Burrito Blanket Batmom - Bruce Wayne/Batfamily x Reader
I kinda love the idea of a “burrito blanket” batmom haha, and since I thought the request from anonymous I received was quite similar, I mixed them up together. Hope you’ll like it, particularly you @dannysanime, as usual, feedbacks are very welcome :) :
It’s early in the morning when your youngest son finds you in the living room, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, eyes wide open and not really looking at anything in particular. You don’t even react as he approaches you.
-Mother ? Hey ? Mom are you alright ?
Finally, you turn your head to look at him, blanket all the way up to your chin and wrapped around your head (and all around your body really, your face the only thing peering out of this burrito you made of yourself), you say in a croaked voice :
Damian is immediately worried. It isn’t often, if not never, that you complain. That you let things get you down. You’re the cheery one of the family. You and Dick often are the ones that see the positive things in everything, so, seeing you there, laying on the couch without even the TV on, and looking as if you were completely done with life…Well, it worries your kid.
You realize that he’s concerned about your well being when he kneels in front of you, and put his palm on your forehead. Oh, sweet boy. If only everyone could see him as you saw him, if only he’d be as nice with everyone as he is with you…No one would ever call him “brat” anymore.
-I’m not sick honey, I’m just…I’m just….erf…
-…You’re just “erf” ?
You shrug your shoulder. Or at least, Damian thinks you shrug your shoulder, he isn’t really sure, seeing as you’re wrapped tightly in that damn comforter.
He’s not sure what’s wrong with you, but he still wants to help.
-Hum…Is there anything I can do for you ? Do you want coffee ? Something to eat ? Or do you want me to go put a movie on or something ? Anything, really ?
You smile weakly at him, and it makes him frown. Your smiles are never weak ! They’re always so bright, warm, beautiful ! They always make him feel better, not matter what. Awkwardly, he brushes a few fingers against your cheek, and your smile widens a little. Here. Better.
-You’re already doing a lot my boy.
“My boy”. He loved when you called him that. It made him feel…It just made him feel loved. And like a part of the family. Your son. But of course he was your son, you never saw him in any other way, even at the difficult beginnings…
He kept on brushing your cheek lightly, putting some strand of hair out of your face. You managed to take an arm out of your blanket, and caressed his hair lovingly, he laid his head next to yours, kneeling on the floor in front of you, and you just shared a sweet mom/son moment…So much that you both fell into a deep and comfortable slumber.
S.Coups - kisses first thing in the morning - kisses you all the time - complains that you both stay in bed just a little longer - refuses to let you go when you tell him you have to go to work - spoils you with gifts all the time - gets rid of the monsters under the kids’ beds - DAD JOKES OF COURSE
Jeonghan - never the first to get up - nags about everything - the kids are probably the ones who tuck him into bed - takes pictures all the time - has photo albums filled with pictures - good night kisses
Joshua - makes you breakfast in bed - walks around carrying the kids, refuses to let them go - makes pancakes with them on saturday mornings - forehead kisses - sings and plays the guitar all the time - surprises you with little gifts every now and then
Jun - always pulls you back into bed when you try to leave - gives you backhugs while you’re washing the dishes - makes the kids say dumb things to you in chinese - convinced them he was the prince of china - always asks for a kiss before doing something - throws himself on top of you after a long day because he missed you - still likes to show off to try to impress you
Hoshi - makes a bigger mess than the kids - pulls pranks with the kids then cries when he gets scolded by you - dances around the house with you - breaks whatever he touches - calls you pet names all the time - always keeps you laughing
Wonwoo - you always fix his bed hair for him in the morning - sings in his morning voice while you’re fixing his hair - reads the kids bedtime stories - always helps carries things for you - kisses on the cheek - whispers he loves you in your ear while hugging you
Woozi - plays instruments for the kids - loves playing sports with them, especially baseball - also very shy when showing affection in front of them - quick pecks on the lips before leaving the house - lots of cuddles
DK - ALWAYS SCREAMING - matching pyjamas - sings lullabies to the kids - water fights while washing the car - screams he loves you from a mile away - makes you kill the spiders
Mingyu - eats all the food - makes your lunch and your kids’ lunches - always carries the kids on his shoulders - the type who says “i can fix it!” but makes it worse - kisses the top of your head and then rests his chin on it while holding you close - BAD JOKES
The8 - plays fight with the kids all the time - loses on purpose and tells them they’re the strongest in the world - cooks for you when you’re feeling lazy - scolds you when you get sick - holds your hand whenever he can - surprise back hugs
Seungkwan - ALWAYS SINGING - ALWAYS CRYING - sings to you in his morning voice - jumps on the bed with the kids to wake you up - steals all the blankets - playful arguing all the time - tells you he loves you every day
Vernon - tells the kids not to say “oh my god” - plays dress up with them - purposely sings off-tune to make you laugh on bad days - harmless pranks on each other like hiding the toothpaste - surprise kisses on the lips - probably raps while he’s sitting on the toilet
Dino - plays your wedding song every now and then - dances to it with you in the living room - teaches the kids michael jackson moves - wakes up early on weekends to watch cartoons with them - bear hugs every day because he wants you to feel loved - always kisses you on the cheek
Red and gold , the banner of the brave house is lazily singing in the wind.
