Some of you may remember this project from the year before last-- last winter was rough for me-- BUT I HAVE RETURNED. And I return with the desire to make you all Valentine's Day Cards again!
Of course, I will be posting whatever I make. Obviously. But if you have requests, or would like one ahead of time to send to someone else, please let me know in the reblogs and replies!
Valentine's Day can be a strange holiday for a lot of people, but I'm determined every year to make it as happy for everyone as I can, even this year when I won't have my friends around. Please please please let me know if I can brighten your day, too!
P.S. I would love to do some aro or pride themed ones again. I'm also super fond of music ones. But I'll do whatever. Just message me, reply, reblog, or send me an ask, and your card will be in the metaphorical mail.
Mad squirmed the best that he could as Mare kept a firm grip on his thighs, biting and sucking at the insides of them. Mare wasn’t able to give Mad a proper mate-mark but was more than happy with giving Mad as many hickies as possible all over his body and right now he was littering his thighs with them. He could also tell that by how hard Mad was, he wasn’t complaining as well.
“Mmph~” Mad’s little moan was muffled by his hand as the other arm rested across his eyes, having gotten very flustered at the sight of Mare’s head going under the skirt of the maid’s outfit.
“Oh, now we can’t have that.” Mare slipped himself up a little and grabbed Mad’s wrists, lowering his arms away from his face. “I want to hear everything, Madsy.”
“O-Okay.” Mad looked up at Mare with a flush across his cheeks.
“Such a good boy.” Mare praised, loving how that got the blush to get deeper in color. “Now, on your hands and knees.”
“On my…” Mad hesitated before swallowing and nodding in agreement. Mare let him go and moved back, watching with the biggest rush of lust as Mad flipped over, sitting himself on his knees and pressing his hands against the bed. “Why am I like this?” Mad asked, it becoming a little gasp when he felt Mare’s hands on his ass, flipping the skirt up to expose him.
“Easier for me to eat a peach~” Mare squeezed at Mad’s ass.
“Eat a-eat a peach?” Mad stammered out. “Isn’t that-isn’t that something Phantom talked about? And peach also means ‘ass’?”
“Yep.” Mare popped the ‘p’.
“And you said you’d show me what that meant?”
“Yes, I am.” Mare squeezed again and spread Mad apart, seeing Mad visibly shiver at that. “What do we say if we want something to stop?”
“R-Red?”
“Good boy.” And with that Mare dove in, slowly dragging his tongue across Mad’s hole and getting a loud mewl from him.
“Fuck!” Mad felt his elbows almost give out at that. That was a sensation. Mare only chuckled and pushed his tongue in, grinning a bit as he found himself having to hold Mad up after his front half went down. “That-That’s…” Mad stammered out, softly moaning at feeling Mare’s tongue move around. “Oh, God.” He found himself pushing his hips towards Mare without thinking about it, which gave Mare a devilish idea. “Mare!” Mad whined out when Mare pulled away.
“You like that a lot, don’t you~?” Mare asked with a hum, moving so he was laying on the bed next to Mad.
“Y-Yes,” Mad answered, looking at Mare with a confused expression.
“I want you to sit on my face.” Mare had the biggest grin as he said that.
“Sit…sit on your face?” Mad hasn’t moved from his previous position yet.
“Come here.” Mare grabbed Mad and easily pulled him up, adjusting so that he was sitting on Mare’s chest with his back facing him. “Now, back that ass up onto my face.”
“What?”
“I got you.” Mare slipped his hands under the dress again and grabbed Mad’s hips, pulling him back so that his ass was hovering over his face. “Also, when I say sit, I mean sit. Give me your full weight.”
“But-But I don’t want to hurt-”
“Do you really think you can hurt me?” Mare scoffed before setting Mad down on him.
