello? Demi I-"

The memory ends there, and the Barmaid wakes up in a cold sweat with dried tears on her face.

note: like 5 months latter and I still can’t write Demi properly 😞 older readers do we recognize the purple drink???

(2024)©️fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

#🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･CRY ME A RIVER.#philomena's files #idv x reader #fanfiction #identityv #identity v #fanfic #idv #x reader #gn reader #idv barmaid #barmaid x reader #demi bourbon #demi bourbon idv #the barmaid idv #idv the barmaid #fic #idv fic

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wlw-imagines · 1 year

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Coffee Shop - Kara Danvers/Reader (Supergirl)

request: i found this prompt and was wondering if u could write it with kara danvers from supergirl pls?? "i started writing 'Supergirl' on your coffee cup as a joke because you kind of look like her but it actually turns out you are them oh shit - anon

a/n: these are from my old tumblr thefandomwritings from back in 2018 ! re-vamped and re-purposed (jk it is hardly edited at all) !! hope u enjoy and forgive the 2018 me style writing

Starting anywhere as a newbie was tough. Especially at this coffee shop... when you’d never made coffee before... and to be honest, you weren’t even really a coffee drinker. But, alas, you had rent to pay and a job opening had come through and you had been accepted for the job. More fool them.

The coffee shop was a busy one, constantly on the go. Your hands were already covered in burns and your new clean white apron was now covered in coffee drips and smears. Your shift had only started 45 minutes ago.

You let out a deep sigh and slouched, leaning on the serving desk to try and gather some energy before the next customer appeared. You really couldn’t bear some jackass in a fancy business suit complaining that you’d made their fancy coffee wrong again. Even though you had most definitely made it wrong.

As the next customer approached, you perked up slightly. Maybe the next 10 minutes of your life as a barista would be more bearable.

"Good morning, you must be new here! I'm Kara." She began and smiled cheerfully at you. She also added in an awkward wave before pushing her glasses up her nose.

"Uh, yes I am." You replied, letting your customer service smile develop into a real one. "Is it that obvious?" You laughed slightly, there was probably a 'newbie' aura about you (maybe it was the burnt hands?), it was fairly obvious how nervous you were, and you didn't need pretty girls making you even more flustered around boiling hot liquid.

"No, no! You're perfect- I mean, you know, you're great- doing great." She rambled, her cheeks reddening. "I pick up coffee from here every day before I go to work so I guess I just know everyone who works here pretty well."

“Morning Kara! The ususal?” Your co-worker, Liam, greeted her with a smile. He had been a slight godsend to you and had the patience of a saint. No matter how many times you had fucked it up.

“That would be great, but no rush!” She added, politely eying your resigned expression. You could hardly make 1 cup of coffee and now you had to make 6? For a pretty customer? Shit.

Liam nudged you, “Ready?” He smiled, his eyes slightly teasing as you took in a deep breath and nodded hesitantly.

“Yeah, sure, piece of cake.” You shrugged, taking the order note and looking to find the easiest first. Small steps.

On the first attempt of the first coffee you already found yourself once more cursing yourself for ever applying to work here in the first place. Your curses were interrupted by Kara looking at you with a worried look. "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it soon." She gave you an encouraging smile and you shot her a weary look.

"God, I really hope so." You mumbled, running your burnt hand under the tap for a couple of seconds.

After a short pause (and two successful coffees in) Kara cleared her throat and nodded towards the coffee machine, “It’s like riding a bike, right?”

“Huh?” You glance up quickly, confusion etched on your face.

“Making coffee. Once you learn, you’ll be set.” She elaborated, fiddling with her fingers anxiously.

You smiled slightly and gave an embarrased shrug, “I can’t ride a bike.” You admitted.

“You can’t?” She looked slightly crestfallen, hoping to have made you feel better rather than just make you feel worse about the situation. “Oh.” She faltered, annoyed with herself. Her brain searched for something else to say to make you feel better and to make you properly smile again. Before she could, you continued.

“I just never understood like, the pedalling? And the turning and also the gears?” You let out a soft laugh, “Although a bike makes more sense to me than this coffee machine so maybe I do have a chance.” You smiled up at her and her heart melted. That was the smile she was aiming for.

“I could teach you!” She burst out, without really thinking about what she was saying. Kara shook her head and tried again, “I mean, I like cycling. It’s easy once you get the pedalling and the turning and the gears down.”

You nodded, trying not to let her offer go to your head, “Do you also know how to make coffee by any chance?” You joked, standing up to properly face her and nodding your head over to the devil machine.

“Can’t help you there, sorry.” She put her hands out apologetically. You laugh and go to continue the conversation, but before you can Liam is nudging your shoulder and pointing to the coffee you were making.

“Y/N, the cup-” You turn around to see the coffee pouring out over the top of the cup, overfilling and spilling everywhere.

You leap towards the cup and let out a small, “Shit.”

9 cups of coffee later (3 of which were currently residing in the trash can), you carefully started to pass the cups into a holder, so she could carry all of them at the same time, and then hesitated.

"Which one is yours?" It’s your first shift and you're already trying to pick up girls. You decided to forgive yourself, you deserved it after the hell of this shift. Once it was pointed out (she had black coffee usually, which surprised you as it didn't seem to suit her sweet character), you wrote your number and drew a little picture of a superhero and labelled it 'Supergirl' - you were quite proud of yourself for making the art.

They didn't look identical or anything, but you had noticed that there were similarities from the moment she had stepped up to the counter. Once you were finished you slid the carrier of drinks and her black coffee over the counter.

She frowned slightly, looking suspiciously at the doodle on her cup. You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little self concious. You weren’t sure what about - the drawing? Your flirting? Your bad coffee skills? You cleared your throat.

"Well, it's a joke." You smiled at her. "Just because, well y'know, you look a bit like Supergirl...” She looked up at you, eyes slightly wide, which you couldn’t tell if it was a good sign or not, “If you just took away the glasses and added a cape-" You trailed off slightly when she started to look uncomfortable. You straightened up and cleared your throat feeling somewhat guilty that you seemed to have distressed your new (and favourite) customer. "Sorry, I meant it as a- it was supposed to be kind of like a compliment." You smiled gently, trying to show her that you didn't mean her any harm or discomfort. In the short space of time that you had met this women you couldn't help but feel completely distracted by her.

"Oh, right - Yes, of course... well, she is pretty strong and it must be kinda cool to be able to fly. Hypothetically speaking, of course. So, uh, yes. Thank you." She looked back at her cup then tilted her head to the side to read your writing. "Wait, what does that number mean?" Kara tilted her head, her eyes scanning her coffee cup. It's like she was deliberately trying to make your heart melt.

"That is my phone number." Blood rushed up to your cheeks. You don’t recall a time where you had to explain your pathetic attempts at flirting so much.

"Ah, right. Yes. Your phone number...” She nodded thoughtfully before her brows shot up and she looked back at you, a similar red creeping into her cheeks, “which I will phone you with." The realisation dawned on her face as it slowly sank in that you had just given her your number.

You laughed and leaned towards her again. "Yes." You nodded, licking your lips. "Or you can text me. It's up to you, if you were to want to go out sometime, that is."

"No- I mean yeah, I'd love to. That, that would be great. I-" She grinned and she nervously pushed her glasses up her nose again. "I should go but I hope to see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, of course. As long as I haven't burnt the joint down, you'll definitely see me tomorrow." You joked and watched as she nodded slowly with a small smile in return and turned to leave.

As she walked out the door she looked back at you, giving you a little wave before walking out and away. You smiled and took a step back from the counter, mentally congratulating yourself on the win, until you knocked a cup of coffee from the side and it flew all over your feet.

“Shit.” Maybe your job here wouldn't last as long as you thought.

#kara danvers #supergirl #supergirl x reader #supergirl imagines #supergirl imagine #kara danvers x reader #kara danvers imagine #WLW #wlw imagines #wlw imagine #wlw x reader #wlw-imagines #coffee shop #lgbt #imagine #lesbian imagine

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somethingsomethingwords · 3 months

Text

Ok so, here is another one. This is a little bit different from what I usually write or even like reading, but alas, sometimes an idea just enters your brain and just doesn't leave. Also this one has a title ig. So here it is. I hope you'll like it. Enjoy 💜

Of course I wanted you to stay

(but you didn't, no you didn't, no you didn't)

Lance was so full of adrenaline he almost dropped the mic. He was shaking from head to toe, but there was a huge grin on his face.