The sun is setting.
The hustling world breathes out a relieved sigh and fireflies light up the darkening land.
Bonfires are cracking in the dull light and embers sparkle in the soft evening air.
Someone is humming the tune of the latest song and low guitar cords mingle into it.
Sitting down you stare into the fire.
Warmth engulfs you and for a moment in time you are immortal.
A penny for a thought?
A thought of adventure.
Aren’t there mountains to climb and seas to cross?
Aren’t there fights to fight and minds to blow?
Right now you could jump off a plane with a parachute strapped onto your back.
Can you feel it?
The feeling of your heart plunging into your stomach?
The sound of the wind that whips against your body?
Right now you could be walking through a thousand year old forest.
Can you hear it?
The cries of a monkey, calling out for his mate?
The ever existing rush of life in the jungle?
Does it not make you feel drowsy?
Knowing that all that is out there?
Knowing that you have the possibility to grasp immortality just by LIVING!
Does it not make you feel afraid?
Knowing that all that is out there?
Knowing that you are going against the world just by living?
Blue and bronze, the colours of the wise house are clothing the sky at dawn.
The world awakes.
The darkness is leaving and makes space for the buzzing day.
The first birds are leaving their nests whilst chirping a greeting to the rising sun.
The sweet east-wind accompanies them and fills the air with promising fragrance.
Walking through the dew you look up into the clear sky. Your skin is still covered in goosebumps from the nightly cold but it wakes you up and clears your mind and
for a moment in time you are immortal.
A penny for a thought?
A thought of philosophy.
Aren’t there minds to fill with knowledge? Aren’t there books to read and worlds to discover?
Aren’t there paintings to finish and poems to recite?
Right now you could use your voice to bring ideas to life!
Can you see it?
A pirate, a knight, a fairy a friend.
You are raising your voice and life streams through the world. In a wirlwind you paint fight and reunions and first kisses and adventures.
You convey emotions and manipulate reality.
Can you feel it?
The power those words hold?
A sentence is enough to end a life. But a word can also let it begin.
Does it not make you feel excited?
Knowing that behind every cover is a new universe to discover?
Knowing that you are creator and destroyer of worlds?
Does it not make you feel scared?
Knowing that you are losing contact to your here and now?
From valley broad
Black and yellow, the banner of the steady house flutters on the wind.
The sun is standing high in the sky, leaving warmth and light in its wake.
The world is here and now. The day came swooping in and grasped your hand to run along. Life is pulsating through the arteries of the earth. The trees are groaning and the weeds are dancing. Bees and bears alike are heading out to follow nature’s call into the wild.
Laying in the grass you look up and shield your eyes from the sun, and for a moment you are immortal.
A penny for a thought?
A thought of perspective.
Aren’t we already sad enough?
Aren’t there little things to enjoy?
The perfect meal, prepared by a friend for a friend?
Watching animals work and realising that they are just as hardworking and down to earth as we are?
Tuning out the world to take care of yourself because you are worth to be looked after, and firstly by yourself?
Can you hear it?
The laughter or you and your friends because you understand the meaning and worth of your friendship?
Can you see it?
How that smile you gave to a stranger made their day because they thought they were hated by or for their own blood?