“A-Ah~” Mad gasped out, hands gripping Mare’s sides as he felt Mare get right to work with his tongue. He looked down and could see nothing but the bottom of his dress, Mare’s upper half completely hidden from him so all he could do was feel what Mare was doing to him. Mad again leaned back and moaned out loudly at Mare thrusting his tongue in and out of him. “M-Mare, Mare,” He started to rock his hips, wanting to feel more of that wonderful tongue move inside of him. “Mare~!” Mad placed a hand on the base of his neck, almost covering his mouth when he nearly shouted out Mare’s name but remembered what Mare had told him earlier. “I’m-I’m gonna-” He didn’t get the warning out before he came with a low groan. “Oh, oh, don’t stop, don’t stop, Mare.” Mad closed his eyes and pressed down harder against Mare’s face when that talented tongue kept moving. “Oh God, please, please, please. Mare,” He just kept rambling as the sensitivity sent a warm buzz up his spine and to the back of his head. “Oh, fuck~!” Mad cried out when he suddenly came again, adding even more of a mess inside of his dress. Mare moved Mad away this time and he sat up, holding Mad against his chest as he did so.
“Someone really likes that~” Mare sang out his tease.
“I-I do.” Mad felt weak in the legs and he tilted his own head back to look at Mare. “That didn’t hurt you?”
“It’d take a lot more than your ass to hurt me.” Mare chuckled.
“Can…Can we do more?” Mad asked his next question softly. “I’d-I’d like more of you in me…please.”
“Fuck, that’s hot, Madsy.” Mare nearly growled as he held Mad tighter to him. “You are just so sexy when you get all like that. So naive and yet so dirty~”
“That’s good, right?” Mad swallowed as Mare’s hands went under his dress to squeeze at his thighs.
“Very.” Mare pressed a kiss right under Mad’s ear. “Because now I want to fuck you brainless~” He reached over, getting the bottle of lube out of the top drawer of the bedside table. Mare was thankful for past him to be smart enough to stock up that little table with several bottles. “How does that sound? Do you want to be a happy little puddle for me again? We already have such a lovely head start on that.”
“I’d…I’d like that.” Mad nodded and heard the pop of the lube bottle.
“Good boy, I’ll be sure to take such perfect care of you. Those thoughts will be gone soon enough,” Mare purred and scraped his fangs against Mad’s neck, loving the shiver that got him. “Let’s play~”
Title: Wicked Grace (Chapter 21)
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Pairing(s): m!Hawke/Fenris, Isabela/Bethany, mCousland/Zevran, hints at Two New Developments
Warnings: MMORPG/Modern AU, mentions of past abuse, A Gaming Convention (cue shrill scare chord), vending machines, falling water bottles
Summary:
Garrett Hawke is a simple guy. He likes simple things. Things like playing MMORPGs with his friends. Their guild, Wicked Grace, has been pretty exclusive for a while. But, when the guild becomes interested in recruiting a new member - an elven warrior named Fenris - what used to be a “fun way of passing time” becomes “Operation: Hard in Hightown” (or, as Isabela calls it, “Operation: Get Hawke Laid”). Needless to say, this operation is anything but simple.
“Isabela, where are your pants?!”
Fenris and I are standing outside of the Rogue Room - right in front of its door. We’re listening to a very important, loud discussion going on inside of said room.
“Since when do I wear pants, Vallen?”
“That wasn’t even a little bit funny.”
“Shut up, I’m hilarious and it was very funny.”
“Am I wearing pants?” A different, concerned voice squeaks. “Is this material too thin to be pants?”
“Daisy. Sweetness. Listen: If you don’t want it to qualify as pants, then it’s not pants.”
“Good!” Merrill… “Then I think I’ll say that they’re not pants!”
“Excellent!” Isabela’s logic strikes once again. I can hear Bethany guffawing… They’re so rowdy.
HALF OF ME EXPECTED THIS; half of me wants to believe the other half is wrong. Ok, maybe not half. More like a fourth and that fraction is decreasing as I stand here, staring down at Sam’s kitchen countertop.