There was no sadness, because even if this was the last concert of the tour, it had been one of his best ones like, ever.

Also he was home, so he knew that after all the crazy partying he would do tonight, tomorrow he'd meet his sister, he'd go to that bakery that sells the best cupcakes, and he'd be able to roam the streets with his thick glasses and ugly beanie and scarf combos, and no one would recognise him.

But still, that's tomorrow. In that moment, there was the encore.

It was always different, so it was always special, but that day even more so. It was composed of three of his older songs, about pain and heartache and moving on despite the past, maybe in spite of it. He loved it very much. Because he was home, singing his first hits and he was ending one of the happiest and saddest tours of his life.

It had started great, new album, in love and energetic. Then he was left behind, alone and with nothing to show for it. Because it had to stay a secret. He had to keep his love secret. He had had no one to complain to, because the only people who knew would have been put in an uncomfortable situation, and he didn't want that. So he hid his hurt and did what he always did. He put it in his music. He sang his pain until the only hurt he could feel was the one in his throat.

It really had been a rollercoaster. But now it was the end, everything was better, and he wanted to send a last fuck you. He may have matured, but nothing would make him lose his pettiness.

So he sang.

Are you sorry like you weren't at the time?

Loving you was easy,

that's why it hurts now

The worst way to love somebody

is to watch them love somebody else

and it works out now

And sang.

Cause someone loved me,

someone fucking loved me

Someone fucking loved me,

I loved him too

Goddamn it, I was worth something,

I fuckin' earned something

I have a right to die, a right to live,

a right to choose, too. And God, no!

Of course I don't wanna feel better!

Can you fucking imagine?!

And sang.

Because, in the end,

you can see how much I loved you

from the fact that I'm fine now

It's a lie, but I say it anyhow

He put every single emotion into these songs, and finally let them go.

When the crowd roared, it all exploded.

He felt a solitary tear wet his face, but nothing could have stolen his smile. He waited for his band, then bowed and left the stage.

The night was young and he was feeling free and wild. And quite hungry, actually.

So he took his band to his favourite pub. They ate, and drank, and ate some more.

On the taxi towards his house, Lance realised that, no matter how much it had hurt, he didn't regret having what he had with Fernando.

Even the tears, even the heartbreak, they all shaped the person he was today.

He liked to think he was loyal, and dependable and kind. But most importantly, he liked to think he was better than the person he was yesterday.

His house appeared, and after paying and tipping the taxi driver, he opened the door.

Yeah, it was big and a little bit empty and a little bit cold. A little bit like his heart. But it was something to be proud of, because it was his, and he was working on it.

---

The next day he really started to rethink all of this rock star thing.

His head pounded with his heartbeat and his mouth tasted rancid.

He got up and drank some water, downing a couple of aspirins for his headache.

After the shower he felt somewhat normal, and decided to go out for breakfast.

He reached his favourite bakery and ordered two pastries to go. He wanted to retreat and lay warmly in front of the fireplace.

Lance noticed him as soon as he stepped out, but he decided to ignore him. His house wasn't that far, he could reach it quickly and without having to talk to him. For once, he wanted to thank whoever made him with long legs.

But even if he could go fast without running, so could the other.

They walked in silence, side by side, for a few minutes.

When the silence and the presence were getting to him, he abruptly stopped and turned towards the other man.

"What do you want?"

Fernando didn't deserve kindness nor gentleness. He forfeited those when he left Lance. Via text. Without explanation and blocking him immediately after.

Lance had spent too many days crying; now he wanted nothing to do with the man.

"Hello Lance. Was just around" he said, as if it explained why he was in Canada and not in England, in Monaco, hell even at home in Spain.

Lance huffed and started moving again, having had more than enough, but stopped when he felt a firm grip on his wrist.

He stared at the hand on his arm with wide eyes, before raising them to Nando's face.

"You have three seconds to either take your hand off or have it broken" he said shakily.

There must have been something in his voice that made the threat a real one, because suddenly he was free again.

"Lance, am sor..." Nando started.

"Shut up before I make you. We can't discuss here, someone could recognise you. Come to my house" surely not his finest moment, but all Lance could feel was fury. Still, he wasn't raising his voice, so he could consider it a win.

you are still protecting him, Este's voice said in his mind.

shut up, of course I am, but what else could he do?

They arrived at his house. He quickly opened the door and closed it when Fernando got in.

"You have no right to come here with your flimsy excuse and expect me to be ok with it. Now, tell me what you want and get the hell out of my house" there, simple and direct.

For a moment, Fernando seemed seriously sorry. But Lance didn't care. He was the one left behind, the one who had to pick up his pieces when he fell apart. He healed as best as he could, and he would not apologise for building up his defences.

"Lance, I am really sorry, for what's worth. I want to explain"

"You are a few months too late. At this point, I don't even know if I care. I only ever asked one thing, Alonso. One. I was ok with being kept a secret, and avoiding being seen together, and the distance. I only asked you to openly communicate and shit like that. You just left without a word" now that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

"You knew, I told you why I wanted that. Why I needed you to be honest and open, yet you just disappeared. I had to ask Este, who had to ask Mick. And for what. To be told that you had a new model girlfriend? So no, Alonso, I don't care anymore. It would just reopen old wounds. Now go, I'm sure you have somewhere else to be"

and someone else to be with, it wasn't said but both could hear it.

"That's not right. I have nowhere to go. Am alone, Lance" he said, something hurt and teary in his voice.

Lance was about to replicate, sharp words already on the tip of his tongue, when something in Nando's expression made him stop. His eyes showed how open he was being, how vulnerable.

Lance sighed, and led the man into the living room, making him sit on the couch, while he went into the kitchen and brought back two glasses of water. He would have preferred something stronger, but this felt too important of a moment to have it tainted by alcohol and not being in the right mind.

He sat on the opposite side of the couch, and waited for the other to start talking.

"First of all, am sorry, really. I knew it would hurt you, how I left you, but I did it anyway. And I know you have no reason to believe me or care. Am here because I believe you deserve the truth about everything"

He seemed honest, but Lance wouldn't trust him so easily, not again.

"What are you hoping for with your confession months later, mh? I'm not going to obediently come back to you, waiting to be heartbroken again. You're not gonna fuck me and leave, either. So, what do you want?" he was probably being unfair to the other man, but anger and confusion had never been a good mix of emotions for him.

"Lance, I would never..."

"Like you would never leave, Alonso? Don't make promises you can't keep and don't say things you don't mean" he interrupted, harsh and stubborn.

"You are right. I made promises and then I broke them and betrayed your trust. But I need you to know I had reasons. Not perfect, not good, but I had them" and goddamnit, Lance could feel himself beginning to soften.

just listen to him, said his conscience, suspiciously sounding like Mick.

"Would you care to explain them?" Was he being sarcastic or curious? He himself didn't know.

"Of course. Someone was starting to notice some...changes in me. I was happier, nicer, smiled more. Someone I don't like said something in a way I didn't like. Made me understand that he knew something was up, and would ruin me. So I decided that I needed to protect myself, to protect you. Left you because I couldn't see you. I knew I'm not strong enough to leave you if I saw you"

It all sounded logical, from a certain point of view, but Lance knew there was more, so he waited for the other to continue.

After a few seconds, Fernando raised his eyes, looking at Lance, before turning them down again.

"I didn't like the weakness. All the time, I was thinking about you, wanted you near. It was too much. So I thought I could just stay away, and forget about it"

about you, was left unsaid.

"And can you? Forget about it?" Lance not only wanted to know. He needed to, before going on with the conversation. He could feel his hands beginning to shake and his eyes starting to water, but he had to be sure.

Fernando immediately raised his eyes, and spoke with a tone determined and something like hope in his eyes.

"Of course I can't. I'm here right now, begging for a second chance" he said pleadingly.

