Something something John Price, something something Reader needs a fake bf when her ex stalks her at a club.
I cannot get enough of this man, he's consuming my thoughts at all times. So I'm gonna try my hand at oneshots? This is just a preview of a longer part to see if people like it, bc I haven't written anything in yearsss. Idk though, I like to yap apparently so they're getting somewhat lengthy.
"Put your hands on me, dove."
"What?" You squeak.
"He's comin' over. Put your hands on me." It's a demand this time. There's something in his tone now that you can't ignore. Something that compells you to shiver and obey. He drops his head, nosing along your neck and collarbone as you slip your hands inside of his unzipped cargo jacket. It's a casually deceptive act from both of you.
And there's something so respectfully intimate in how he breathes you in, lips skimming up to your chin and leaving a trail of sparks behind. A hot puff of his breath tousels your hair and you ball your fists in the back of his shirt. It's only at his chuff of laughter when you realise you've tilted your head for more...
Tagged by the lovely @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @cinder-rellish181 and @defira85 Thank you, babes! 🫶
I've been mostly working on a lil thing for GortashWeek26 in the last few days. It should have been nothing more than a short one-shot but the raccoon man fever took me and this ended up becoming an 8,000+ words thing. Ouch! 😬
Anyway, have these few lines from 'Leap of Faith' as a Friday Wip (I'm always late, sorry!!!)
I am perfectly aware such thoughts carry the foulest scent of blasphemy imaginable, but at this point, I could not care less.
Soon there will be no further need to choose between devotion towards deities and faith in each other. Now I know where my heart and my faith lie, and that place is not a cold Temple nor a hard stone altar.
She's the only deity I want to worship. Her body the only shrine I want to visit to seek blessings and guidance. Her mouth the only possible source of nourishment for my starved soul.
She came to see me earlier than usual tonight. I almost forgot about everything else as soon as the familiar sound of her footsteps once again echoed in the main hall. She entered the room with the confidence of a queen and the burning passion of a thousand suns, discarded her cloak on the floor, put her arms around me and pressed her lips to mine with such intensity that I almost thought she was on the verge of swallowing me alive. Then we surrendered to each other, her skin burning against mine as we celebrated once again the profane ritual of our mutual adoration, the only kind of worship able to make us feel truly real, seen, alive.
Later we shared thoughts and wine as usual, before I succumbed once again to the heady taste of her lips and to the irresistible, devastating but empowering spell that binds us. Our only possible catharsis.
She's lying in my bed now, her skin suffused with languorous radiance, her hieratic face resembling that of a goddess, whose effigy has been carved in warm and soft flesh instead of cold marble. She's waiting for me to come back and once again pledge my undying devotion upon the altar of her body. She's smiling softly now, her fiery hair crowning her face like a curtain of flames, the golden fire of her gaze only temporarily hidden behind eyelids too thin to fully conceal the brightness of her eyes.
Gentle tags for @optimisticgrey @dynamicducks @archduchessgortash @victoria-strangelove @bladesingerlily @arlynx @gortashsrighthand @toomanyfamiliars @ghost-of-a-dream-girl @wasteful-sam and @unovafarm
I was tagged by @lucretiouswept & @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream and uno-reversed by @gortashsrighthand, @carnivaley & @dr4gonwriter.
Thank you all very much! 🫶🥰
I am currently piecing together the connections and writing the last few sections of part 3 of Cheese Partaken At A Late Hour, my Dead Gale / Dead Everyone Dark Mara AU. (The first 2 parts can be read on AO3 via the link.)
The following angsty excerpt is from the first chapter in part 3, so everything is still very raw.
TW: grief, Dark Urge stuff (reacting to cannibalistic and necrophiliac thoughts)
[And the companions all dead in this universe]
Withers was right, Mara thought.
It was like being lost at sea.
But she was not a ship.
She was what was left of one.
Detritus.
She was sunk to the bottom in a pile and strewn across leagues of dark, angry sea all at once.
She was numb.
She felt everything.
It was so much that she thought she couldn't move.
And yet she did.
She continued. On and on, just as the waves did, until the shore annihilated them, annihilated her.
Again, and again, and again.
What moon is this that moves me when he is… GONE?
Gone was such a hateful word to use for the dead.
She knew exactly where he was—where they all were. In a decrepit garden of stone.
Cold. In the ground. Alone.
Shrinking skin, putrefying organs, rotting intestines and twisted bones. The smell… she'd already learned what it did to her, because of the poison in her blood, but to feel that… About them?
Its thoughts sickened her in ways she had no capacity to express. Screaming, weeping, vomiting, none of it was enough. She wanted to tear herself to pieces until she found the source, beat and twist and rip until there was nothing left of it.
Once she had worried where her Urge ended and she began, but the events of the past hours had scorched that line into her very soul. Whatever it was, she would have it gone.
Her mouth did not water when it imagined roasting them into a feast and gorging itself on their meat.
The rift between Mara's physical and emotional selves had widened just enough that no matter what the Urge thought of doing to their bodies, she remained, mercifully, unmoved and bone dry.
