owlie writes

owl127 on Ao3 and other gay she·nan·i·gans - Clexa, RWBY, Harrianthe, Korrasami, Ellie X Dina, Supercorp; fellow writers, welcome. readers, this is for you

[owl127]

owl127 fanfiction

clexa

clexa abo

supercorp

rwby

the locked tomb

the last of us

[owl127]

@ianthesmells in her endless talent and grace, drew Anubis from "Coffee & Scones" universe. So of course I had to write a drabble about it. --

There was a point of exhaustion when the letters on the Harrow’s laptop screen were an artistic display of unrecognizable forms and shapes. As her power point deck shimmered while performing aquatic dances instead of the data summary Harrow needed, she called it a night. Her phone blinked on the hotel’s nightstand, silent and ignored. Dulcinea had insisted on going to the bars with the other grad students, and she undoubtedly was sending Harrow unimportant photos to document the night’s proclivities. Harrow was not interested.

There was a lack of honor in the inebriation that Harrow despised.

Besides, she was the last presenter of the conference, and breakfast started at 7am sharp. There was no time for banal things such as “networking”.

She picked her phone to text Ianthe—her girlfriend was extremely efficient in calming Harrow’s nerves for her presentation—but frowned at the multiple pings from her plethora of diverse messaging apps; that is, all two of them.

She opened Instagram with a trembling finger.

Her first reaction wasn’t shock, since it took a good ten seconds for Harrow to recognize Anubis. Once she did, her cheeks burned with a drizzling mix of anger and amusement.

Much like his owner, Anubis was petite, a once tiny little black runt that grew into a tiny black demon. He had a history of fighting against collars, so Harrow never attempted to indulge herself by forcing him into funny little blankets shaped like denim jackets.

That was why, when she finally recognized her cat in a sheep costume framed by Coronabeth’s cleavage, she squeaked in surprise. To her horror, the little cricket looked adorable, and Corona’s massive volleyball fans had already adopted him as a mascot, with thousands of notifications in the photo. There was also a video of Anubis prancing around in the immaculate sheep uniform, his ears poking from the furry headset like sharp rocks on a field of camellias. Corona took the stage presenting the adorable cat, but Harrow knew better. She knew who was recording it, who had probably ordered the costume, and who had tagged Harrow in the viral videos.

“Hi, love. How’s the conference?” Ianthe picked up on the second ring. Harrow heard Corona’s voice in the background, and a suspicious purr that meant Anubis was around and enjoying the attention overflow.

“That’s animal abuse.”

“What do you mean?” 

Harrow heard the tilt in Ianthe’s voice. She knew exactly what Harrow meant, and she loved it.

“I left him with you for forty-eight hours and you already defamed him.”

“Harry,” Ianthe started, and Anubis meowed in the background, followed by Corona’s squeak. “The poor thing was cold, and Corona happened to snap a picture. He’s enjoying fame.”

“Leave him alone.”

“He already has his own TikTok and Instagram account.” At least there was a tinge of apology in Ianthe’s tone.

“Ianthe,” Harrow warned.

“Corona and Camilla will run it. And we can have more privacy at your place while they petsit him.”

“My place is fine!”

“Tell that to Anubis when he’s staring me down while I strap—”

Harrow hung up.

A minute later, Ianthe called. Harrow picked up after the third call.

“He’s okay, I promise,” Ianthe said as a greeting, and the background noise diminished. Harrow imagined Ianthe hiding from her sister’s enthusiasm in her room. “You know I’d never let anything bad happen to him.”

“I just want to be informed before I receive hundreds of follow requests because my cat looked adorable in a sheep costume.”

“Aww, so you also think he’s adorable?”

“You’re deflecting.” Harrow closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion from the day wash over her. “I miss you,” she whispered.

“I miss you too. You’ll do fine tomorrow. I promise.”

There was something visceral in believing a promise from Ianthe Tridentarius’ mouth. A chill ran down her vertebrae.

“Also, what are you wearing?”

She might as well use the energy into something good.

[ianthesmells]

NUUUU omg ur the best owl !!!

pic in higher quality

^ and the pic i had in mind when drawing it

also @butchcraftmacncheese view and be viewing

[valend]

The greatest minds of this generation are putting all their creative energy into writing pornography for 50 hits on ao3

[skyline-sunset-in-my-veins]

So make sure to thank them!!!!!!!

[ao3commentoftheday]

For anyone who hasn't seen them before, Hidden Search Operators are handy tricks you can use when you're either searching or filtering AO3.

summary: string is a generic way of explaining that you can search AO3 for a specific word that appears in a summary. You can do this from the search bar in the header, from the Any Field box at the top of the Advanced Search form, or from the Search Within Results box at the bottom of the filter menu.

Examples:

summary: Bruce

summary: "Bruce Banner"

summary: Bruce OR summary: Banner OR summary: Hulk

You need to put quotation marks around your search term if it is more than one word. The quotes make sure that the site searches for those two words together.

The other two operators listed work best in the Search Within Results box.

expected_number_of_chapters: 1 will return results where every fic has only 1 chapter currently posted.

You can use expected_number_of_chapters: -1 if you want results where every fic has more than 1 chapter currently posted.

otp:true will return results where there is only 1 relationship tag on the fic. If you want results where there are 2+ relationship tags (and no fics with only 1 relationship tag) then you can use otp:false

[katri-24]

This page is so beautiful and honestly I hope it reaches and helps any new people that are just starting out on Ao3 because it's helping me and I’ve been using the site for 5+ years now

[owl127]

Whisper

*clears throat*

Carmily is a thing now, right shout out to @barblaz-arts for creating this spark (Carmilla x Emily fanfic Ao3) ----

It had been so long since Carmilla desired, so she allowed herself an intermission in her long days to dream of cerulean eyes, full lips, and hands that would nest in her hair.

A headache pulsed low on Carmilla's temples as the meeting continued. The overlords bombarded the seraph with questions, and not them all made sense. The angel was efficient and honest, but also smart, avoiding the traps of a hell deal and handshakes. Carmilla was impressed.

“There is also the matter of remediation,” Valvette said. “Heaven needs to pay for what has been done to Hell.”

“Hell is a place of punishment,” The seraph said, but was that a blush on her cheeks? “But we regret how it has been carried out.” She sat straighter at the opposite end of the table as Carmilla. “Heaven has… unique leadership challenges.” That caused a few chuckles, but she pushed through, firm. “But the practice of extermination has been abolished.”

For someone so small, the seraph’s voice rang loud and clear. Carmilla drummed her fingers against her table, ready to call the meeting over.

“If one of the seraphim would do us a favor, we would call it even,” Maestro said, looking to trap the angel. “The tall one,” he continued, “she would be able to lend her strength and—”

“Absolutely not. Heaven has paid a high price already.” The gleam of the angel’s golden wing reflected in Carmilla's meeting room. “No one, and I repeat no one—” the tone in her voice was nothing but murderous—“will touch my sisters.”

A scratching noise filled the room as Carmilla’s fingers dug into her table.

“Carmilla, are you well?” Zestial asked to Carmilla’s right, a frown on his face.

Emily, the seraph, looked at her questionably.. There was something in those cerulean eyes that made Carmilla clear her throat.

“I believe we settled as much as we can for tonight,” Carmilla said, standing up. “The resolutions stand as defined. Meeting adjourned.”

The overlords mumbled in agreement. Zestial watched her, a small smile on his lips that made the room a few degrees warmer. As the lords or Hell left the room, Emily stayed behind, her eyes not leaving Carmilla’s. Before Carmilla could ask her to leave, Emily nodded, opening a Heaven portal.