The U.S.S. Hope has sunk, leaving me stranded in a lifeboat which capsized at the contents of the drawer. These vitamins are my lifejacket, the only thing I have left between me and an ocean of despair. And now, looking my pink ‘vitamins’ versus Sam’s dad’s white ones, I can hear the air whistling out of my preserver. This ocean fills me with dread, unlike the one in Florida that had looked and sounded so peaceful.
“This might not be what you think,” Sam’s trying to tell me, but I can see in her eyes that it's exactly what I think.
I shake my head once, twice, three times... hoping that each time I look back down at those pills they’ll miraculously be the same and this was all for naught, but each time they’re different. I doubt that Sam’s dad is reusing old vitamin bottles. Just like I doubt my vitamins are Once Daily For Men multivitamins.
“You okay?” Tucker asks, concerned when I say nothing for a long moment.
No, Tucker. I’m not okay. I bite down on my lip to keep from snapping at him. The kitchen spins. I lean into the counter and rest my forehead down against the cool marble, wrapping my arms up protectively around my head. Tucker and Sam don’t speak, but I can smell their worry. It’s stiflingly loud.
“Say it,” I mumble against the counter, unable to stomach their silence.
Sam’s hand rests on my shoulder, but I shrug it off, lifting my head back up off of the counter to look her directly in the eye.
“Tell me what you think is going on,” I demand.
She purses her lips and takes her hand back.
“There’s a video of my mom and dad injecting me with ectoplasm while I’m asleep. Skulker’s missing from my thermos. There’s a vial with his name on it in a ghost-shielded drawer. My mom is at some human body conference talking about ectoplasm, of which the live stream mysteriously cut out, and now my vitamins don’t match up,” I tick off. “Did I forget anything?”
“Those scientific graphs and charts.” Tucker supplies from my right. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, trying to pull up information on the pill’s ingredients on his PDA. So far the search has yielded zero results. I still don’t know what they’re for, or why my mother has insisted I take them for the better part of a year.
Right. I had almost forgotten about that graph. I pull it out of Sam’s purse and lay it out on the countertop. I scan the two plots again and glare down at the numbers and letters as if to intimidate them into revealing what they stand for.
“E1-M,” I say aloud, tapping the letter accusingly. Like a bolt of lightening, it totally makes sense. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life I haven’t taken a step back to consider the larger picture. But now that I have thought of it, I know I’m right. After all, in this new world where my parents are more devious than I’ve given them credit for, it only makes sense.
“Vlad Masters.” I swallow, pointing at the volatile line graph. E1-M. “And me.” I point at the stable line graph. E2-F. “Daniel Fenton.”
Sam breathes heavily, leaning over my shoulder. Tucker hops off of the countertop to join us. His PDA lies abandoned on the marble.
“Holy shit.” Tucker’s eyes are glassy behind his lenses, jaw unhinged. “You think they made Plasmius on purpose?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “But whether or not it was an accident, my parents know about Vlad. They’ve been watching him too.”
“Do you really want to know what I think?” Sam asks darkly.
“That I've been my parent's experiment for the past six months?” I toss out, my voice high, yet strangely calm. “That Danny Phantom is their creation?”
There. It’s out. I’ve said it. It’s real.
Sam’s alarmed. Her gaze sweeps across my face back and forth. I can tell she isn’t sure how to react to this nonchalant-in-the-face-of-life-changing-information Danny; this whatever-Danny. She has this look like she’s preparing for a breakdown of some kind at any moment. I feel impossibly light though. For some reason I'm grinning. It's funny.
“We could be wrong, you know,” she says slowly, trying to toss me one last life raft, but I don't take it. It's too late for denial, I'm onto the next stage. I'm done pretending this is all one giant misunderstanding. Weren't my parents always the ones that told me to think logically? To examine all the evidence? To propose a hypothesis based on the facts presented?
“Do you think I'm wrong?”
“...No,” Sam admits. Her saying this aloud makes me feel better.
“Tucker?”