She loved them. Even if that love sometimes made her feel like she wanted to take a bite out of them, the thing within did not act out of love. It devoured a creature to own it, and to unmake it. Its loathing of life delighted in transforming vibrance and beauty into the shapeless foulness of shit. It even hated that the leavings fed the cycle of life.
All it wanted was death.
And it had won. It got what it wanted. Everything that had mattered to her was gone now.
Gone.
A single, guttural syllable, as hollow and as resentful as she was.
They were gone, and she continued.
Not because she wanted to. Not to save lives. Not for any of the same reasons the people she loved had.
But because, unlike them, her death determined a fate in which gods were invested.
Some malicious joker had decreed that she could slay them all and still play the hero.
That—of all of them—she was the only one whose death must be earned.
Should they have joined the battle at the towers right away? Yes. Unfortunately, only Varrana had kept her weapon handy. Everyone else had left theirs behind, Mara included. Fortunately, the camp wasn't far from the cemetery.
She could have conjured something weaker, but she didn't relish the annoyance of multiple resurrections. Better to bring her best.
Or the best of what was left.
It wasn't what she needed.
She needed Gale.
She needed Kar'niss and Wyll and Minthara.
She needed Karlach and Halsin and Astarion and Shadowheart and Lae'zel.
She needed Scratch and Bitey.
But they were gone. That awful word again.
She peeled off her ruined clothing, used a cantrip to clean off the grave dirt, donned her lightly armored battle robes and grabbed the satchel of potions, scrolls and explosives.
As she reached for the stone and crystal blade with the tooth-studded cross guard, she hesitated. It wasn't as if she blamed the sentient sword for what the thing inside had made her do with them, but when she had picked them up for a moment before leaving to bury the dead, they flooded her mind with their… compassion.
And she buckled.
She couldn't take it.
Mara could understand most of the language by then. Gale's lessons had triggered paths to the knowledge she'd once possessed—without the context of memory—and she had grown almost fluent in Terran.
It was the ache in their voice. The sorrow rasping against her heart like a fine grit file.
No one should be kind to her. Not after what she'd done.
As she closed her hand around the hilt of her weapon, she requested, “We go to battle. My head must remain clear. I will put my feelings into a box and lock it tight until our enemies lie dead. Can you please… save your sympathy until then?”
Tanna, Muey. Iv zitàrr ay vaárkh fuê aarh!
“Tanna, Da'arr,” she answered vehemently. “We shall slay the vermin.”
Uno-reverse tags for my lovelies, and no pressure tags for: @cinder-rellish181, @defira85, @optimisticgrey, @litsenn, @bladesingerlily, @missfortunetherogue, @echoechowhiskey, @elinorbard, @ele-millennial-weirdo, @ligmaballsz, @afilmnoirdetective, @flamemittens & @woundedsoul12.
Open tag for anyone else who wants to WIP it. WIP it good!
Hello you beautiful, kind fox! I would love to (if you wanna yap) hear more about your pre-series Dean! I know a little bit about it, but maybe you wanna share the pitch/vibes/etc? 🤗🩷
Nawww, hello there, gorgeous! Thank you for your kind ask and for giving me a reason to yap some 😘
So, I'm thinking about posting the Masterlist (edit: it's up!) on Dean's birthday (aka, this Saturday), since I was planning to finish and release it on Valentine's Day. 😄💕
The title so far is "A Stray to Love", and the story is set mainly in 2003, so pre-series, when Dean's arond 24 years old - yes he's got the longer hair like on his fake FBI ID. 😉 The reader, who Dean bumps into, is an artist. It's a Strangers To Lovers story, told through her sketchbook and the memories connected to each sketch / entry, over the course of two intense weeks.
I feel like spoiling you, so here's the moodboard and an extract 😏
A draft licks at your feet and has your exposed thighs shiver and clamp together, right after the window slowly creaks open, then closes with a soft click.
For three days, your attic's window has been a portal to sex.
Well, not quite. Not just sex. It's where adventure comes climbing through.
Three knocks. Every night. No warnings - of course not. Magic comes in the unexpected. And with him? In the form of good laughs, unbelievable stories, and sex.
God, the sex is definitely an adventure.
The fluttering of your sketches stops. Warmth settles again between the familiar smells of your attic. Old wood and books, fresh paint and tea.
Discarded boots hit the floorboards somewhere behind you, before silent steps draw closer, like a predator sneaking up on their prey. He circles around the crooked canvas stand, sidesteps a half-empty coffee mug on a cardboard box labelled "TO BE SORTED", slightly ducks under the wooden beam, beelines past some toppled-over art and comic books on the green, fuzzy rug, and carefully steps over an unfinished painting lying on the floor.
The skin on your back prickles when warm lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck. It's become a familiar welcome, teasing and quickly followed by another kiss further up. You chuckle his name. Roll your shoulder under his chin - it's the side of your hand that hovers, brush poised over the page.
On another note: This entire idea was originally inspired by the girl in Gibli's "Kiki's Delivery Service". Although this plot has nothing in common with hers, a lot of the general vibe reminds me of it. And I kinda hope I'll manage to convey it... 🥹
Thank you again for asking! This was just the motivation I needed 🤗🧡