Does it not make you feel happy?
Knowing that your hardships will be honoured? Knowing that there is more to life than your success?
Does it not make you feel helpless?
Knowing that some people won’t understand the true feeling of joy?
Silver and green, the colours of the proud house adorn the nightly northern sky.
The moon and the stars are carefully watching over the sleeping world.
Silence has drowned out the never ending fuss of the day and finally thoughts are able to wander and sprout and bloom.
Only the wolfs howl in the night, their ancient song of hardship and pride. A tune that is as loud as thunder and trice as beautiful.
Walking through the darkness with only the moon as light you listen to the silent noise of secret life. And for a moment you feel immortal.
A penny for a thought.
A thought of freedom.
Aren’t there already enough heroes in this world?
Aren’t there other people that can be chess figures on a board?
Right now you could be running with wolves and dancing with snakes. You could be swimming against the current and tame the sharks in the water.
Right now you could be proving them wrong and yourself worthy.
Right now you could be reaching for the stars and leave your head in the clouds.
Can you feel it?
When the shackles of oppression fall apart?
When you can finally choose your own way?
The rain on your face, the wind in your hair as you run through the world and pursue your dreams?
Can you see it?
The future that you always wanted?
Painted in the colours of the milkyway, sparkling and bright and never fading.
Does it not make you feel giddy?
Knowing that you can go wherever you want to?
Knowing that you are your own person?
Does it not break your heart?
Knowing that the loneliness can be crushing?
A PENNY FOR A THOUGHT.
THERE ARE ALWAYS PRO AND CONS.
BUT BETTER REGRET DOING SOMETHING THAN REGRET NOT DOING SOMETHING.
THERE IS ALWAYS SOMEONE WHO WON’T APPROVE.
BUT BETTER ASKING FOR FORGIVENESS THAN ASKING FOR PERMISSION.
THE WORLD DOESN’T STOP FOR YOU.
IT WON’T CHANGE FOR YOU.
UNLESS YOU MAKE SURE OF IT WITH YOUR OWN DAMN HANDS.
Summary: When Y/N finds herself wide awake one night, she decides to do some cleaning around the bunker. While listening to Bubblegum Bitch by Marinaand The Diamonds, she doesn’t realize he boyfriend is watching her move to the music.
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Reader
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Warnings: NSFW, fluff, smutty goodness
Word Count: 2,448
Request: Can you do a Dean fic smut or fluff (either is fine) of the song Bubblegum bitch by Marina and the Diamonds? Thanks so much! -Anonymous
Can you do a Dean fic inspired by the song Bubblegum bitch by Marina and the Diamonds. Thanks! - @mdoodles101
A/N: Beka ( @impala-dreamer) has been a trooper and an angel. She edited three stories one after another for me! Thanks again sweetie you’re awesome! I hope y’all enjoy, feedback is always welcomed!
After a long hunt there were a few things you liked to do depending on how bad it was. You could either go straight to bed, have sex with Dean, of go for a run with Sam. Sometimes however, when all these things didn’t help, you were left with a sickening feeling deep within your gut. And that same sick feeling was making it impossible for you to sleep. So instead you laid in the bed staring at the ceiling, Dean’s arm draped over your body as he snored softly. At least one of you was getting a good night’s rest.
After laying there wide awake for three hours you finally decided to use your time wisely. You carefully lifted Dean’s arm and slid out of bed. He groaned, turning over in the other direction and continuing to snore. You grabbed your phone off the nightstand and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door behind you. Once outside you leaned against the wooden surface, sighing deeply; the sooner you got over the hunt, the sooner things would get back to normal.
request:i am so happy you’re writing imagines again and omg i LOVE jughead so much fml. can i request one where the reader is close to everyone and she likes jughead and wants him to ask her out but he never does so she goes out with archie instead?
pairing:reader x jughead jones
a/n:first jughead request omg. I hope this will be alright, and I was also listening to Perfect by Ed Sheeran on constant repeat while writing this because that song just puts me in the most romantic mood. Also Spring Fling is a name of a dance we used to have every year at my school so I just added that in because I couldn’t think of any other name. Enjoy!