"Then beg" Lance said, not meanly, but he also wasn't feeling particularly charitable, and it was better to make some things clear from the beginning: he wasn't going to repeat the same mistakes. He wasn't the young man staring at his teen crush, starry eyed and in love and grateful for every scrap of attention and affection. He was older, maybe a little bit more bitter, a little bit wiser. Fernando left some marks onto his heart, and he wasn't going to refresh them for nothing less than certainty.

"Lance, please give me another chance. I know I fucked up, was so wrong. I'm begging you, let me fix this. However long it takes, is ok. Just, tell me you'll think about forgiving me, and starting again" he was being so earnest, how could Lance resist?

"Even if I forgive you, and it's a big if, I'm not going to forget anytime soon, ok? I'll need time and space and for you to make an effort" he really was weak for this man, but who could blame him, he spent half his childhood idolizing him and then he met him and fell in love.

"Will do whatever it takes. But let me, please"

Realising all the air stuck in his lungs, Lance sighed.

"Ok"

He didn't even finish the word that Fernando picked him up and spun Lance around, making him laugh despite himself.

Fernando finally put him down, and took his hand to kiss it, maintaining the eye contact for a few seconds.

Lance could feel himself blushing, and quickly shook his head, still smiling.

After a few seconds of just getting reacquainted with one another, Fernando broke the silence.

"I liked the show yesterday. Especially the encore"

And now Lance was definitely blushing. His encore had been designed as a way of finally letting go, one last screw you to the man now in front of him. But he couldn't say that to him, even if it was pretty clear.

It would have been childish to throw shades at Fernando in one of his concerts, no?

"Yeah, I was inspired, I guess" his smile smaller but still there.

"Fuck the guy who made you suffer, the bastard" and in his jokingly way, Nando was telling him that he wasn't angry, and that they would be ok.

"Yeah, fuck him"

#lance stroll #fernando alonso #strollonso #grumpy cat boy x besotted old man #this old man is down bad #the boy isnt any better but at least he tries hiding it #this is a popstar au ig #also my very first #song fic #if u'r interested the songs are #body better by Maisie Peters #Feel better by Penelope Scott #and for my italian entry #Occhi grigi di Fulminacci feat Giovanni Truppi #roughly traslated by me #go liten to all these artists obviously #also also #the title is from Villain by Maisie Peters

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elliebyrrdwrites · 24 days

Text

Dramione Blurb

I realize that these blurbs are quickly turning into a pretty elaborate story. Alas, it is what it is. They are all posted onto my AO3 and can be read in order here.

A Confrontation.

In which Draco really hates McLaggen.

Hermione felt detached from her body, as she swept into the kitchen. In the arm of a man she had absolutely no interest in. Cormac was a pompous sort of wizard that thought much too highly of himself.

But so was Malfoy.

But Cormac didn’t kiss like Malfoy did. He didn’t set her body abuzz with adrenaline and anticipation. He didn’t cause her mind to become submerged in the memory of one single kiss. The kiss that left her blistered and damaged. Like she had been sunburned and there was no ointment to cure the long lingering effects of that one kiss.

It had, she had determined, been the thing behind her failed relationship with Ron.

Behind a small handful of failed one night stands.

Like she had continued to search for that thing that would challenge Malfoy’s kiss. That might put it to shame.

None of them did. Nobody ever came close.

Draco Malfoy’s kiss had put every other mans touch to shame.

But he didn’t ever do more than that one kiss. He never sought her out. He didn’t owl. He didn’t Floo.

He all but disappeared from her life.

And now he was here and he was acting like a jealous ex-lover.

And she wanted to scream at him. She wanted to hate him. She did, hate him that is. At least, she told herself she did.

She used Cormac, of course she did. She took advantage of his attraction to her.

And threw it in Draco’s face.

Something about a jealous Draco caused her skin to tighten. It caused her stomach to dip, like she was flying towards the ground.

Her mouth moved on its own, her mind deep in the memory of Draco’s kiss. Of the way his eyes burned into her when he told her she looked lovely.

Cormac was suddenly brushing his lips to the side of her face as he handed her a new glass of champagne.

Her entire body jolted at the touch. Recoiled.

She took a small step back and lifted the glass to her mouth. But she felt it.

The shift in the room, that jolt of electricity as Draco entered the kitchen.

His presence loomed large in the cramped quarters.

There were a few old friends sitting at the table, playing cards, drinking and gambling. She thinks it was Earnie McMillan and Katie Bell. But she didn’t actually look around when she entered the kitchen.

“I heard about your promotion.” Hermione said, leaning away from another advance of his lips.

Draco was examining the assortment of alcohol at the kitchen island. But she knew he was watching them. How could she not feel that gaze on her?

“Oh, you did?” Cormac sounded quite proud of himself. Like Hermione had sought out the information about him.

She hadn’t, of course. Harry had complained for an entire week about the git getting a position that gave him more power than he deserved. Called him a lousy Auror. A kiss ass. Dawlish’s lap dog.

Hermione had remembered laughing at Harry’s rants. Had thoroughly enjoyed watching her friend get frazzled as they attempted to watch a movie in London.

“I did. Do you enjoy it?”

Cormac’s hand grazed her cheek as he pushed a lock of hair from her face.

She shifted away from him, feigning interest in the card game unfolding behind them.

Draco picked up a bottle of Fire Whiskey, and summoned a short glass.

“I do. I get to prosecute dark wizards. I’m working on a case, now, as a matter of fact, that will put at least a dozen wizards in jail. There’s a ring of dark wizards still working beneath the scenes.”

“There is?” She glanced over her shoulder. And found stormy grey eyes looking directly into hers.

“Yes, but I’m not here to talk about work, Hermione.” Cormac’s hand grazed her lower back. He moved closer. He was determined to kiss her. She could feel it. She leaned away but his hand pressed firmly into her back, now. He leaned toward her. His eyes were aimed at her lips.

She froze, unable to decide if she wanted to go this far. Was she really willing to allow Cormac McLaggen to kiss and paw at her again. All in an effort to piss off Draco Malfoy?

“You’re telling me that you are the lead prosecutor for the DMLE?” Draco’s voice cut into the air. It was sharp and wrought with disgust.

Cormac pulled away from Hermione, turned to face Draco. “That’s right.” His chest puffed up, his shoulders thrown back.

“Scraping the barrel then, weren’t they?”

Angry tension engulfed the kitchen. Earnie and Katie stopped playing, falling quiet as they watched the scene unfold.

Hermione stepped away from Cormac. She watched Draco.

The way he tossed the contents of his glass into the back of his throat. The way he slammed the glass onto the countertop before refilling it.

“Like you’re one to talk, Malfoy.” He laughed bitterly. “Former Death Eater turned Auror? If anyone was scraped from the bottom of a barrel, it was you. What could have possibly led Dawlish to chose someone as tragic as you?”

Draco’s eyes burned into Cormac before he glanced at Hermione.

She was scowling at Cormac’s words. She was fighting the need to step in and stand up for Malfoy.

But he looked down to his glass, a lock of hair falling over his forehead. He stared hard at the liquid in his glass before he tossed it into his mouth. Swallowed it quick and then sent it flying across the room.

It hit Cormac in the head but didn’t break.

Cormac launched himself over the counter at Draco.

Hermione didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. She did neither, in the end. Instead, she watched as Draco side stepped Cormac, catching him by the arm. He whirled Cormac around and pinned him to the floor.

“Do you think she likes you, McLaggen?” Draco hissed as he bent over him, twisting his arm behind his back. “Think you have a shot with her?”

“Do you think you do?” Cormac scoffed. “The former Death Eater who used to spit on her? Hermione Granger would never stoop so low.”

Draco leaned closer, his lips almost erotically close to Cormac’s ear. “Who says she hasn’t already?”

“Malfoy!” Hermione hissed.

Cormac jerked against the hold. His wand suddenly appeared. He aimed it at Draco’s throat.

“Oi!” Harry barked into the kitchen. “Put that wand down, McLaggen.” His own wand was held out, pointed at the man twisted into Draco’s hold.

“Your partner attacked me.”

“I offered him a drink.”

Earnie snorted loudly. Hermione closed her eyes.

“You are holding a deadly weapon to his throat. Threatening a wizard in my home. I can take you in for that, alone.”

“I have the right to defend myself.” Draco added, his eyes twinkling as he looked over at Hermione.