“Until next time, Ms. Carmine,” she said, smiling at Carmilla.

The room was definitely warmer than usual.

0000

Carmilla’s heels clicked as she continued to walk around her research and development room, one arm extended to show the Might of Lilith’s blueprint.

“The power source is what defines the blast intensity,” Carmilla said, eyes fixed on the blueprint. She was having a hard time focusing on anything else but the angel that followed her, but she hoped the engineering details would keep her grounded.

They didn’t.

“There was angelic power in the blast that hit heaven,” Emily said. “Were you aware that an angel, fallen as it may be, was going to be used as a source of power?”

Carmilla signaled for her daughters to leave the room, and Clara and Odette obeyed wordlessly.

“It was developed for an overlord. Vox adapted it to Lucifer.”

Emily nodded, her eyes tracing the door that closed behind Carmilla’s daughters.

“Your daughters are deeply involved in your business,” Emily said.

The back of Carmilla’s neck erupted in a shiver as she steeled herself. The smallest threat to her daughters and this angel wouldn’t know what hit—

“Is your partner also involved in your business?” Emily didn’t look up at her as she asked, but a pink blush covered her cheeks.

Carmilla was speechless for a moment, processing the change in directions. Emily cleared her throat, and Carmilla blinked.

“It’s just me and the girls,” she said, her cheeks unusually warm. The angel perked up at that, and Carmilla couldn’t fathom why. “The last meeting, when they asked about your sister.” She let the phrase sit between them.

“Right,” Emily straightened her spine.“Sera is under a lot of pressure. The least I can do is ease her burden.”

“You protected her,” Carmilla clarified.

“Goodness is expected of me.”

“Just because something is expected, it doesn’t mean it is not beautiful to watch.”

There was no doubt this time; it was indeed a blush on the angel’s cheeks. And the purple of her eyes shone brighter, bluer, a soft kind of color rarely seen in Hell. 

Carmilla liked it.

The shudder that ran down her spine was of a different kind now—lower, focused.

“Beautiful?” Emily’s voice was soft, a whisper in the sterile room.

The laboratory's double doors opened, and a group of scientists entered, breaking their eye contact and they greeted Carmilla and her guest.

Carmilla walked them out of the room, and only then she could breathe again.

0000

The angel had delivered. The teleportation sphere fit in Carmilla’s palm, a solid weight to the material. It wasn’t metal or glass, but possibly an amalgam of both, or something else entirely. It had its own light source, a stark contrast on Carmilla’s desk. 

“Heaven magic cannot be shared with Hell,” Emily had said when prompted to uphold her part of the negotiations. “But at the call, I will open a portal and leave the communication open with Hell. This one is specific to me.” 

She had given her the sphere, and just like the first time, it burned hot in Carmilla’s palm.

Carmilla hadn’t used it, of course. The golden, shimmering device was first tested by her extensive team of engineers, but no one could really understand it yet.

Carmilla rolled that drop of heaven down her forearm, nesting it warmly in her elbow and back to her large hands. It emanated heat, and that was the only reason she was sweating, and not the idea that Emily was a whisper away.

Admittedly, she had thought of the angel. In nights like that, when loneliness loomed over her large granite halls and sanitized floors, she had thought of the kind, smart angel. There was a mystery in those eyes that Carmilla ached to solve. But it wouldn’t be tonight; not after her glasses of wine and too many unguarded thoughts.

She rolled the sphere on her arms again, imagining, not for the first time, that it was a different kind of heavenly touch. Her eyes closed, in the dark of her sanctuary, Carmilla surrendered to the thought. 

Emily was a small woman. A source of bravery and might, but presented in a delicate, petite vessel. She would fit perfectly on Carmilla’s lap, her hands reaching up to undo Carmilla’s elaborate hairdo, burying themselves under untangled curls. Her lips, full and inviting, would mold softly against Carmilla’s own. It had been so long since Carmilla desired, so she allowed herself an intermission in her long days to dream of cerulean eyes, full lips, and hands that would nest in her hair.

The sphere glowed against her skin, and Carmilla snapped her eyes open. It pulsed, alive, warm, inviting.

She shook her head and stood up, abandoning the pulsing, live thing on her desk. The glow faded to a pale light, and Carmilla breathed relieved.

This was insane. Emily was an angel of Heaven, for crying out loud. The antithesis of everything that Hell overlords represented.

But would her hands be as warm as the sphere? Would they be soft?

Carmilla walked away from her office, the door shutting loudly behind her.

The sphere sat on the desk, unmoving, the soft light fading into a dull grey.

The door opened again and a frustrated Carmilla snatched it back into her hands.

She blamed the blood wine as she locked herself in the bedroom dedicated for her all nighters at Carmine Industries. Her daughters were safe and sound at home, and only the night shift would be toiling about the main floor.

Carmilla was alone, and she touched the warming sphere again, and wished.

The portal shimmered to life in the bedroom, a burst of golden halo, and then, nothing. Emily stood in the dark bedroom, blinking to adapt.

“Hello?” she asked, and turned to find molten red. Carmilla knew her eyes were the first thing Emily would notice. “Ms. Carmine?” Emily’s wings fluttered. “Demon, if this is a trick—”

“I’m the only one who called you. You’re safe.”

The eye on Emily’s forehead blinked closed. “Oh,” she said, and Carmilla wished there was more light for her to see the blush erupting on angelical skin.

Silence stretched between them.

“What kind of call is this?” Emily broke the silence, one step closer to Carmilla’s desk. Her wings fluttered again and Carmilla swallowed.

“Wine?” Carmilla served a second glass, not waiting for Emily’s response.

Emily tilted her head, but nodded. She sat on the corner of the desk, her wings relaxing behind her.

“Carmilla—” Emily took a long sip from her glass, hissing at the sting of Hell’s wine—“why did you call me?” Her tone gave nothing, and Carmilla was distracted by a single drop of burgundy wine on full lips.

“This is a… social call.” Carmilla found her voice. 

“Oh.” Emily downed her wine and placed the glass on the desk. “I see.” She stood up, and Carmilla felt the bitter taste of shame.

But instead of disappearing in a heavenly portal, Emily turned to the bed at the center of the room. “Is this how things are done in Hell?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Carmilla stood, towering over the angel and walking to the center of the room, stopping right behind Emily’s back. On close inspection, she could see the angel’s heart fluttering with the wing’s minor movements; she saw the down feathers closer to her back fluttering faster. “In full honesty, it’s my first time inviting someone to my quarters like this.” The curve of dark skin was inviting, and Carmilla licked her lips.

Emily turned to face her, curiosity in her bright eyes. “You are an exceptional woman. I doubt you have a problem choosing partners.”

“I didn’t choose before,” Carmilla said, and she took a deep breath for courage. She placed one hand on Emily’s shoulders, and the angel tensed, but didn’t move under the large palm on soft, soft skin. “I am choosing now, if… if you will have me.”

Soft feathers fluttered.

There was an unredable shine to Emily’s eyes. She lifted her small hand and placed it under Carmilla’s chin. “Angels are not allowed to partake with God’s other creations after… after we broke this rule in the past.”

“I don’t consider myself one of those creations,” Carmilla whispered, closing her eyes as Emily stood on her tiptoes to cup her cheek.

“Oh, but you are. You’re magnificent, Carmilla.” 

Carmilla turned her head to kiss Emily’s open palm.

“And,” Emily continued, whispering to match Carmilla’s tone. “I’m not known for always following the rules.” Emily’s smile turned into a grin, a flash of teeth in the darkened room.

Carmilla matched her smile and finally captured her lips.