He glances up, giving me grave frown. “No, dude. We’re all thinking it. It makes sense.”
Of course it does. The more I think about it the more sense it makes. The cluelessness as to why I come home so late. Why I’m nearly always covered in bruises, yet my mother never seems to worry. The way the medical supply closet is always magically refilling despite me depleting it each month. How I can be standing directly in front of my parents as the Boo-merang shrieks that I’m a ghost and still they don’t notice. The only piece I don’t understand is: Why?
I rest my head back down against the marble. My eyes feel like they’re burning in their sockets. A lot of this still hasn’t processed, but besides a bizarre giddiness and a pounding headache I'm feeling pretty alright.
“Do you have any pain killers?” I ask Sam.
.
.
I chuck one of Sam's light up bouncy-balls against a band poster in her room. The lead singer winks back with a casualness that I hate right now, so I keep throwing the ball against her face. It hits with a thunk and rebounds. Ba-dum-chh. I catch it and chuck it again. Ba-dum-chh. It's the twenty-ish time of throwing it when Sam stalks over and snatches it out of the air. She jams it in her desk drawer and swirls to look down at me. I instantly feel childish.
"Stop it," she warns.
I let my hand fall back against her super soft carpet, a little sad to have lost the distraction.
"I'm worried about you," she breathes, plopping down across from me. She ducks her head to catch my gaze. "What are you thinking?"
I'm silent for a long moment, pondering that question. For the past ten minutes I had been doing my best to avoid thinking whatsoever. That was the whole point of the ball. I liked that little ball-world full of black glitter and miniature skulls. A world absent of scientific parents and Skulker's remains oozing in Sam's vegan leather purse.
"Danny?" Sam prompts. "Talk to me?"
I cough the cobwebs out of my throat. "They come back tomorrow night," I muse. "They'll realize the pills are missing. They'll see Skulker... is missing. They'll know that I know."
Sam nods.
"We could put everything back the way it was," Tucker speaks up. He's lying across Sam's bed, playing a video game on his PDA while I've been zoning out.
Sam shoots him a look over my shoulder.
"He can't avoid this," she says. "He shouldn't avoid this. Even if we put everything back and they don’t notice, they'll keep doing what they're doing." She avoids directly saying it, but I know she means the tests they do on me in my sleep.
"I could run," I suggest offhandedly.
The two of them stare at me. Tucker lowers his PDA. It slips out of his hand and onto Sam's black ruffled comforter. Sam's eyes have nearly overtaken her face. They're huge and fearful and heartbroken.
"If your parents are the ones giving you your powers, you run you might lose them," she whispers. “You might… who knows…”
I stare back down at the carpet. I don’t find the idea of normal Danny Fenton super upsetting. Flying... flying I would miss the most. But, leaving Sam and Tucker... that isn't an option. Running means losing everything I care about; everything I’ve ever known. Pretty quickly I realize running isn't a choice. Not really.
"I won't run," I promise. "But I can't go back and pretend everything's okay either."
So that only really leaves me one path. My least favorite one, but the one I seem to walk the most: confrontation.
.
.
Tucker's parents call him home around ten. He leaves with a pat on my back and a promise that he'll see me in the morning; that we’ll figure out a plan. Jazz has been trying to reach me on my cellphone since nine. Besides sending her a text that I’m at Sam's, I ignore her. I know it isn't fair, but Jazz doesn't even know about me being Phantom. I wonder what her reaction is going to be to all of this. Thinking about it makes me exhausted.
It's around midnight when Sam can't help but sink into her bed. Her breaths even out, punctuated by tiny snores.
I suppose I should head home instead of watch Sam sleep, but I can't bring myself to leave. I don’t want to go home. Her bed is too spacious and safe. The ratio is off: It’s more pillow than bed. I sit on the edge of it and roll onto my side, the covers reaching up to envelop me like a hug.
Ten minutes. I'll just lay here for ten minutes before heading back to Jazz and all her lectures...