“Let him go, Malfoy.” Harry sighed. A long, sufferable sigh full of fatigue.

Draco hesitated and then released the man, shoving him away.

Cormac straightened his suit as he sneered at Malfoy. “You just made a huge mistake, Malfoy.”

“Your entire existence is a huge mistake, McLaggen.” Draco sounded bored. But his eyes burned like silver as he watched Cormac move back over to Hermione. As he reached out a hand to her.

“Dont,” Draco cut in, his fingers wrapping around the bottle of Fire Whiskey. “Touch her.”

Harry was putting his wand back into his holster but froze at the words.

Cormac scoffed. “I think the witch can speak for herself.” He continued to hold his hand out. “Let’s get out of here, Hermione.”

She stared, wide-eyed, at the outstretched hand. Looked at Draco as he watched her. He was drinking directly from the bottle.

Hermione looked at Harry, who shook his head, completely lost.

“I think I need some fresh air.” She turned away and left the kitchen.

Luna and Ginny found her first and together, they drank the entire bottle of champagne as he watched the breeze play over the lillies Harry had planted when he took over the house.

Listened as Ginny, in an attempt to distract Hermione from spiraling, ranted and vented about Harry deciding on a June wedding. When she finished her rant, Hermione turned to her friend.

“I thought this entire party was to celebrate the fact that you two had finally chosen a date.”

Ginny gulped and sent her a sheepish little grin.

“Oh, right. About that.”

#my writing #dramione #fanfic #harry potter #dramione fanfic #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #draco lucius malfoy #auror draco #dramione drabbles #idiots in love #dramione drabble #dramione blurb

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hikarry · 4 months

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It was 1558, and Aziraphale was ordered to keep a close eye in the new Queen of England. It had been 2 months since she took the throne. Both the kingdom and the court were still recovering from the death of the previous queen and the changes Elizabeth I was bringing to the metaphorical table.

Alas, life in court never stopped, and life moved one, with lavish dinners and parties to entertain the nobles.

He knew Crowley was also in court because of course he was. He had exactly the same orders as Aziraphale, just from the other side of the playing field. So there was no way they wouldn't see each other quite regularly. Even though they surrounded themselves with different circles of nobility, said circles mingled often, so they were pushed together constantly. Not that Aziraphale was exactly complaining. He would never say it out loud, but having the demon in such close proximity was like a reassurance. A certainty he wasn't alone amongst these very rich, very posh, very impersonal people.

"Lord Fell." Aziraphale was snapped out of his internal monolog back to real life. Just then, he noticed he had been staring at Crowley, who stood on the other side of the saloon, back turned towards him, talking to two other men near the window. "You appeared to have been transported to another place for a moment there."

Aziraphale offered his young companion a smile, turning his full attention towards him.

"Apologies, Sir Davies. Sometimes, I get caught inside my own head."

"Don't I know it." He chuckled, waving towards a corner of the saloon, near the buffet. "Unless you want the ladies to swarm you with requests to dance, I advise we move away from this spot. Lady Thomas appears to be looking in your direction and I would say it's a matter of time until she approaches."

"Heavens, no." The angel starts walking in the advised direction, Sir Davies right behind him. "I'm absolutely dreadful at dancing."

"Yes, you quite avoid it like the plague." There's music and laughter around as they push their way away from the focus of the masses. A man distractedly walking backwards bumps into Aziraphale, causing him to fall out of balance, but Davies reaches out for his hand, stabilizing him and dragging him the rest of the way to the far wall, trapping him between said wall and his own presence. "I always wondered if it's indeed the dancing or if you just don't like the ladies." Aziraphale blushed and opened his mouth, ready to defend his honour, but Davies looked over his own shoulder and kept talking. "Look at that, looks like Lady Thomas found a new target rather quickly. I feel for Baron Morgan. He won't leave that dance floor so soon. Ah, but it appears somebody else is interested in you, Lord Fell. That red haired fellow is clearly looking this way."

Aziraphale's head snapped up, following his gaze. Across the room, Crowley had apparently moved and was now in Aziraphale's direct lign of sight. The two other men also moved to accommodate his new position. He stared back at Aziraphale for a while before turning his attention to the man on his left, breaking the quick spell Aziraphale had fallen under.

As the night progresses, the men seem finally captivated by the buffet, while most women join in circles and pull on their fans, distracted with conversations amidst polite chuckles. Aziraphale and Sir Davies remain in the same place, talking about their first impressions on the new Monarch, their favorite dessert served that evening, how long did Lord Fell intend to stay in court. Overall, he is a great conversationalist, and the time flowed between them rather without notice.

At some point, Sir Davies seemed to eye something that caught his attention, and he excused himself, approaching one of the buffet tables. But Aziraphale isn't alone for long. Sir Davies quickly returns with two full glasses of wine and offers one to the angel, who eagerly accepts it.

"I'm quite enjoying my time in the court myself." He comments, smiling at Aziraphale in between sips. "Never thought I would be one to enjoy these types of parties, but one gets rather used to them."

Aziraphale smiles back, but his eyes are not on him. Instead, he is looking around, trying to place a head of auburn hair that had seemingly disappeared without notice, but there he was. Leaning against one of the mirrors on the wall, glass on his right hand, still talking to one of the men from before, the third one apparently gone. As if on purpose, the music picked up once again, and quickly, the saloon got flooded with dancing pairs, obstructing his view of the demon.

"Lord Fell?" Davies follows his gaze, not seeing anything in particular, before looking back to his companion. "Are you quite alright? You look a bit..."

He had no idea which expression had overtaken his face, but he was quick to school it, finally looking up at the man in front of him.

"I'm fine, my dear. Just got distracted with the music. Was trying to place where I've heard this piece before." Aziraphale says, taking a long sip of his drink.

Sir Davies raises an eyebrow, looking him up and down with a concerned expression. But apparently, he decides to ignore whatever thoughts were plaguing his mind because his shoulders relax, and he starts talking again. At some point the knight, with a bit more of alcohol in his system than he apparently could take, vehemently insists that 'Sir Davies' makes him sound like an old boring man and that Aziraphale should call him Oliver. Apparently, he wouldn't hear otherwise.

"No offense, but I'm of the opinion the nobility has a tendency to take themselves too seriously. Like the world revolves around their own heads, and whoever is on the outskirts of their vision is but a mere detail."

"Quite." He goes to take another sip of wine but finds his cup empty. "Excuse me, Oliver, but I might go fetch some more wine for myself." The young man was about to open his mouth, but Aziraphale lifts his hand, stopping him. "You've had quite enough, my dear. If I were you, I would lay down the wine for the time being. Wait here, yes? I'll be back in a jiffy."

With that said, Aziraphale ventured towards the buffet table, moving around nobles, trying not to bump into any of them, and, if he did, he was quick to apologize. Almost at the table, he is pushed and bumps into a lady he was not familiarized with. She bats her eyelashes at him, and he apologizes, receiving a chorus of giggle from her and her circle of companions in return. Offering her a soft polite smile, he turns around and once again bumps into someone, face first into a sturdy chest. Staggering back a few steps, a couple of hands came to his sides, stabilizing him. Just then, he looked up, meeting sunglasses.

"Crowley."

"Having fun yet, angel?" The demon let goes of him, but Aziraphale could still feel his warm hands on his hips. "I haven't seen you on the dance floor yet. You seem rather distracted with that man you've been talking to."

"You know I don't dance." He ran his free hand down his clothes, smoothing any wrinkles from the impact. "Besides, I haven't seen you there either."

Crowley offers him a smile, pulling the wine jug from the table beside them and topping Aziraphale's glass.

"You clearly haven't been looking enough." Someone behind them calls Crowley's name, and both look towards the sound. It was the same man he had been mingling with the whole night. He didn't look very impressed. The demon clicked his tongue and looked back at the angel. Their hands brushed against each other as he leaned closer, just so Aziraphale could hear. "Work to do. Don't forget to sober up before leaving for your chambers. You're very annoying when you're hangover." And with that he turned around and left, leaving the angel there with the ghost of his touch still on his hips and his breath against his cheek.