[picascribit]

There are 2 types of fanfic:

fanfic that I like

fanfic that is none of my business

[veliseraptor]

that ‘pakige?’ post but me, a couple hours after posting a fic, like ‘comints?’

[kitten-kin]

[leahazel]

F5 F5 F5

[kitten-kin]

… F5 F5 F5 F5F5F5F5F5

[veryberryskye]

yeah i like to give my blessing to the most pathetic looking weak little knight at the tournament. she can’t even look me in the eye when i give her my flower and she stutters out that she’ll do her best or something of the like. i think its funny when she has to cry and beg my forgiveness and i get to say “such a shame, i suppose my hand in marriage will have to go to someone else…” and then i get to hear her whimper like a dog. ive done this like 6 times alrea-

did she just win.

[the-stew-goblin]

I shall prepare a stew for the wedding! Extra salt!

[veryberryskye]

wait wait wait stew goblin wait

[peachdelta]

get ready for the wedding

[owl127]

Whisper

*clears throat*

Carmily is a thing now, right shout out to @barblaz-arts for creating this spark (Carmilla x Emily fanfic Ao3) ----

It had been so long since Carmilla desired, so she allowed herself an intermission in her long days to dream of cerulean eyes, full lips, and hands that would nest in her hair.

A headache pulsed low on Carmilla's temples as the meeting continued. The overlords bombarded the seraph with questions, and not them all made sense. The angel was efficient and honest, but also smart, avoiding the traps of a hell deal and handshakes. Carmilla was impressed.

“There is also the matter of remediation,” Valvette said. “Heaven needs to pay for what has been done to Hell.”

“Hell is a place of punishment,” The seraph said, but was that a blush on her cheeks? “But we regret how it has been carried out.” She sat straighter at the opposite end of the table as Carmilla. “Heaven has… unique leadership challenges.” That caused a few chuckles, but she pushed through, firm. “But the practice of extermination has been abolished.”

For someone so small, the seraph’s voice rang loud and clear. Carmilla drummed her fingers against her table, ready to call the meeting over.

“If one of the seraphim would do us a favor, we would call it even,” Maestro said, looking to trap the angel. “The tall one,” he continued, “she would be able to lend her strength and—”

“Absolutely not. Heaven has paid a high price already.” The gleam of the angel’s golden wing reflected in Carmilla's meeting room. “No one, and I repeat no one—” the tone in her voice was nothing but murderous—“will touch my sisters.”

A scratching noise filled the room as Carmilla’s fingers dug into her table.

“Carmilla, are you well?” Zestial asked to Carmilla’s right, a frown on his face.

Emily, the seraph, looked at her questionably.. There was something in those cerulean eyes that made Carmilla clear her throat.

“I believe we settled as much as we can for tonight,” Carmilla said, standing up. “The resolutions stand as defined. Meeting adjourned.”

The overlords mumbled in agreement. Zestial watched her, a small smile on his lips that made the room a few degrees warmer. As the lords or Hell left the room, Emily stayed behind, her eyes not leaving Carmilla’s. Before Carmilla could ask her to leave, Emily nodded, opening a Heaven portal.

“Until next time, Ms. Carmine,” she said, smiling at Carmilla.

The room was definitely warmer than usual.

0000

Carmilla’s heels clicked as she continued to walk around her research and development room, one arm extended to show the Might of Lilith’s blueprint.

“The power source is what defines the blast intensity,” Carmilla said, eyes fixed on the blueprint. She was having a hard time focusing on anything else but the angel that followed her, but she hoped the engineering details would keep her grounded.

They didn’t.

“There was angelic power in the blast that hit heaven,” Emily said. “Were you aware that an angel, fallen as it may be, was going to be used as a source of power?”

Carmilla signaled for her daughters to leave the room, and Clara and Odette obeyed wordlessly.

“It was developed for an overlord. Vox adapted it to Lucifer.”

Emily nodded, her eyes tracing the door that closed behind Carmilla’s daughters.

“Your daughters are deeply involved in your business,” Emily said.

The back of Carmilla’s neck erupted in a shiver as she steeled herself. The smallest threat to her daughters and this angel wouldn’t know what hit—

“Is your partner also involved in your business?” Emily didn’t look up at her as she asked, but a pink blush covered her cheeks.

Carmilla was speechless for a moment, processing the change in directions. Emily cleared her throat, and Carmilla blinked.

“It’s just me and the girls,” she said, her cheeks unusually warm. The angel perked up at that, and Carmilla couldn’t fathom why. “The last meeting, when they asked about your sister.” She let the phrase sit between them.

“Right,” Emily straightened her spine.“Sera is under a lot of pressure. The least I can do is ease her burden.”

“You protected her,” Carmilla clarified.

“Goodness is expected of me.”

“Just because something is expected, it doesn’t mean it is not beautiful to watch.”

There was no doubt this time; it was indeed a blush on the angel’s cheeks. And the purple of her eyes shone brighter, bluer, a soft kind of color rarely seen in Hell. 

Carmilla liked it.

The shudder that ran down her spine was of a different kind now—lower, focused.

“Beautiful?” Emily’s voice was soft, a whisper in the sterile room.

The laboratory's double doors opened, and a group of scientists entered, breaking their eye contact and they greeted Carmilla and her guest.

Carmilla walked them out of the room, and only then she could breathe again.

0000

The angel had delivered. The teleportation sphere fit in Carmilla’s palm, a solid weight to the material. It wasn’t metal or glass, but possibly an amalgam of both, or something else entirely. It had its own light source, a stark contrast on Carmilla’s desk. 

“Heaven magic cannot be shared with Hell,” Emily had said when prompted to uphold her part of the negotiations. “But at the call, I will open a portal and leave the communication open with Hell. This one is specific to me.” 

She had given her the sphere, and just like the first time, it burned hot in Carmilla’s palm.

Carmilla hadn’t used it, of course. The golden, shimmering device was first tested by her extensive team of engineers, but no one could really understand it yet.

Carmilla rolled that drop of heaven down her forearm, nesting it warmly in her elbow and back to her large hands. It emanated heat, and that was the only reason she was sweating, and not the idea that Emily was a whisper away.

Admittedly, she had thought of the angel. In nights like that, when loneliness loomed over her large granite halls and sanitized floors, she had thought of the kind, smart angel. There was a mystery in those eyes that Carmilla ached to solve. But it wouldn’t be tonight; not after her glasses of wine and too many unguarded thoughts.

She rolled the sphere on her arms again, imagining, not for the first time, that it was a different kind of heavenly touch. Her eyes closed, in the dark of her sanctuary, Carmilla surrendered to the thought. 

Emily was a small woman. A source of bravery and might, but presented in a delicate, petite vessel. She would fit perfectly on Carmilla’s lap, her hands reaching up to undo Carmilla’s elaborate hairdo, burying themselves under untangled curls. Her lips, full and inviting, would mold softly against Carmilla’s own. It had been so long since Carmilla desired, so she allowed herself an intermission in her long days to dream of cerulean eyes, full lips, and hands that would nest in her hair.

The sphere glowed against her skin, and Carmilla snapped her eyes open. It pulsed, alive, warm, inviting.

She shook her head and stood up, abandoning the pulsing, live thing on her desk. The glow faded to a pale light, and Carmilla breathed relieved.

This was insane. Emily was an angel of Heaven, for crying out loud. The antithesis of everything that Hell overlords represented.

But would her hands be as warm as the sphere? Would they be soft?

Carmilla walked away from her office, the door shutting loudly behind her.

The sphere sat on the desk, unmoving, the soft light fading into a dull grey.

The door opened again and a frustrated Carmilla snatched it back into her hands.