Plz elaborate more on Geno and Sid in a Cerberus the runaway puppy AU
(in which Geno is Hades, Sid is a human, and Sid has a daughter who accidentally adopted Cerberus because he keeps running off from the Underworld for peanut butter sandwiches fed to him by Sid’s daughter)
Zhenya is 99% certain that Sidney has some Olympian blood in him, because otherwise Zhenya cannot explain why Sidney has a multitude of stars in his eyes and the sun in his cheeks. They’re slow dancing in Sidney’s living room to the tune of some mortal woman’s song that Sidney is fond of, long after Janey’s bedtime, with Sidney’s arms looped around his neck and his breath so, so close against Zhenya’s skin. Zhenya hasn’t felt warm in a long time, but after Sidney, he can’t bear to imagine a lifetime without this.
Zhenya’s mouthing along Sidney’s neck, peppering it with little nibbles along the way that makes Sidney laugh softly. “You let me have you, Sid?” Zhenya presses, his hand trailing down Sidney’s back to his ass. “Be so good for me–”
“Geno,” Sidney gasps out, then makes a small noise of surprise when Zhenya lifts him up and walks them both towards the couch. Sidney is by no means light, but Zhenya figures that there’s never been a better time to abuse his powers.
Vaisakhi is a Punjabi harvest festival. This day is observed as a thanksgiving day by farmers, whereby they pay their tribute, thanking God for the abundant harvest and praying for future prosperity.
A tradition associated with harvesting is Aawat pauni, which involves people getting together to harvest the wheat; drums are played whilst people work. At the end of the day, people sing doha to the tunes of the drums, and perform different folk dances, including Bhangra, which traditionally is a harvest dance.
According to the Nanakshahi calendar, Vaisakhi represents also the Punjabi New Year (occurring on the first day of the solar month of Vaisakh). Fairs are held in many parts of Punjab, and even in other regions, to mark the new year and the harvesting season.
Vaisakhi is one of the three festivals chosen by Guru Amar Das to be celebrated by Sikhs. The festival bears a great significance for Sikhism, because on the Vaisakhi Day, in 1699, the 10th Guru of the Sikhs, Guru Gobind Singh laid down the foundation of the Khalsa.
To mark the celebrations for Khalsa Sirjana Divas, Sikh devotees generally attend the Gurdwara before dawn with flowers and offerings. Processions through towns are also common. The main celebrations take place at Takht Sri Damdama Sahib, inTalwandi Sabo (where Guru Gobind Singh stayed for nine months and completed the recompilation of the Guru Granth Sahib), as well as in the Gurudwara Anandpur Sahibfrom Rupnagar (the birthplace of the Khalsa), and at the Golden Temple (Harmandir Sahib) in Amritsar.
#27 ~ Alex with fem!reader, I'm so intrigued by this one lmao
Yay!! i’m looking forward to this one, thanks for requesting!! enjoy (: x
#27: “Stop putting sticks in my hair, we’re at your uncle’s wedding.”
Alex’s dad was the one to invite you to the wedding. You smiled and accepted, excited to attend and meet more of Alex’s fambam. You bought a dress that caused Alex to double take [in a good way] and did yourself up for the sunny day ahead. Alex’s hand stayed in yours the entire day, a proud smile on his face when his grandmother came up to you and offered you a giant bear hug.
It was a garden wedding, beautifully done and executed. His uncle and bride looked stunning together with the large rolling hills behind them and plantation around them as they said their vows. A picture perfect wedding.
All of the guests were now chilling out or partying. Food had been served, and it was delicious, and now the DJ was pumping the tunes and everyone was dancing. Even eighty-two year old Iris. Alex took your hand in his again and walked over to the side of the dance floor, taking a seat on the grass. You watched his younger cousins jumping around to the latest hits, making you laugh when they tried to get Alex to join them. He refused, creating some excuse, causing them to run away.
You looked up, leaning back and resting your weight onto your hands. The sun had set and the warm air surrounded you as you watched the stars fill the night sky. It was beautiful, you wished your wedding could be this perfect.
You felt something hit your cheek and snapped your head in the direction of your boyfriend. “What was that?” You asked.
He grinned. “What was what?” He oh so obviously knew.
“You’re so funny, Alex, wow.” You sarcastically spoke, earning a smile from him, before he threw another piece of stick at your face, this time hitting your forehead. “Stop.” You pouted, sitting up properly and trying to grab his hand in order to pull the stick from his hand.