With a quick shake of the head, Aziraphale downed the whole glass and left it on the table, also returning to his companion that was now leaning against the wall, still half full glass of wine in his hand, but apparently two other men had joined him. By their clothing, they were also knights and Aziraphale almost had half a mind to leave young Davies to his colleagues, but then, he had told the poor lad to wait for him, hadn't him? That's how he got acquainted with Sir Murray and Sir Pearson. Two other fine young men with sharp tongues and quite a sense of humor.

It was another two hours or so when Aziraphale noticed the bell of the cathedral ringing, announcing midnight. Yet, the ball appeared quite away from being over. The musicians still playing, and the saloon still filled with dancing couples. That was when he noticed he hadn't seen Crowley for quite some time. He shouldn't feel uneasy about that, and yet he does.

Crowley was working, just like himself. It's not like they were always glued at the hip. Actually, doing so would be stupidly dangerous. With Heaven's eyes currently on the queen and, per consequence, on him, the fewer interactions they had, the safer it was...yet, it was stronger than him.

"Are we boring you, Lord Fell?" Sir Pearson asked when Aziraphale excused himself.

"Not at all, dear fellow. I just need some air, is all. I'll run to the balcony and be back before you know it." He looked at Oliver, who was half awake half asleep leaning on the wall. "Do keep an eye on him. I'm afraid he will fall on his feet if he doesn't find a place to sit in a couple of minutes."

Pearson nodded, and off Aziraphale went through the saloon in the opposite direction of the balcony. Eventually, he finds himself out of the saloon and in the corridors of the palace. The lights were mostly out, just a candle lit here and there to keep some semblance of clarity.

Aziraphale keeps walking, only meeting maids and other personal in the almost empty corridors.

He was on his way to Crowley's chambers, with no other idea of where to look for him, when he walked by the big doors of the library. They were closed, but the sound of something falling caught his curiosity. Everyone was supposed to be in the saloon. Maybe it was a maid cleaning? Offering a helping hand would surely be what an angel would do, no? No. He was looking for Crowley. Which he probably shouldn't be doing, but now he was determined, and it was too late to go back.

He was about to keep moving when he heard something else falling and what sounded like a gasp. Maybe the maid had hurt herself? Heavens, he had to check. He couldn't just ignore someone in clear distress.

Carefully, he opened the door of the library and peered inside. At first, he saw nothing but absolute darkness. He took a quiet step inside, and that's when he saw it. He recognized the jacket the man leaning over what appeared to be a desk was wearing, but even more quickly, he recognized the long strands of red hair the man's hand was hidden in...oh goodness.

Aziraphale was quick to give a couple of steps back and leave the library, a hand resting on his chest. He had quite clearly found Crowley, under that man from the saloon, leaning on the desk, a couple of books on the floor near the man's feet. They were kissing.

...Heavens, if someone caught them, Crowley would be done for. So, as quietly as he could, he reached for the door and quietly closed it, still in time to hear the man moaning against Crowley's mouth. His heart started beating terribly fast. He took some quick steps back until his back hit the opposite wall, trying to catch his breath.

Right.

This...this has been a terrible idea.

His mouth was terribly dry, and his head was pounding. The man's moan reverberated inside his brain, and he quite violently shook his head, trying to cast it as far away as possible.

A drink. That's what he needed. A drink that would, at the very least, steady his hands.

And that's how he found himself back in the saloon, new wine glass in hand. The first glass was drank in a single motion, and he was quick to fill his cup again, resting his hands on the table and leaning slightly over it with his eyes closed, trying to regain reign of his heart that seemed to gallop against his chest.

"Lord Fell!" Aziraphale spinned around quickly, coming face to face with Lady Thomas, who was offering him her hand. He quickly took it and kissed it, dropping it a bit more suddenly than what was polite. "I've been looking for you most of the evening! And you-" She stopped talking, running her eyes through his face very carefully. "Dear God, you are terribly pale. Do you need to sit down?"

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before offering her a quite ridiculous smile.

"Would you like to dance, Lady Thomas?"

She looks at him, quite confused for a bit. Aziraphale was known in court for never dancing, so that request was quite bizarre on his part. But she surely wasn't going to lose the opportunity. Smile on her lips, Lady Thomas offered him her hand, and he took it, guiding her to the center of the saloon. Angels were not supposed to know how to dance, but he wasn't the best angel around - or so Gabriel insisted on reminding him. He had watched enough balls to have picked up a thing or two, so he wasn't so terrible as that. Yet, he still allowed Lady Thomas to take charge. She kept talking amidst the music, and he responded to the best of his abilities, but his head was miles away. Well, maybe not miles, but surely a few corridors away. The moan sounded once again on his mind, and he missed a step, bumping against his pair.

"Apologies, Lady Thomas. Maybe I've had a bit too much to drink."

"Nonsense. I'm just surprised you had this sudden change of heart. Why did you decide to invite me to dance, if I may ask, Lord Fell?"

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the man that now kept plaguing his mind, re-entering the saloon alone. No Crowley to be seen. A pang of worry made his heart skip a couple of beats, but he swallowed it down, focusing on the smiling woman on his arms.

"Apparently, the trick is finding me when I'm drunk enough." He joked, but his heart was not in it.

Truth is, Aziraphale didn't see Crowley for the rest of the night. Or the day after. Or the day after that one. It had been a week and a half when he finally laid eyes on him, just strolling through the palace's back gardens in the company of two ladies.

He thought about approaching and acting like nothing happened, but his courage was failing him. So he just stood there, at the window, looking down the group.

Next time they talked was during a play at the Globe. The queen was in attendance, so so was most of the court. Crowley purposely seeked him and stayed beside him through the whole play, commenting on it...or, better yet, complaining. It was a tragedy, and he appeared not to be the biggest fan of the genre. Aziraphale tried to keep up the conversation the best he could, but every time he looked at the demon, his eyes would slip from the sunglasses to his lips, and he had to quickly look back at the actors, unconsciously licking his lips while his heart hammered heavily against his chest. Thankfully, Crowley didn't appear to notice how awkward Aziraphale was feeling.

The angel almost jumped out of his corporation when he felt Crowley's fingers brush against his, lingering for way longer than they probably should. So much so, Aziraphale had to be the one moving his hand away.

"This is boring me out of my mind. What do you say we get out of here? I found a tavern with a real good white wine from Belgium."

His hand brushed against his once again, but this time, Aziraphale didn't move away. He would swear for the next few centuries he had felt Crowley's finger hooking itself on his for a quite a long moment. Long enough for Aziraphale to look at him, feeling his finger be slightly squeezed.

"Belgium?"

"Yup. My treat."

Once again, his eyes slipped to the demon's lips. Feeling Crowley's warm hand on his was not helping the matter whatsoever.

"Are you sure you want me to go with you?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow, leaning closer, now his whole arm touching Aziraphale's.

"What type of question is that? Would I be asking if I didn't want you to join me?"

"No, I suppose not." Finally he moved his hand away, escaping Crowley's grip. "Alright. Show me the way."

He never really brought up that kiss on the library or Crowley's proximity at the Globe that day, but both plagued him for a few centuries. Up until a certain argument over Holy Water, and he forced himself to suppress anything Crowley related inside his mind for the good part of 2 decades. Soon, other matters started plaguing him, and those fell to the background, but from time to time, he would still see the man leaning over Crowley, and his mind painted him a picture of what it must have felt like to moan against those lips.

It would take more than a century until he figured that out for himself. Finally burying the jealousy he had felt for centuries towards a long dead man.

#Aziraphale is an hypocrite cause it is my headcanon that he took a few spins in the Wilde carousel #but alas i dreamed about this and had to write it down for future usage #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #anthony j crowley

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jess-the-reckless · 1 month

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I started out 2024 with a fervent prayer that it would be a nice, boring year with no major upheavals. Alas, that dream shat the bed before the end of February, so with one thing and another I've been a bit busy. Still chugging away with A Fete Worse Than Death, though, so here's a sneak peek of how pillow talk goes when you discover that your wife once spent part of the Cold War working undercover as a spectral chimpanzee.

________________________________

Crowley, champagne glass in one hand, flung back the covers. She patted the mattress next to her. “Get in,” she said. “Come on. Bedtime for Bonzo.”

Aziraphale slid down between the expensive sheets. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“No idea. Recurring brainfart, I think.”