She blamed the blood wine as she locked herself in the bedroom dedicated for her all nighters at Carmine Industries. Her daughters were safe and sound at home, and only the night shift would be toiling about the main floor.

Carmilla was alone, and she touched the warming sphere again, and wished.

The portal shimmered to life in the bedroom, a burst of golden halo, and then, nothing. Emily stood in the dark bedroom, blinking to adapt.

“Hello?” she asked, and turned to find molten red. Carmilla knew her eyes were the first thing Emily would notice. “Ms. Carmine?” Emily’s wings fluttered. “Demon, if this is a trick—”

“I’m the only one who called you. You’re safe.”

The eye on Emily’s forehead blinked closed. “Oh,” she said, and Carmilla wished there was more light for her to see the blush erupting on angelical skin.

Silence stretched between them.

“What kind of call is this?” Emily broke the silence, one step closer to Carmilla’s desk. Her wings fluttered again and Carmilla swallowed.

“Wine?” Carmilla served a second glass, not waiting for Emily’s response.

Emily tilted her head, but nodded. She sat on the corner of the desk, her wings relaxing behind her.

“Carmilla—” Emily took a long sip from her glass, hissing at the sting of Hell’s wine—“why did you call me?” Her tone gave nothing, and Carmilla was distracted by a single drop of burgundy wine on full lips.

“This is a… social call.” Carmilla found her voice. 

“Oh.” Emily downed her wine and placed the glass on the desk. “I see.” She stood up, and Carmilla felt the bitter taste of shame.

But instead of disappearing in a heavenly portal, Emily turned to the bed at the center of the room. “Is this how things are done in Hell?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Carmilla stood, towering over the angel and walking to the center of the room, stopping right behind Emily’s back. On close inspection, she could see the angel’s heart fluttering with the wing’s minor movements; she saw the down feathers closer to her back fluttering faster. “In full honesty, it’s my first time inviting someone to my quarters like this.” The curve of dark skin was inviting, and Carmilla licked her lips.

Emily turned to face her, curiosity in her bright eyes. “You are an exceptional woman. I doubt you have a problem choosing partners.”

“I didn’t choose before,” Carmilla said, and she took a deep breath for courage. She placed one hand on Emily’s shoulders, and the angel tensed, but didn’t move under the large palm on soft, soft skin. “I am choosing now, if… if you will have me.”

Soft feathers fluttered.

There was an unredable shine to Emily’s eyes. She lifted her small hand and placed it under Carmilla’s chin. “Angels are not allowed to partake with God’s other creations after… after we broke this rule in the past.”

“I don’t consider myself one of those creations,” Carmilla whispered, closing her eyes as Emily stood on her tiptoes to cup her cheek.

“Oh, but you are. You’re magnificent, Carmilla.” 

Carmilla turned her head to kiss Emily’s open palm.

“And,” Emily continued, whispering to match Carmilla’s tone. “I’m not known for always following the rules.” Emily’s smile turned into a grin, a flash of teeth in the darkened room.

Carmilla matched her smile and finally captured her lips.

[eienieee]

✨

[aanglican]

world heritage post: avatar femslash fans on livejournal discussing the possibility of a lesbian or bi lead in the legend of korra in 2010, 2 years before the series first aired. four years later, korra and asami walked into the spirit world together holding hands.

happy korrasami day!

[caecilius-est-pater]

This is the diametric opposite of "we popping the biggest bottles when Makorra happens"

[owl127]

Prompt: Harryanthe are visiting a restaurant

(I don't know why this came up to my mind, but it suddenly seemed to be very interesting)

(more the locked tomb fics)

Harrow groaned, irritation prickling the lines between her eyes. She blew a stray curl from her face; her hair was getting long again.

“I’m overdressed,” she mumbled as they parked, the sleek EV Ianthe had adopted lately beeping its usual two-tone melody. Ianthe had chosen the vehicle to annoy her father, though much like him, she seemed to hate the silent thing.

Ianthe enjoyed loud powerful creatures. Harrow still hadn’t figured out what got them together. 

“You’re fine,” Ianthe said, exiting the car, but her own jeans and cardigan beg to differ. Harrow suspected something was off when Ianthe didn’t leave the car to pick her up, but at the same time, all other restaurants Ianthe had taken her to were Michelin stars.

This one had a group of drunk teenagers in the corner of the parking lot instead of a valet.

“Are you sure?” Harrow gulped as heat painted her cheeks in the early summer evening. She tugged at her black dress strap, fidgeting with the silk.

Ianthe stopped on her way to the small mom-and-pop restaurant, looking back at Harrow with an intensity that made the heat in her cheeks run down her spine and land on her lower belly.

“You’re gorgeous. Own it,” Ianthe said, and with that, she offered her hand. Harrow took it in a sweaty palm.

Harrow noticed the scent first, that tang of sizzled meat and fresh eggs, a nostalgia from her upbringing. The waitress that found them a table had a striking resemblance to the cook behind a half-wall glass, and she took their orders in an old notebook instead of a fancy tablet.

The chairs were worn, but comfortable and homey, and the other tables talked loudly in a way that made Harrow feel like she belonged. She reached for the faded menu, but long, pale fingers touched her knuckles.

“Do you trust me?” Ianthe asked, violet eyes flashing under dangerously long eyelashes. Harrow’s tummy twisted, and she counted that as hunger. Ianthe didn’t let go of her hand, and Harrow realized she needed to give her an answer.

“Yes,” she breathed out, more airless than she intended, and Ianthe smiled one of her real smiles.

Ianthe ordered in Spanish, and Harrow felt sweat pooling on the back of her neck. The waiter jutted something down and left them with brightly colored glasses of icy water.

“What is this about?” Harrow asked, the entire evening a yet unrevealed side of her girlfriend. She wasn’t sure if she loved it or hated it, but she was certain she wanted to find out.

“Can’t I just take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner?” Ianthe bit the transparent straw jutting from her water, playing along the seam with her teeth. Harrow watched it for a second, then blinked, taking a long sip of cold water. It helped with the heat.

As Ianthe looked out at the setting west coast sun, Harrow fell in love again.

The appetizers were little fried fish balls that looked suspicious, but smelled amazing, and Harrow devoured three before Ianthe could set up her napkin. The house sauce was also divine, and Harrow started to understand why Ianthe brought her here. All three unmarked bottles of varying colors of green and red sauce were magnificent.

When Harrow thought the main course couldn’t follow up the appetizer’s great start, she was proven wrong, with the best arroz com pollo she had ever had, with perfectly seasoned veggies and cheese bread on the side. In its simplicity, the dish was glorious.

Then dessert arrived, and Harrow would have gasped if she had a single dramatic bone in her.

But Ianthe had plenty, and she looked up expectantly as the waiter delivered the plate and left.

“You remembered,” Harrow said, her eyes infuriatingly irritated with the warm room.

“I had to dig around to find a restaurant that did the crispy version. Is that the right one?” 

Harrow studied the pie. Three layers: dulce de leche, caramel bread, and the thinnest coat of chocolate. She tapped the top with her spool, the chocolate cracking and the caramelized sugar breaking under the metal.

She took a bite.

When Harrow was five, she joined her family in holiday preparations for the first time. She was allowed to help make the nuts mix, and set up the non-breakable items on the table. But there was a moment her grandma shooed everyone from the kitchen, because she would prepare her secret recipe, and only two members of the family could know about it in a lifetime. Her aunt stayed, but Harrow was given a pass because she wouldn’t remember.

That was the first time she tasted her grandma’s dulce de leche crispy pie. It had been years since she had anything like it.

Until now.

“Harrow?” There was an edge of worry in Ianthe’s voice. 