.
.
I wake to a bedroom door cracking open and a vertical beam of light creeping across carpet.
No.
Not again. I have to flee. Now.
I dip myself into invisibility and phase through the bed, hiding underneath. It isn't until I see a pair of pink high-heels that I remember I'm in Sam's room and this is Sam's mom. I'm safe. At least, safe from injections. Not safe from what Mrs. Manson would do if she found me asleep next to her daughter.
Sam mumbles something.
"Oh, I didn't mean to wake you," Mrs. Manson soothes. Her very lethal-looking stiletto is inches from my eye socket. "I just wanted to check in on you."
"I'm still here," Sam announces sullenly.
"Alright. Go back to sleep. Goodnight, honey." A pop of a kiss. She shuts Sam's bedroom door and moves down the hallway outside, her heels click-clicking against expensive wood flooring.
Sam waits about a minute before she addresses the empty room. "Danny?"
I poke my head back up through her bed.
"I'm still here." I mimic, although I can't quite nail her tone of voice. It's impossible to imitate, that Manson-level brattiness.
"It's almost one."
I glance at her clock as I pluck myself up through her bed and back on top of it. So it was. I had slept for an hour and I still feel like shit. Those two Advils Sam had given me earlier have done nothing to dampen this growing headache.
"I fell asleep," I tell her as I run a hand through my disheveled hair.
"You’re really pale," Sam notes.
"I think I'm getting a cold."
“That’s just what you need right now.” She pauses. “Ew, you got your germs all over my bed.”
I snort and grab a pillow, shoving it in her face. Sam shrieks but the sound is muffled. Flailing gangly girl-limbs nail me right in the rib, her elbow knocking the wind from my lungs. I'm surprised by how much it hurts.
She's giggling. I mean chuckling, because Sam insists she never giggles.
I rub the spot tenderly. "Geeze, what do you do, sharpen those in your spare time?"
Sam makes a pencil-sharpener motion around the tip. "You never know when you'll have to puncture some ghost teen’s lung with your elbows."
"Ouch," I pout, placing my hand over my heart. "That hurt."
Sam watches me with amusement as I get off her bed and walk towards her window. Her face falls a bit as I transform, preparing to head home before Jazz has an aneurism.
"Come back, I didn't mean it," she says forlornly.
"Somehow I doubt that. Anyways, I have to go. Jazz will start growing grey hair."
“I’ll see you tomorrow. We’re going to figure this out. It will be okay.”
“Yeah.”
"Will you be okay?"
I rattle that around in my head for a minute. "I hope so."
I predict she's not going to like my answer, but she smiles. "That's the first time you've answered that question honestly," she says from deep within all the pillows of her bed. As I spin to leave she calls my name.
“What?”
“It’s time,” Sam whispers. Her eyes are sleepy, but serious. “You have to tell your sister what’s going on.”
.
.
The clock on my bedside tables flashes 1:09am as I phase through my window into my bedroom.
With a burst of light I transform back, taking a moment to lean against the wall when the sudden rush of blood to my head leaves me dizzy. There's a faint rushing noise that I think is coming from behind my eardrums, but, as I regain my bearings I realize it isn't going away. I frown.
The small stereo with the CD of ocean noises is still playing at the lowest volume setting. The sound of it has always comforted me, but an indomitable rage is building. It simmers, froths, boils, explodes. She bought this for me. Suddenly the CD is malicious. It’s Mom singing a lullaby, knife behind her back. This entire time I've been beneath the surface. Dumb. Compliant to their schemes. No longer.
I stomp across my room and rip out the CD from the drive. The machine eeeerts. I take one last look at it before it’s flipping through the air and blasted into a million pieces with a quick, deadly, accurate ectoray. The pieces scatter, smoking. It isn't enough. My inner child shrieks, demanding more. More destruction. I yank my webcam from my desk and fling it against the far wall. It hits with a loud thud and little bits of plastic spiral off around my closet. More carnage. I rip my books from my shelf and fling them onto the floor, giving them a good kick just because it feels good.