He laughed loudly and moved away from your outstretched hand. “Let me do it.” He whined, throwing another piece into your hair.
“Alex!” You scolded. “Why would I let you do it?!” You squealed a bit as he sprinkled the remaining pieces of stick into your hair. “Stop putting sticks in my hair, we’re at your uncle’s wedding!”
meep moop (1/?) of Husband!Yoongi drabble I literally just typed this up out of nowhere? Gonna tag @an-exotic-writer as proof of my fluffball ways Okay yeah here you go come yell at me about this:
“Hold still darling,” you huff as the silky ebony strands begin to slip out of the french braid you painstakingly carded into your daughter’s hair, “your pretty braids are going to fall apart and mommy is going to have to start over.”
“But it’s so boring to sit here momma.” Min Ah whines, but her little hands clasp together on her lap, her little energetic vibrations settling into occasional huffs of impatience. You hum in acknowledgement of her efforts and continue on with your task, nimble fingers quickly reconstructing the braid around her crown.
About five minutes later her braids are flawless, tied together at the back of her head and flowing down to her peachy pink dress.
“Twirl for momma!” you exclaim and giggle along with your daughter when the tiny layers on her tulle gown is ruffled by the vigorous motion.
Two hands tug your daughter from her play and you beam up at Yoongi from the floor when he picks her up easily, dressed in his crisp suit, gold rimmed specs sitting delicately on his nose.
“You look gorgeous honey bear.” he murmurs, pressing a kiss onto her rosy cheeks.
“Are you two ready to head to the ball?” you prompt, and is answered when Yoongi pulls you from the floor, pulling your body close, close enough to smell his lingering aftershave.
“I can’t go to the dance without giving the first one to my favorite girl can I?” he hums while placing your daughter on love seat. He pulls you ever closer and begins to rock your bodies back and forth, the steady beat of his heart serving as the tune that the two of you sway to.
“Min ah wants to dance too!” your daughter exclaims and your little moment of peace is filled with a sweeter one when Yoongi once again picks her up from her perch. The two of you simultaneously place a kiss on each side of her puffy cheeks and before you can even process it, Yoongi already stole a kiss from your unknowing lips.
Elysion - A story revolving around two paradises (part 2)
Gates opening for the umpteenth time. Revolving paradises. Was the masked man repeating a mere tragedy? The world shall come to an end and be born anew.
The daughter mistook her harvest, the older sister had her younger sister sacrificed, and the woman danced to the tune of the stars. What is the answer brought about by these endless stories?
A different horizon woven through inevitable sin and prayers of lament - everything about it will be revealed. Come, those of you who bear deep wounds in your hearts. Those of you who harbor deep darkness in your hearts.
Summary: It’s Christmas Eve. Dan is late for work. Phil needs to get gifts. It’s the rush hour. Dan and Phil run into each other, and Phil saves Dan’s job at Macy’s from the grumpy old manager. They go over to Starbucks and talk about their ambitions, but Phil feels like something is missing… He forgot to get his mom a gift! Will they find the gift in time?
Dan gets a nasty surprise when he at last comes out to his family just before Christmas. Alone and out in the cold, he makes the trip up to Manchester where he spends Christmas with Phil and his family. It’s a struggle for Dan, being in such a loving family environment when he has just been evicted from his own, but Phil does his best to look after Dan and cheer him up as best he can.
Summary: Phil’s away for Christmas with his family in Florida, and Dan didn’t make any plans to go to his family, which leaves him alone. But of course, Phil wasn’t going to let his boyfriend spend Christmas alone… so he surprises him.
Phil is at a loss for what to give Dan for Christmas. He doesn’t have the money he wishes he did to give Dan the best Christmas gift ever. Dan is a poetry geek, a pastel boy with a passion for being a teen poet. Phil is a punk with no clue how to write, but for Christmas Phil gives it a shot and writes Dan a love poem. In return Dan does the same and in way of a gift, they recite their love poems to each other while having sweet, slow, and romantic sex on Christmas eve.
After Dan’s kicked out of his family home at Christmas, he picks up a hitchhiker on the way to York, and at first he wonders if he’s made a huge mistake. But Phil’s actually kind of perfect, and maybe fate does exist after all.