Harrow cleared her throat, going for another slice.

“Everything okay?” Worry clouded those violet eyes Harrow loved so much, and Harrow blinked and nodded, dabbing at the wetness on her cheeks.

“It’s perfect,“ Harrow said, offering her fork to Ianthe. “Share it with me?”

Ianthe smiled, triumphant, and opened her mouth. Harrow fed her slowly, focusing on how thin lips closed around the layered pie with the precision of a predator.

The room was warm again.

[owl127]

Could you write alpha Clarke and omega Lexa struggle trying to conceive a baby?

read on Ao3

The blurred image focuses on a woman sitting down on the single chair in the frame. Behind her is a large window with sleek modern architecture reflecting on tinted glass. She clears her throat, pats her button-up shirt, and an accompanying thud follows her hand.

"You don’t need to touch it," a voice says from behind the camera. "Speak normally, and we get it."

A shade of pink takes over her cheeks under the set lights. She chuckles, tucking blonde hair behind an ear. On the lower left, captions appear: Clarke Griffin, patient #013, 40 years old. Female Alpha.

"Thank you for agreeing with the post-treatment documentation," says the same unnamed voice, a soprano woman. "As we said before, this will only be shared with other future patients."

Clarke nods. "You changed my life. I’m happy to help."

"Can you talk a little bit about how you felt when you were diagnosed?"

Clarke works her jaw back and forth, looking down at her polished shoes then up at the camera again. 

"Well. Basically, it sucked."

0000

The punching bag moved back and forth with each new impact. Clarke’s knuckles ached and her wrist screamed, but she kept delivering punch after punch into the bright red canvas. Pain flared at her joints, and sweat ran down her back, but she needed it to keep her thoughts at bay.

Thoughts of how much of a useless alpha she was.

"Clarke?"

It was the second time Lexa came to check in on her. At first, it was an innocent call for dinner, but now Lexa’s voice had a layer of worry on it. 

"Clarke." 

Clarke didn’t stop the punching. Jab, lower, jab, jab. Her gloves burned with friction, but those jabs were the only thing keeping her from facing her incapacity to—

"I brought you coconut water," Lexa said from behind her. Clarke stopped, wiped sweat from her face, saw how useless that was since she was completely drenched, and shrugged. 

"Thank you." She didn’t look Lexa in the eyes as she accepted the bottle, downing it in three long gulps. Dehydration. Just what her body needed, being this useless bag of meat and—

"Clarke." Lexa placed a hand on her shoulder, coaxing Clarke to face her. Lexa wasn’t angry, which infuriated Clarke more. Lexa should be furious, doing to her what Clarke was doing to that bag. But Lexa wasn’t pitiful, and for that, Clarke was grateful. She wouldn’t be able to deal with pity. "Come up, eat something. You’ve been here for hours." 

Clarke took a deep breath and toyed with the lid of her bottle. "I needed… I needed to—"

Uncareful of her sweat, Lexa wrapped her arms around Clarke. Warm, comforting. This was Lexa, her mate, her wife. The woman she promised the world to—and who she now failed to keep promises to.

"We’ll be alright," Lexa said into Clarke’s messy ponytail, nudging at the scar she left there years ago. "I get that you’re angry. But don’t blame yourself, my love. This new treatment is available, and—"

"We only need that because I’m a fucking failure," Clarke confessed, and Lexa’s hands on her skin tightened their grip.

"Don’t say things like that." She pulled back and guided Clarke to meet her eyes with a hand on her chin. "You’re my wife, and I love you. All of you. Don’t say things like that about yourself."

"It still doesn't change the fact that I'm a half-baked alpha."

"If I were the one with a complication, would you say those things to me?"

Clarke swallowed. "Of course not."

"So please don’t say that." Lexa kissed her cheek. "I love you."

"I’m sorry." Clarke thought the hours of punching and sweating would keep the tears away, but here they were, strong and ugly and burning just like her hands. "I’m so sorry that I can’t be the partner you need." Lexa held her. In the damp air of their basement, Lexa held Clarke and let her cry like the insolent pup she was.

"You’re exactly what I need," Lexa promised. "Nothing will change that."

Lexa was convinced. Clarke admired her for that. If only she could believe it.

0000

The image depicts a bright room with green plants in colorful pots framing the lonely chair in the center. The woman sitting on it is reading a paper, glasses low on her nose.

"Ready to roll, Mrs. Woods?" The soprano voice asks from behind the lenses. Lexa folds the paper, and a blur of a person picks it up from her hands. A similar inscription from before appears on the bottom left: Lexa Woods. Clarke Griffin’s mate and wife. 38 years old. Female Omega. 

"Yes," Lexa says, folding her reading glasses and placing them in her front shirt pocket. "Whenever you’re ready."

"Have you ever dated another Alpha before meeting Clarke?"

Lexa’s facial expression does not change as she says, "No."

"When did either of you suspect something was wrong?"

Lexa sits straighter in the chair, her lips twitching twice before she finally says, "We were mated and married for six years when we tried to conceive." She pauses, crossing and uncrossing her legs. "We had never knotted before, so we had no idea what to expect. But eventually, we realized something was wrong."

"Was it a mutual realization?"

"Clarke noticed it first. But I don’t think she brought it up until it was unavoidable."

0000

Clarke never knew there was something wrong with her. She never really thought that she might be a little off until Liam. Anya had just started showing, complaining about Clarke's food and everything else. 

"I didn’t know you were planning for a baby," Clarke said, hands soaked in bubbles. "But I’m really glad for you, Raven." They could hear their wives laughing from the dining room.

"Planning?" Raven snorted, shaking the kitchen towel to get another plate to dry. "That kid planned itself. That is, I really wasn’t planning to knot, but it happened, and well, in five months there will be a pup around. Get used to the idea."

Clarke frowned at the fork she was washing and watched the suds drip down the metal surface. "What do you mean you didn’t plan to knot?"

Raven placed a dry plate on the rack. "I was in rut. You know." She shrugged, and Clarke honest-to-god did not know. 

"Do you always knot when you rut?" 

"If I’m not super-extra-careful, yeah. Don’t you?" Raven asked in a laugh, but stopped at seeing whatever was going on with Clarke’s face. "Don’t you?" she repeated. Clarke felt her face warming. 

She looked back at the fork. There was a stubborn piece of potato stuck to it. 

0000

They talked about it. Extensively. They talked about costs, space, and time. But Clarke knew what the decision would be since the day Lexa had seen little Liam—all red-faced and crying his lungs out in Anya’s arms—and some maternal instinct sparked to life in her.

They wanted a baby.

The bed creaked with Clarke’s vigorous thrusts. Lexa met her push for push, her hips seeking Clarke’s in tandem. Lexa was not a passive omega; she took what she wanted, and Clarke loved her for that. She loved her mate, she loved her wife, and now she loved that they would make a new life together. 

"Are you close?" Lexa panted in her ear. 

Clarke nodded, her cheek hitting Lexa’s chin in the process. None cared. "Yeah. I think," she exhaled, slowing their movements to adjust her hips. Lexa moaned. "I’m not sure how long it takes," Clarke breathed, hoping her tone was steady.

"I have no idea." Lexa kissed her neck, licking the mating bite there. "It’s the first time we’re doing this." It should feel exciting. Lexa sounded excited. Clarke wasn’t sure.

Don’t you?

Sometimes she thought about Raven’s puzzled look when she admitted she had never knotted. But her friend had patted her on the back and said that each person was different. Clarke had never really tried to knot, so it was alright.

But right now, in rut, Clarke was actively trying, and Lexa had come twice, and they had changed positions twice as much, and Lexa would get sore, and Clarke could not get her damn knot to work.