Aziraphale plumped the pillow against her neck and settled in. She’d always loved this. As much as exploring each others bodies in bed was fun, sometimes it was just nice to talk. Whenever they were together she and Crowley had talked a lot, but it hadn’t been until they’d ended up tangled up beside the fire in the gardener’s cottage that their conversation had reached newer, deeper, more interesting levels. Sometimes the things they’d shared were profound, conversations carefully skirting the thing they had been unable to say out loud, and other times the details were small, and stupid, at least on a surface level. It was here, in a series of bedrooms, that Aziraphale had learned that Crowley hated Marmite almost as much as Aziraphale loved it, and that Crowley – for all her hair looked so shiny – sometimes fought a secret battle with dandruff. Aziraphale had consulted her library and determined that this delightful new level of conversation was that ‘pillow talk’ that lovers often did in books, and then had to make herself a very strong cup of tea, in order to remain sensible while grappling with the notion that she and Crowley were now lovers.

Pillow Talk – wasn’t that a film with Doris Day? The thought knocked something loose in Aziraphale’s mind. “Isn’t that a film, too?” she said. “Bedtime for Bonzo? I want to say Ronald Reagan, and I’ve no idea why that name rings a bell.”

Crowley blinked incredulously at her. “You amaze me sometimes. You know that?”

“Why? What have I done this time?”

“The man was President of the United States for eight years. You’re maybe the only living entity who can still write in cuneiform, but you remain wooly on Ronald Reagan? How?”

“I’ve been around for a long time, darling,” said Aziraphale. “I lost track of world leaders round about the time Alexander the Great was still handing out tips on intercrural. And there have been rather a lot of kings and emperors and presidents and such, especially lately. They’ve been going through them like lavatory paper in Westminster. Which one was Ronald Reagan again?”

“Cold War guy,” said Crowley. “Used to be in films.”

“How funny. I didn’t even realise he was an actor.”

“Neither did most people. He got upstaged by a chimp in Bedtime for Bonzo. Oh and that’s why it keeps coming back to me: it’s one of Satan’s favourite films.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale, perhaps even more confused than before. “Satan watches films starring chimpanzees?”

“Well, yeah. Eternal damnation. He’s got a lot of time on his hands.”

“I suppose so, yes. Was it a good film?”

“Fuck, no. It was a stinker,” said Crowley. “The chimpanzee playing Bonzo seemed to know Reagan was a wrong ‘un, too. She tried to strangle him with his own tie. Almost killed him, actually.” Crowley’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Wait…she wasn’t one of yours, was she?”

“One of our what?”

“Agents. Her name was Peggy. She was a girl chimp playing a boy chimp in the film, but in those days nobody minded if chimpanzees cross-dressed. She died mysteriously in a fire, and there were times when I wondered…well…if Downstairs had anything to do with her death.”

Aziraphale emptied her champagne flute in a long swallow, and topped it up. She had a feeling it was about to become one of those conversations. The kind where she needed a map.

“Right,” she said. “You thought Hell had murdered a chimpanzee? Why?”

“Because she tried to kill Reagan,” said Crowley. “Who was definitely one of ours, by the way.”

“An agent?”

“No, no. Just a very useful idiot. But it stands to reason that if you’ve got an idiot that useful to Hell, then your boss – what with omniscience being what it is and all – might have sent one of God’s creatures to…you know…” She pulled on an invisible tie and made choking noises. “…neck him.”

Too lazy to call room service again, Aziraphale miracled the bottle back to full. She was going to need a lot more champagne. “Crowley, are you seriously asking me if Heaven is in the habit of training chimpanzee assassins to eliminate future world leaders?”

“Yes,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shook her head. “I think you’ve been watching too many James Bond films again, dear.”

“Nah. Like you always say, the Lord works in mysterious ways. If they’d known Hell had a target on Reagan’s back…I mean, that’s why they sent me.”

“You? To do what?”

Crowley shrugged, her bare, tanned shoulders bronze against the white linen. “Get in there and shake some things up,” she said. “The usual. At first I was like ‘don’t see what Satan sees in this guy’, but you didn’t have to know Ronnie for long to see that he was seething human crucible of vicious resentment and bile. He hated his fellow actors, especially the ones who were more talented than him, which was most of them. Including the chimp.”

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “You don’t think he set fire to poor Peggy, do you?”

“No. Although he wasn’t exactly crying too much about her death. It was pretty much ‘rest in piss, you scene-stealing monkey.’”

“How rude. She was an ape.”

“I know. And she was a scene-stealer, to be fair. Chimpanzees are naturally funny, whereas Reagan had all the comedy chops of a bucket of rendered animal fat. And it wasn’t just Peggy he had it in for. When he wasn’t being upstaged by a chimp he was busy denouncing his fellow creatives as Godless commies. He was a bastard, and a nuisance. All he needed to become a full-fledged monster was a little push. So I…pushed. How was I supposed to know it was going to end in trickle-down, AIDS deaths, and ketchup being reclassified as a vegetable? I just thought it would be amusing to spend some time as a chimpanzee.”

Aziraphale frowned, still no clearer than before. “Crowley, what are you telling me?” she said. “Am I to understand that you were the star of Bedtime for Bonzo?”

“No. Of course not. This was after Peggy died. Perfect, really – well, for me, not for Peggy. But it gave me an opportunity to play the role of a spectral chimpanzee. What better way than to taunt him by turning up as one of his funniest co-stars? It was only a part time gig anyway. I’d chimp up and then appear at his breakfast nook in the morning, or turn up driving his limo, with the hat and everything. Hats were a big part of it, actually. If you’re going to be a chimp you might as well wear a hat, because it’s funny. And I was hilarious. I had a fez at one point, and one with a propeller on the top, even though they’re kind of hack as far as comedy headwear goes. The viking helmet in the downstairs toilet properly freaked him out, though. Quite proud of that one.”

Fascinated, Aziraphale topped up their glasses. “All these years,” she said. “And I had no idea you’d spent part of the twentieth century as a chimpanzee. I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Of course I can,” said Crowley. “I’m like if a medieval bestiary could own shoes. I spent most of the seventeenth century as a series of witch’s familiars.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. And not just snakes, either. I’ve got range.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “I’ve been black cats, hell hounds, bats, violent ferrets, suspicious toads – you name it. Regular menagerie, me. One time I was even a bewitched chicken in Norwich.” She winced at the memory. “That was an experience. Probably why I’m still quite elastic in the pelvic floor area, actually.”

#ineffable wives #good omens fanfic #fanfic #ronald reagan

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shredsandpatches · 16 days

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Teatro la Fenice's new production of Mefistofele (with Alex Esposito in the title role) opens tonight so I've been seeing a lot of preview pics on the bird site, including this one and a video of the chorus from the end of this scene (which does look cool despite the schlubby costumes on the two leads, why are they putting Alex Esposito in sweatpants, come on, they put him in fishnets for Gounod!). ANYWAY it got me thinking about the various props I've seen used for the globe in "Ecco il mondo." For the uninitiated: this scene is set at Walpurgisnacht, the witches' sabbath and the primary event of the infernal social calendar. At one point the chorus presents their sexy demon overlord with a globe, symbolizing his mastery over the world and prompting Mefistofele's aria about the folly of humanity, at the end of which he smashes it. (The original libretto mentions a glass globe, and they did have sugar glass in the 1870s so I think that's probably what it would have been.)

Anyway, if you look at the video from later in the scene you can see that disco ball earth looks substantially redder and more burnt out by the end of the scene, a lighting effect which I am guessing takes place at the end of the aria. Which is pretty cool! I rather like that! Not as much as something that can go boom, but still pretty neat.

Other prop choices I've seen, roughly in order of how much I liked them:

Nothing (Festspielhaus Baden-Baden 2016, ft. Erwin Schrott). Come on. Why would you do it this way. I love this production quite a lot (and I actually otherwise really liked their Walpurgisnacht staging) but sometimes it makes questionable choices and this was one of them. Projecting equations all over the giant stage skull does not count. LET MEPH SMASH THINGS.