I'm halfway through burning up every pencil on my desk, bursting them into tiny little fires with surges of ghostly energy, when my door slams open. It whips around, rebounds off of my wall with a booming thud, and flies back to nearly hit Jazz in the face.
"What the HELL are you doing?" Jazz screams from the hallway. She looks like a banshee— hair swiveled around her head, figure shrouded in shadow, pajamas wrinkled from sleep. Her fists clench against her sides. "Do you have any idea how late it is? How worried I've been?"
I hide the pencil I was charring behind my back. My anger whooshes out, leaving me shaky and embarrassed; my chest aches all deflated and, like a balloon forgotten in the sun, I just want to sink to the floor. Tears have welled up in the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away— quickly— before Jazz can see. She's squinting in the low light of my room. My collection of ruined things across the bedroom floor goes unnoticed, for now.
I lurch forward and grab her by the arm when she starts to barrel into my room with bare feet.
"Don't—"
"Let go. You— W-What happened?" Jazz pauses, seeing the sharp bits of CD and how her bare foot almost stepped right on top of one. Her eyes dart across the ripped up books and the broken webcam. She looks down at me. "Danny? Why did you do this?"
I'm so tired.
I sit on the floor to join the carnage. I feel awful. Half a second ago all I had wanted to do was scream and throw a fit. Now all I want to do is cry. Instead I take in a few gulping breaths.
Jazz crouches down next to me, her gaze wide and concerned.
"I have to tell you something. Something really important," I whisper. “Promise not to freak.”
A pause. A concerned older-sister-y hand on my shoulder. "Okay. I promise."
I suck in a deep breath and plant my fingers into the carpet. Here it goes.
"I'm Danny Phantom. I’m half-ghost."
Smooth, Fenton. Real smooth. I can’t help it, it just blurts out of my mouth without any preamble, without any explanation. As it leaves me my chest feels lighter. I look up to see how she's taking the news, finding Jazz... Jazz is grinning. Her eyes sparkle in the low light.
"I know. I've known for a while now."
“You know? How?” What all did she know? My heart catches and trips. Panic churns in my stomach, seizing control of my muscles, making them stiff, pinning my arms to my sides.
“Hey,” Jazz says softly. Her hand doesn’t leave my shoulder. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Anyway— I saw you transform at school a few months ago.” Her eyes search mine earnestly.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask as I stare at her in disbelief.
She shrugs. “I figured you’d tell me eventually. Don’t worry. I won’t tell Mom and Dad. Not until you’re ready. I think it’s great what you do.”
“You do?” I echo.
She looks at me like: It’s really that simple. “Yeah. I do.”
I slump. Silence.
Jazz sighs and pats me on the shoulder a few times. “Want to tell me what this is all about?” She makes a gesture at the floor.
I look around my room for a moment, my head throbbing, my body shivering. I’ll tell her. Later. Tomorrow. After I feel a bit better and before our parents come home. One revelation is all I can handle right now. I have a feeling this other secret will tear our family apart. And I can’t do that. So I chicken out.
“Ghost,” I lie.
I can’t tell if Jazz believes me or not. She always seems to see right through me, but she doesn’t pry— for once. Instead she helps me sweep the majority of sharp objects off my carpet. She smiles the entire time. It only makes me feel guiltier for not just telling her the whole truth.
I churn in my bed, sifting over different scenarios, different ways to break the news to her. How will she react? What will happen when my parents come home? I envision, in great detail, how I want tomorrow to go. I get pretty confident I can handle it, that it will be okay. Night has a way of doing that to a person. You can convince yourself for hours it’s fine, craft a plan, craft a plan atop that plan, make failsafes, but that first ray of sunlight reveals your plans as shit. You’re still screwed.
I breathe out slowly and close my eyes. Tomorrow morning. I’ll tell her then. Right when I wake up.