"Come back to me." Lexa’s hands massaged the tight clench of Clarke’s jaw. They slowed until they stopped. Lexa sighed, but Clarke continued to pant. "What’s wrong, love?"

Clarke didn’t know. Or she did, and she did not want to voice it, because then it would be real, and Lexa would care, and they would have to go to doctors, and Clarke would be a failure as a wife.

"Clarke?" Puzzled, Lexa leaned back to find Clarke’s eyes, but Clarke avoided them. Clarke pulled out, their gasps mangling for a moment before she left the bed. "Clarke?" Naked and worried, Lexa followed her into their bathroom. The room smelled of sweat and sex. "What’s wrong?"

Clarke splashed water on her face and looked down at herself. Her erection, covered in Lexa, had an uneven swell at the base. She touched it, one large palm pressing on it, but she barely felt it. It wasn't like other alphas talked about it. It was like she was numb. Lexa watched from the door, her arms crossed over her chest. 

"Are you going to talk to me or—"

"I don’t think I can knot."

There. It was real.

0000

Clarke drinks from a water bottle while an assistant runs the mic check. A voice behind the camera mumbles, "We should try asking anyway." A new light turns on at Clarke’s right and she squints at it.

"So Clarke," the same voice from before says, now louder. "How were the side effects of the injection?" 

Clarke takes another drag from her water bottle, her eyebrows rising at the question. She places the bottle next to her chair.

"Like almost everything about this treatment, it totally sucked."

0000

"Fucking hell!" Clarke breathed through her nose, hard and gasping, her hands white with the effort of holding on to their granite sink. "Give me a moment," she gasped.

Lexa kissed her cheek, brushing the sweat away. "I got you," she whispered, always calm and serene during Clarke’s outbursts.

Clarke had been all courage and bravado until the needle—bigger than what it looked like in the doctor’s office—touched her knot. The injection site felt like fire, and every day the pain got worse. She knew it would be like this, at least until her knot inflated for the first time, and hell, that was another headache she wasn’t ready to think about just yet.

"If it hurts like that, it means it’s working," Lexa tried to argue, which did not help with the fact that Clarke’s cock was on fire. "Blood is flowing there for the first time, honey," Lexa continued to sooth, an ice bag in hand, ready for the aftercare. "Most alphas take years to go through what you’re going through in a few weeks. Give yourself some grace."

Clarke grunted, sat back on the closed toilet lid, spread her legs, and nodded. "Okay. Okay. I’m okay." Lexa kissed the top of her head and went for the second injection.

0000

Lexa hisses at something behind the camera, the mic turned off and not catching whatever accompanied the reprimand. The voice-only director clears her throat and says, "Patient 13’s, that is, Clarke’s file says her mate was the one administering the injections. That’s you." Lexa focuses on the right of the camera, sitting taller in her chair in the plant-filled room."How did you feel about that?"

"I’m not medically trained, but the mechanics of it weren't hard." She smiles, a small little thing under lights and makeup. She's aging gracefully. "Clarke was very vulnerable, and she trusted me. I would advise mates to give it a shot if they can handle the whining."

"Whining?"

"I suppose most alphas don’t take kindly to injections on their knots."

There is a chuckle off camera and a loud noise; someone else is yelling, "The mic is down!" and the off-camera voice comes back, "Cut, cut!" while Lexa chastises, "You two get down here!"

0000

Clarke woke up feeling like she had gone to hell. Everything burned. Her sleep shirt was soaked, her pajama shorts drenched, and her hair plastered to her forehead. As she sat up on the bed, she moaned, her muscles tensing. Lexa mumbled something next to her, that little sleepy snort she claimed she didn’t do every time she woke up. 

"Fuck," Clarke gasped, holding on to the wall as she tried to stand up. Besides her entire body burning, her crotch ached with a pain-pleasure mix Clarke was not conscious enough to judge. 

"Clarke?" Lexa asked from the bed as Clarke tumbled to the bathroom, half-awake and limping. Clarke almost fell as she kicked her shorts and sat in the bathtub, turning the water cold.

"Babe?" Wrapped in Clarke’s robe, Lexa remained on the threshold, her eyes suddenly awake. "Is it happening?"

Clarke looked at her and moaned, nodding. "It fucking burns," she whispered, and Lexa approached with caution. 

"Do you want to be by yourself?" she asked, her naked feet silent on the bathroom tiles. 

Clarke shook her head, extending a hand to Lexa. "Can you stay here with me?" 

"Oh, my love." Lexa sat next to the bathtub, kissing Clarke’s burning cheeks. "Always."

0000

Clarke fidgets with her microphone again, and an assistant asks her to stop doing it. "And how did you feel when you could knot?" the director asks as Clarke looks up.

Clarke’s blush is more visible under the lights, and she touches an earring before answering, "Not everything about the treatment sucked."

0000

Lexa wouldn’t stop moaning. She was not always vocal, or at least not carelessly so, but as Clarke felt herself expanding inside her, Lexa wouldn’t stop the cadence of moans. Part of Clarke was worried, but most of her was lost in ecstatic bliss. 

"Lex?" She gasped, her hips slowing as her range of motion was limited by her knot. "Talk to me, love," she insisted, because Lexa was tucked under her chin, an endless stream of incoherent words leaving her lips. As they slowed, spent and satisfied, finally tied, Lexa took another minute to simply gasp for air. Clarke held her, whispering small nothings. She tasted salt on Lexa’s cheeks. "Lex?"

"I’m—" Lexa tried, and they moaned together as she moved her hips. It wouldn’t budge; people were not kidding about that part. "Fuck," Lexa said, the first coherent thing in the last few minutes. 

"That good?" Clarke wiggled her hips, and they moaned again, and Lexa slapped her back. 

"Stop moving for a bit," she hissed. "But yeah, that good." Clarke nudged Lexa’s nose with her own, a delicate gesture like a small island in the middle of a sea of intense love making. "Are you good?" Lexa asked, finally taking a deep breath. Clarke nodded and nuzzled into Lexa’s nose again. 

"I love you."

Lexa kissed her temple, and they shared a breath. "I love you too."

0000

"Why are we here?" the little girl in Clarke’s lap asks, looking up at her.

"To tell our story, baby." Clarke kisses the tops of her dark curls. 

"Hello," the director calls from behind the camera, and the little girl’s attention moves away from Clake. "Hi," she repeats, "what’s your name?"

The girl looks up at Clarke, who nods, and then back at the camera. "Serah."

"How old are you, Serah?"

She proudly shows one hand with all five fingers and another two fingers on her other hand. 

"That’s seven, right?" Serah nods, a missing incisor showing in her smile. 

"She’s our oldest," Clarke chimes in, pulling her daughter a little closer. "The twins are three."

The image cuts to Lexa’s set, with two boys running around her chair as she types something on her phone. It cuts back to Clarke. 

"So you can say, a hundred percent, that the treatment works," the director continues, and Clarke nods. 

"It changed our lives."

The image shifts to a different set, with the entire family present. Clarke has a hand around Lexa’s waist, with Serah reaching up to her belly while the twins don’t get above her waist. Lexa placed each hand behind the twins' necks, keeping them in place. 

"You have a beautiful family. Three beautiful, healthy pups," the voice from behind the says, and both Clarke and Lexa blush. Serah giggles, and the twins start poking each other. A silent conversation goes on between the mated pair, and it ends with a nod from Lexa.

"We’re actually expecting a fourth," Clarke reveals, one of her hands landing on the twin closest to her. The boys stop their poking. 

"Congratulations! I guess three were not enough?"