Giant blue lighted globe (I forget what production this was, but I saw this scene on youtube and couldn't find it when I looked just now). Pretty attractive visually, and stood out amid an otherwise red-dominated scene. Also the closest on this list to authorial intent (and, let's be real, Boito would certainly have used a lighted globe if it were possible to do safely at the time). However, you lose a lot of the impact if your singer has to carefully drop the prop globe into a trapdoor. This is kind of a common theme in this post and a principle by which I would abide: if you can't break it, use something else.

Cow heart (Bayerische Staatsoper 2015, ft. Rene Pape). Well, it's certainly creatively gross! I'll give it points for that. It was definitely not the worst idea this production had in re: Walpurgisnacht. But there are also a few problems: one is the destructibility issue outlined in the last entry. If you do something gross like that it's not gonna be as effective if it doesn't get to go splat, which obviously the prop cannot do. Another is that it doesn't really go with the symbolism of the aria (why is the world a cow heart, specifically?). A third is that the scene had already placed a bunch of writhing pregnant women downstage which made me worry that things were going to go a LOT darker than they actually did. I neither need nor want to see sacrificial baby yeeting in Mefistofele, but if your production is generally committed to maximum squalor, you probably shouldn't do anything that would make the audience imagine it and consequently doubt that commitment.

Paper globe (Teatro dell'Opera di Roma 2023, ft. John Relyea). A solid choice! He spikes it into an oil drum fire pit and and it makes a nicely scary-looking flame for an instant. It would have looked cooler if it were bigger, but it was definitely visually interesting (unlike most of the scene, alas; Relyea was typically fantastic but the director did not give him much to work with in this sequence beyond dressing him like Mussolini) and appropriately destructive.

Latex balloon (San Francisco Opera 1989, ft. Samuel Ramey). This one sometimes draws sniffs from opera purists for being cheap and tacky, but honestly that's entirely on-theme: behold the world! It's a piece of crap! This staging is iconic for a reason (it's on the cover of the dvd) and the simple balloon is satisfyingly destructible (Ramey dramatically stabs it with a very large pin), easy to bat around before destroying it, and inexpensive to replace. Full marks. Of course, this is a famous enough production that any other one that goes that route will probably be seen to be alluding to it.

Because I am obsessed with this opera and have an unattainable fantasy of directing it I have a lot of thoughts about all kinds of staging details, and so I would definitely return to the "inflatable earth" well, but distinguish it by getting Faust into the act: the second and third verse of the aria, after all, are about how dumb and generally shitty humans are. (And I think it's important for stagings of this sequence not to lose sight of him, which sometimes happens.) I'm picturing Meph dragging Faust up "onstage" and handing the globe off to him, as a representative of said dumb shitty humans (a lot of teasing interspersed with aggressive flirting going on here ofc). At the climactic "Ecco il mondo!" he flicks a finger in Faust's direction, and the globe explodes in his hands, to the great delight of the chorus. It's different, and it's a nice moment for making your singers cooperate in selling it (Faust, of course, has the more difficult job here since he'd have to play startled at a stage effect he is largely responsible for carrying off). My throughline for Mefistofele is that it's fundamentally a toxic, destructive love story that's still somehow weirdly ennobling for the participants on some level, and the Walpurgisnacht scene is a pivotal moment in that arc (it's where Meph's switch flips from "I want to win my wager" to "I want Faust") so that staging choice would be a another little thing that makes that relationship central.

#mefistofele #hot faust summer #faust friday #my imaginary production of mefistofele is fucking amazing you guys #child death for ts #(hypothetical and pretend)#how to destroy the world #opera

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dragons-bones · 7 months

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FFXIV Write Entry #29: Spices and Contraband

Prompt: contravention || Master Post || On AO3

Ehll Tou burbled happily to herself as she trotted through the bustling crowd of passengers and porters along the Ishgardian airship docks. She had been awaiting a shipment of fresh herbs and spices and potions from Ul’dah for a fortnight, and today was the day they should arrive!

Soon enough she had arrived at the correct pier, and she waited mostly patiently near where the cargo was being unloaded from the Cinnamon Cloud. A few of the crew waved to her, and she waved back excitedly. If she had the time later, she would come back to see if any of them had new stories to share of their travels.

The cargomaster came over, his smile white against the dark brown of his skin. “Hello, Sky Lady!” he said. “Awaiting a package?”

[Yes!] Ehll Tou said, jaw dropping in a smile. [From Frondale’s Phrontistery; was it in this shipment?]

“I believe it was!” the cargomaster said, and laughed as she hopped up and down in excitement. “One moment, my lady, let me go check.”

She kept hopping as she waited, far less patient now. She had projects to finish, some new cooking recipes to devise and items to finish enchanting with the proper infused lacquers. Soon soon soon!

The cargomaster returned shortly, a crate in his hands, and Ehll Tou cheered.

A check of the crate’s inventory against the Cinnamon Cloud’s cargo manifest and Ehll Tou’s own receipt from the Phrontistery—the cargomaster was kind enough to pry open the crate for her so that she could check, and she trilled happily at confirming everything was present—and then a collection of her signature, and Ehll Tou was off back to the Firmament with her crate in hand. She whistled a traveling song as she skipped through the city, though at the gentle clink of the glass bottles against one another, she slowed to something more sedate.

Once back in her warehouse, Ehll Tou headed for her primary workroom and set the crate on the table. She fetched a crowbar and reopened the lid, the cargomaster having nailed it shut to ensure nothing spilled on her way back from the docks. Setting both lid and crowbar aside, Ehll Tou carefully reached inside and began removing her new treasures.

The potions were each neatly labeled: essences of fire, which would be perfect to imbue fine cotton or wool for warmth since sewing fire shards wasn’t practical, and assorted growth formulae in different grades for her to use practicing imbuing wands and staves for Ishgardian conjurers. Ehll Tou wasn’t yet proficient with alchemy to make her own, and the ingredients were expensive and difficult to come by, too. Hmm, perhaps she should write a polite request to her…how would men call the degree of relation between them? A great uncle? That sounded correct. She should write a polite request to Great Uncle Vrtra, and ask if she might come to study with his alchemists for a time. At some point, there was no rush with many centuries still before her.

Potions gently set aside, now Ehll Tou retrieved the rest of her order. Fresh saffron and laurel and aloe, from Southern Thanalan, grown and harvested by the residents of Little Ala Mhigo. Prickly pears from Central Thanalan, bright pink and smelling utterly divine to her nose even through their thick skins. And, carefully wrapped in waxed paper, a trio of huge black truffles that Ehll Tou almost fond herself cooing over. Ohhh, she would make many delicious foods with these truffles, yes she would!

The food items she brought to her kitchen, and then she returned to her main workroom to gather up the packing straw from the crate. It would make for good kindling for her stove.

Her claws scratched against the bottom of the crate, and they caught on something. A knot in the wood? But as Ehll Tou drew her hands back, the bottom of the crate lifted away entirely, and she startled.

In doing so, her claw worked free, and the bottom fell back again. Curiosity wasn’t a trait exclusive to cats, however, and Ehll Tou poked her head into the crate, running her claws along the wood until she felt them hook again. Deliberately now, she raised the false bottom and set it aside, then peeked into the crate again.

[…Oh, dear.]

[Who would dare do such a thing?!] Ehll Tou growled, fighting the urge to stomp around her workroom as one of Commander Handeloup’s Temple Knights gingerly transferred small, overstuffed bags from the crate’s false bottom into a small, sturdy iron chest. [Use MY goods to smuggle SOMNUS into the city? The audacity! The insult!]

“Unfortunately, not uncommon,” Commander Handeloup said, tone soothing. “Chances are your order was merely the only one traveling to Ishgard from the Phrontistery within the smuggler’s window of opportunity.”

Ehll Tou crossed her arms with a huff, a lick of flame briefly escaping her nostrils before she reined her temper in. Just because she was angry did not mean she should be rude. [And someone on this end was supposed to take out the somnus before I picked up my crate?]

Handeloup nodded. “That’s the most likely scenario, and we can at least assume the Cinnamon Cloud’s cargomaster isn’t involved in the scheme, considering how readily he retrieved it for you upon your arrival at their pier. I’ll have one of my men approach him quietly and ask about any unusual behavior among his crew.”

Ugh. At least she wouldn’t be looking at the cargomaster suspiciously the next time she placed an order from an Ul’dahn business.