"They’re definitely a handful," Clarke says as she picks up one of the twins, his blonde hair messed up by his brother’s hands. "This last one kind of… planned itself." She blushed, and Serah giggled again. 

"I guess we finally understood what other couples meant by accidents during ruts," Lexa jokes, and there’s laughter in the background of the set. 

"What’s a rut?" Serah asks, and the laughter increases in volume, even with the director joining in with a chuckle. 

"I believe that’s a cut," Clarke says, grinning at the camera.

The image fades into black, and a centered caption appears.

The Woods-Griffin family had a healthy baby girl.

As expected, she was also a handful.

[owl127]

What a journey!

Winter Bloom is finally complete 🌸

Winter Bloom Chapter 13

[owl127]

Re: Ask the Owl “Anything in mind?” I really like your latest Clexa One Shot! I think it’s called “Pre-Game.” Idk. With the Olympics happening, I mess with a good multi chapter sports fic

Your heart is beating so fast you wonder if your coach is tracking the spike on her tablet. But Anya doesn't call out from the hallway. She only knocks twice against the heavy metal door.

“Interview is in fifteen minutes,” Anya says, pointedly avoiding your eyes. They are wet, you realize. You’d hate her pity. “You did well, Lexa. It was so close—”

“Don’t,” you beg, your lower lip trembling. “Just... don’t.”

Anya nods. “Fourteen minutes,” she says, leaving you alone for one more precious moment of silence.

They say the bitterest place on the podium is second. You used to think that was a cliché, that the worst place was off the podium entirely, but tonight? Tonight, it's true. Because for less than half a point, you lost your dream of Olympic gold to fucking Griffin.

It didn't matter that you held the world title. It didn't matter that you’d been dominant all season. When it finally counted—when people who didn't even know ice skating existed turned on their TVs to watch you—you failed.

You’d given a solid, high-level performance. The problem was that Clarke Griffin had given the performance of a lifetime, reaching a level of technicality you could match, but an artistic expression you feared you might never touch.

“Eight minutes,” Anya calls through the door.

You had accepted the silver medal with a practiced, polite smile, but God, you were dying inside. And the worst part? Even as you’re devastated, a traitorous part of your heart is happy for her.

Clarke had suffered a life-changing injury two years ago. You’d watched it happen from the sidelines. She’s the perfect comeback story: her first Olympic medal, and it’s gold. You want to scream; you want to slap her; you want to hold her.

You wash away the tear tracks and reapply your makeup. You need to be camera-ready to honor your sponsors and pretend you’re thankful for the weight around your neck.

As you open the locker room door, someone barges in, loud, colorful, and breathless. You swallow hard.

“Congratulations,” you say. It’s your first real smile since her score was announced, because you can’t help it when Clarke’s dimples flash like that.

“Lexa!” She hugs you tightly, lifting you off your feet for a second. You stumble, unsure how to respond. Part of you wants to push her away, and the other part wants—

It’s fast and desperate and sloppy, but she kisses you right there in the dim light of the locker room, five minutes before you both go live for international television.

“You’re phenomenal,” she whispers against your lips, as if she hadn't just had her tongue in your mouth. “I just need to grab my jacket. I’ll meet you at the press desk.”

You’re thankful you’ve already taken your skates off, because your legs feel like jello. Anya rounds the corner and claps her hands.

“Just because Americans are late doesn’t mean we have to be!” she barks. She pauses, looking at your flushed face. “You look better.”

You nod dumbly, having no idea what is happening anymore.

Clarke shows up late for the interview, but the reporters don’t mind. They wait for her. She is the Golden Girl, after all. You know what the questions will be. You were the favorite, and now you’re eating silver while the world adores the girl with the perfect comeback.

You still want to slap her, a little bit.

But more than anything, you want another taste of gold.

[owl127]

I love your sports fics!! Can you write one (preferably in the Clexa universe) where Lexa has to get off before the game or else she doesn’t play well because she’s all horny. Im indifferent as to if it’s another locker room based fic, or it could be Lexa and Clarke are rooming together at an away game and Lexa keeps waiting for Clarke to fall asleep so she can mastrubate and Clarke ends up hearing and helping her out. Also I love the football world but whatever

(Ao3)

You have a routine. It is a meticulous process, though parts of it are spontaneous. The candles, the warm bath, the classic music, they all play the perfect part in relaxing your muscles and mind, preparing your body for the battle to come. You will demand perfection from yourself tomorrow at the game, so when you can, you take your time to prepare.

The water is borderline scalding as it fills the ostentatious hotel bathtub. The team went all out with the reservations, and you are grateful for the extra leg room. Your phone chirps lightly to Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto as the vetiver candle hits its earthy undertone. The fluffiness of your robe rubs against your exposed skin as it falls to the floor, leaving pleasant goosebumps over your things and arms. It’s perfect.

You’re halfway into the tub when a loud knock resonates from the bathroom door, making you slouch water on the pristine white tiles.

“Yo, Lexa!” Clarke, your loud roommate for the night, knocks again as if you didn’t hear the first time she almost brought the door down. “I’m going to get smoothies with the girls. Do you want to come?”

Why would they want smoothies right after dinner? Tall players like Clarke seemed to have an endless appetite. “Lexa?” Clarke’s large, goalkeeper hands smack the door again, and you finally respond, “No, thank you! Have fun!”

Clarke grunts an affirmative, and you wait until the bedroom door closes with a far away thud. Laugher and heavy steps die down the hallway, and the air calms. You trace the water with your fingers, drawing invisible patterns in the rose-scented bath. Music plays quietly, and finally, you relax. You let your eyes close, bundling up one of the many available white towels behind your neck, taking a deep breath.

You wake up with a high note from your phone, surprised at the song. You must have napped, the water lukewarm on your skin. The rustic, golden faucet squeaks as you open it to fill up with warm water. It falls next to your feet, almost too hot, but you enjoy the small torture, the decadent warmth. Your feet rub together while you stretch, the towel around your shoulders sliding down to soak into the tub. It must have been at least a thirty-minute nap with how stiff your neck is. Long fingers run over the tight ropes of your muscles, and you sigh at the pressure. Your fingers linger, the touch initially soft, but growing in pressure and expansion, exploring your collarbones, ribs, until they brush your breasts underwater, and you bite your lip.

It’s not unheard of, you argue with yourself to detox your association of pleasure with guilt that was hard coded into your brain. It’s not unheard of for sexual pleasure to be used for muscle and mental relaxation. So when you’re in the mood, you add an extra step to your pre-game routine.

You wait for the music to change from the boisterous major chords to the intriguing minors, which escalates beautifully. The water is a couple of degrees higher, the turbulent sound of the stream mixing with the song. You open part of the cold water and switch inside the tub so the thick stream hits your neck, with the velvety touch like a warm, large hand on your skin. It’s irrelevant to dwell on thoughts of large, freckled hands, or the day you found out your team’s starter keeper had freckles on her hands at all. Always hidden in her colorful gloves, you remember the moment in the break of dawn of the training room when long, freckled fingers curled around the chest bar to press an unsurprisingly heavy set. But you block these recurring thoughts because Griffin is a colleague at best, an annoying teammate at worst, and you have no intention of unbalancing team dynamics like that. So you do not think of the warmth of large hands on you as you close your eyes and touch your peaked nipple. Instead, you search through your memories for the audiobook you listened on the way to the away game, the trashy sapphic novel of girls fucking in a car. Faceless, fictional characters are safer than the thought of Griffin’s dimple, so that is your focus as you feel yourself slick between your folds. Sometimes you wonder if you would make more noises with a partner, but by yourself you are quiet, biting on your lips as you spread your legs as far as the tub allows you. The built up steam helps in your fantasy as you remember the rough voice in the audiobook begging, “fuck me hard, babe.” The music swells and so does your clit, and you feel the rush of an approaching orgasm, your toes curled on white porcelain, the water’s touch warming up your nape, and then—

“Lexa?”

You grunt to swallow the moan threatening to slip through. “You alright? You’ve been in there for a while.” Griffin’s voice is low and concerned, her large knuckles touching the wood softly as she knocks. “Lexa?”

“I’m okay,” you force out, croaking the words above the music and the shame burning your chest. “I’ll be right out!”

“Okay.” Some shuffling, and the creaking of mattress coils from the bedroom.

You slump down into the water and turn it to cold.

Something brings you back from unconsciousness, and you blink in the barely lit room. There is an undetermined source of light to your left, so you turn to face Griffin’s bed. Unsurprisingly, the goalkeeper fell asleep watching some show on her tablet, and the mix of lights take over the bedroom as your eyes adjust. Clarke sleeps soundly, her headphones lost inside a wild mane of sun-kissed blonde hair. You don’t want to stare, but the single source of light is right in front of Clarke’s face, dancing with hues of red and blue on her freckled skin. Your cheeks are warm, and maybe the light wasn’t the only impulse waking you up. Part of you wants to blame the impromptu tub nap, but the growing warmth in your lower belly claims you’re up because of other unfinished business. You watch Clarke, but not because you want to, but yet to judge how deep asleep she is. The woman snores quietly, a delicate expiration every time her lungs empty the air against her loose curls. Her mouth is slightly open, surrendered to sleep, and her limbs are scattered over her queen bed. You judge she’s dead to the world, and wonder if you can get away with touching yourself very quietly and very quickly. Since you are known for your efficiency, you ignore the rising alarms in your mind and shove a hand between your sleep shorts. Thinking of Clarke while touching yourself right next to her is too much, so you turn your back to her and close your eyes, focusing on the sensation of your fingers gliding through your folds.

The AC and the faraway, muted noise of Clarke’s discarded headphones combine with soft gasps that insist on leaving your pursed lips, but your bet is that nothing will awaken the goalkeeper. You try, you really do try to think of anything but the woman asleep next to you; you think of the smut books you indulge yourself into when the need strikes, or memorable past lovers, but those damn freckled hands keep coming back, and you feel yourself getting wetter at the thought.

Maybe just a peek won’t hurt.

You turn around on the mountain of pillows in your bed, snuggling close into the multi thread sheets, your skin hot against the soft fabric. Clarke remains immovable, chest rising and falling softly under a cotton shirt you want to touch, her nipples poking it and begging for your mouth. You lick your lips at the mere idea of your mouth on Clarke’s skin, soaking through your panties as your fingers struggle to find space in your haste. The hand spread on Clarke’s stomach twitches; the fingers shaking for a second, and you wonder how those fingers would feel inside your mouth, or inside of you. One of your own fingers complies with the idea, and you muffle a moan on your pillow. You got your fill, so you should turn around and finish this by yourself, but your eyes continue to take, take, and take, cataloging every detail of the magnificent creature that is Clarke Griffin. Her hands, the strip of pale skin under the messed sheets hugged tightly over a hipbone, the long line of her neck sneaking into her strong jawline, the dark into her eyes as she stares at you with such intensity you might—

Fuck.

The colorful hues of Clarke’s tablet reflect on open, alert eyes. Her lips part and she arches an eyebrow, watching, judging your moves; the sudden freeze of your hands under the sheets, the air that feels heavy as you gulp a loud breath.

You want to say something, and you want to disappear, suspended in between as Clarke’s eyes take your entire body up and down once, twice.

Her mouth twists to one side, a shadow of a smirk. She caught you.

You wonder if moving to Germany and buying a new identity would solve your problems. But any thoughts of identity theft and a recluse life in Berlin evaporate as Clarke deliberately slips one of her hands inside her pajama bottom. It is a purple string shorts sitting loosely on her muscled thighs, stretching to accommodate the largest hands you’ve ever wanted to be inside you.

She doesn’t move, though. Eyes as dark as you’ve ever seen them stare at you, waiting. Her headphones pool around her neck, and you notice how her nose flattens with a harsh exhale. She’s waiting for you. Silently, she lets you know that it’s your call.

You manage to convey a small nod, and it grows in vigor as you give consent. Your foggy brain can’t offer more than that desperate nod, and you hope Clarke understands. Clarke smiles, small and sweet, unbefitting of what you’re on the precipice of doing, and then bites her lips and plunges right in. You don’t hold your moan this time and she gasps, dark eyes shutting as her hands explore what your mouth desires.

You’ve never done this before. God, you almost never masturbate, but this? Touching yourself as you watch your crush’s hand move under unspeakable purple shorts, her breath catching every time a whimper escapes you; you must be dreaming. It’s the conclusion that keeps you going, that brings your hand to renewed gusto, that brings you closer. Fuck, you’re going to come watching Clarke touching herself.

You make a wish then, a small plea for one day for it to be your hands touching Clarke.

“Lexa,” she breathes because of course Clarke would ruin this with words. “Lexa, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Or maybe not ruin this. You moan again as you fuck yourself with two fingers. You think about how thicker and longer Clarke’s fingers are, and how they would fuck you silly instead.

“I can make that happen if you want,” Clarke says, and you realize words were possible even in your frenzied state. “You’d look so good taking me.” An indescribable noise leaves your mouth, and you will die swearing you didn’t, but you whimper at Clarke’s words, nodding, touching, feeling. “Yeah, baby, let me hear you come,” she continues speaking because of course there’s no way to make her stop talking once Clarke is on a roll. Midway to the race for pleasure, you notice that in truth, you enjoy it. You like Clarke’s voice urging you on, telling how beautiful you look while you touch yourself, how wet you make her. “Lexa,” her voice is high, and you snap open closed eyes to watch as Clarke’s face contorts in bold pleasure, and can she, is she—

“I—I’m going to come for you,” she says and closes her eyes, hands lost in her sheets, and you cannot do absolutely anything else but follow her.

You come moaning Clarke’s name as she shudders on her pillow. There are few things you are sure of in your life, and that you will never forget Clarke’s face at the frozen moment of utmost pleasure is one of them. It does not simply push you to your own orgasm, it barrels you down the cliff like a runaway bison herd, and you meet pleasure in a new, flashing light, your tight muscles spamming in bliss, your toes pushing against the sheets, your mouth muffled over white linen.

Your breath is loud and wet as you slowly come back to yourself, your heart desperate and loud in a rib cage that doesn’t seem able to hold it inside. For a moment you almost forget you didn’t reach this alone, but reality and shame crash on you as a tired voice asks, “Lexa?”

Heat warms your cheeks. You clear your throat and face Clarke, watching the pink in her face blooming to her neck. “Yeah?” you say, gauging her reaction, doubt creeping in as endorphins fade from your bloodstream.

“Was this okay?” It is not always that Clarke Griffin has a small voice, but it’s how she asks you, shy and unsure, and you want to untangle the knot between her eyebrows.

“Yes.” You’re the captain. It’s your job to show certainty, even when you have no idea of what to do.

“Do you,” Clarke says and pauses, moaning softly as she takes her hands out of her shorts. Your eyes follow the wet digits, eagerly taking her in as she licks her own fingers in deliberate fashion. After your affirmation, the shy girl is gone. “Do you want to do it again? I can come over.” Her eyes dart between your beds. “If you want.”

You are sure of another thing now: you, Lexa Woods, are in trouble.

[thelatestkate]