[A fine shadow over my day,] she grumbled.

The Temple Knight’s Second Commander chuckled and reached out to gently pat her shoulder just above the wing. “Hopefully, you will be able to look back in the near future and feel a sense of pride at assisting in however small a way at breaking a smuggling ring,” he said.

Ehll Tou cocked her head thoughtfully. [It would make for a good song…]

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#ffxivwrite2023 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ehll tou #handeloup de daimbaux #dt's writing

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degraman · 1 month

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It's been a long time since we've written news - alas, life can be unpredictable, one might even say extremely. But you can lose heart (in Russian we say keep your hands down), or you can be inspired and enriched with a new piece of glass)

Turkey finished with another subplot of the second act, codenamed "4. A SURVIVOR without empathy and with a love obsession" and is extremely pleased with it.

There are only a couple of subbranches left, each of them gives less and less new text, but still gives, plus the climaxes and the general idea are very different. "I love it when it's like this" — the words of Turkey.

The second part of the second act of Degraman is the most voluminous in the second act and it gives incredible variability. There is still a lot of work to do, but there will be a lot of time and fun from the game.

Unfortunately, difficult circumstances will not allow us to keep the timid promises about release dates that we sometimes made in the comments.

We're sorry that we missed all the deadlines again. But we are doing everything to recoup it with the quality of our work. So far, all we can say is that we have set ourselves a release date for the second part until September'24. But these are the deadlines that we have set ourselves in order to understand how we can plan at all. Therefore, you should not take this date seriously, alas again (

We attach a piece of the newly made background, which is the most important in this part.

P.S. Thank you for your patience 💙

#degraman #otome #otomevn #gamedev

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marvelmaniac715 · 7 days

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I can’t remember if I’ve posted this before or not but this is a winter themed gothic horror story I wrote for a class in December 2022 which I could and should probably improve upon at some point:

At first I wasn’t frightened. Of course, the notion was so absurd that it was easy enough to laugh off as a figment of my addled, sleep-deprived imagination. The construct of a strained psyche, nothing more. The idea that my daughter’s haphazardly built snowman was a living, breathing being was outlandish.

The thought of this concept came about when my five year old daughter Mathilde came running inside to me, insisting that her new friend was moving. Her mother and I indulged this fantasy when it became clear that the child simply wouldn’t see sense, and a small saucer’s worth of table scraps was left outside for ‘Mr Frost’ as he was now known, as Mathilde insisted that he was hungry.

Mathilde was heartbroken when we had to deconstruct the snowman in order to shovel our front path and retrieve my hat and scarf, she wept for hours on end. We couldn’t convince her to move from the window all of that day. At bedtime, we had to pry her away with our full strength in order to shift her.

My wife and I had hoped that she would be in better spirits by the morning, but alas, she was as solemn as the day before. Some friends of hers from school came over asking to play, but she refused. It was unsettling to see such grief from such a young child, who had no concept of death. Both sets of grandparents were still alive, and the family pet was a foul tempered cat named Spice who was still very much in the prime of life.

Two more days passed in a similar fashion, but after three days, my wife and I woke up to Mathilde bouncing up and down excitedly on our bed, imploring us to come outside. We noticed that she was already in her winter coat (half in, to be precise, she always struggled with the sleeves) and her face was flushed rose pink with the cold.

We were so thrilled to see her return to her former self that we immediately agreed to come downstairs to see what miraculous thing has restored her spirit. But when I went to grab my hat and scarf from the hook, they weren’t there. A feeling of deep wrongness took root in the pit of my stomach, and I shared an anxious glance with my wife. Could Mathilde have possibly rebuilt her snowman whilst we slept?

Sure enough, right outside, where he had stood less than a week before, was Mr Frost, glaring cooly from his coal eyes, gleaming in a solitary ray of early morning sunlight. Mathilde was beaming as she went to throw her arms around her cold companion, but her joy was quelled when my wife Gretchen gently admonished her.

“Now Mathilde, what have we told you about your friend here? He prevents us from leaving the house, and your Papa needs his hat and scarf. And it was naughty of you to sneak out at night, anything could have happened to you!”

Slightly downhearted but still glowing with the faintest hint of excitement, Mathilde grinned conspiratorially and whispered.

“But Mama, I was asleep all night, I came downstairs to fetch a glass of water and saw him outside. Don’t you see? He’s come back to me!”

This… this was clearly the fantasy of a foolish child, there was no conceivable way that a snowman (a manmade creation) could build itself overnight. Mathilde must have been trying to lie her way out of punishment, but the lie was so obvious that it was easy to see through it.

We had to deconstruct the snowman again, of course, but this time, Mathilde didn’t cry. Instead, she stood still, smiling eerily as she gazed at the front door, just beyond which lay the remains of her companion. My wife and I were unsettled, and this image stuck with me as I went to bed that night, I couldn’t sleep.

Against my better judgement, I crept downstairs and took my coat from its hook. Trying desperately to make no sound, I painstakingly opened the door, and each second my hand was exposed to the air the wind nipped at my skin. I couldn’t find my gloves. Or my hat. But Mathilde was sound asleep, I’d made sure to lock her door and window. She couldn’t have done this.

The moment I stepped outside, I was met with a bone chilling sight. The wind itself whipped the snow skywards, moulding it into a disturbingly familiar shape. My hat and gloves rose into the air, the gloves settling on two sticks that had jerked upwards like a macabre marionette, and the hat just hovering in empty space. But not for long.

The snow had settled into its final resting place, the shape of a snowman. I suddenly felt the greatest urge to rush up to my daughter’s room and apologise profusely. She was telling the truth all along, and I had dismissed her as a foolish child.

The snowman’s coal mouth grinned at me in satisfaction. The sticks jolted forwards, reaching out towards me. Then the wind blew fiercely, pelting me with angry hail and bullet-like snowflakes. This wind wrapped around the snowman and lifted it (whole) into the air. With one powerful blast, it exploded, showering the ground with snow and coal.

Shaken by what I had seen, I returned to bed, but the cold clung to me like a blanket, or more fittingly, a funeral shroud. I couldn’t shake it, even when I went entirely under my duvet. It was like the snowman was right there behind me, breathing down my neck, smiling and smiling.

It wouldn’t stop. Why wouldn’t it stop? Everywhere I went, every time I went outside or just sat in my kitchen, it was there. Mathilde was delighted to find her friend waiting outside for her, Gretchen just assumed that I had caved in and decided to let her have her snowman. She didn’t understand. When I tried to explain the horrors I had witnessed, she had merely laughed and told me that I was a wonderful father for indulging my child’s fantasies.

It occurred to me that Mathilde would probably know something about this. Sure enough, when I asked if she knew how he kept coming back, she beamed at me and invited me to sit down next to her. Once I was settled, and Mathilde had been assured that her mother was not around, she whispered in my ear.

“The day I built him, I accidentally spilled some water I had taken from Moon Rock Lake onto the snow he was made from. The second he had a mouth, he whispered to me that we would be best friends forever, and that he would never ever leave me. I’m so glad you’ve seen him come back too, Papa, now I have someone else to play with!”

Moon Rock Lake was said to be cursed by a vengeful witch centuries ago, spurned by a lover who went on to wed another. But that was a simple story that the village elders told to children to stop them from playing in our main water source, or so I was led to believe. There was no other explanation for what I had seen though, so I didn’t know what to think.

That night, I didn’t care if I was heard. I raced downstairs and threw open the front door. I paused to grab a shovel, but forgot my coat in my rush to get outside. Outside, I rushed at the snowman and whacked it repeatedly with my shovel until it was no more. I did what I could to separate the snow into several piles, far apart from each other, and I burned the coal, and the sticks. Regretfully, I had to burn my hat and gloves as well. Now this snow demon would be vanquished.

I slept peacefully that night, but when I awoke, my wife Gretchen was not beside me. The house was deathly silent. I crept downstairs in fright, constantly looking over my shoulder as if I was being followed. Sitting near the front door with a knife in hand was my daughter, Mathilde. She tapped the knife against the door and stared at me unblinkingly. Then she spoke.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Papa. You shouldn’t have done that at all.”

#original story #winter #gothic horror #snowman #my writing

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