Summary: The deal is to make bamf!Dan Howell want to date Nerd!Phil. But how can he go through with it when Dan’s eyes are the colour of chocolate and he has a dimple that makes Phil’s knees weak? He decides he can’t go through with it because he’s too afraid of falling in love before Dan ever will. With a Christmassy twist at the end!
The first summer festival of the season was always celebrated with a trace more vigor and revelry than the others. Though the citizens of Asgard relished any opportunity to meet in the feasting halls, share warrior’s tales over copious amounts of mead, ale, and wine, and dance to the skald’s lively tunes, the dawn of summer always made the drink flow faster and the music linger longer.
Right, so mamamarvel in her brilliance requested: What does Sarah do when she realizes Steve and Bucky are closer than friends? And now I have about sixty different ideas, so please expect more alternate reactions, but here’s the one that wouldn’t leave my head.
Notes: This is a bit confusing to understand, I know. But the ‘fair folk’/’good folk’/’good neighbors’ are fairies, and fairies swap healthy human boys (generally) for fairy children that are called changelings. And some mythology has it that the fair folk are fallen angels ( wintergaydar - thought of your amazing story) and don’t have souls so can’t end up in hell. Yes, I did way too much research for a tumblr drabble.
Margaret O’Brien Barnes had the sea’s own green eyes, and hair brighter than spun gold. She swore she’d trade it all for Sarah’s untamed Irish curls, hair like the flaming brush in the Bible, but Sarah didn’t think it was true. Her husband had eyes like cracked leather left out in the sun, and hair that had faded from red to brown as he’d drunk his youth away.
Their three girls – Becky, Alice, and little Nonie – looked just like them, from tip to toes, a mix of red and blond heads, and bright-eyed gazes the color of sea glass or whiskey.
But Jamie. Jamie.
Sarah shook her head, pursed her lips and leaned against the wall. The boys hadn’t heard her come in, wrapped up in blankets and each other, Dean Martin crooning through their small radio. She watched Steve’s blue eyes light up, curled her nails into her palms to keep still when one of Jamie’s long-fingered hands reached out to trace the smile on her son’s face.
Maggie insisted the children have a wooden bedframe. She kept the iron pans away from the table, and told her children never to touch the stove with their bare hands. It wasn’t the lad’s fault, she told Sarah, cradling Nonie in her scant lap.
His father hadn’t wanted to wait for the next ship west. The boy just born, then, the last Barnes to take his first breath of Irish air, and Maggie wanted Father O’Malley to christen her firstborn son. Her son, with a downy layer of golden hair and an infant’s murky blue eyes. But her husband said they’d christen the bairn at Ellis Island and baptize him in New York Harbor, and her old world fears could go hang.
It wasn’t the lad’s fault. But Maggie Barnes had kept her Irish fears swaddled close, and Sarah saw how she flinched when the boy came too near.
Sarah’s Gran had told her all about the fair folk. Had taught her littlest granddaughter to keep a clean house, and to always leave a bit of cream and bread out at night for their good neighbors. When she went walking after dark, Sarah knew to close her ears to the irresistible whistle of a pipe and the promise of a whirling dance.
The fair folk danced until their shoes wore out, played and sang tunes more lovely than a mortal could bear to hear. They had been angels once, her Gran whispered, before the Fall. Then the Lord closed up Heaven and the Devil closed up Hell, and the fair folk were left in the sea and the barrows, the trees and the air. They might repay one good deed with another—they might ensnare a mortal with music, with an angel’s face and the devil’s own charms—but you could never trust a sidhe, a fallen angel without a soul to keep it right.
Even their children were tricksters. Even the changelings, who didn’t know their own true names.
The Barnes’s ship had been delayed. One month went by, then two, and wee James still hadn’t been baptized. A healthy, ruddy-cheeked boy. Maggie had only left him for a second, she swore. Only to go next door for coals to light the fire.
Fairy children were supposed to howl, with their sharp teeth and bottomless hunger, their bony limbs and selkie-dark eyes. They died young, everyone said, or grew up all wrong in the body and in the head.
Jamie was healthier than Stevie had ever been, and canny as Sarah’s Gran. If he was too thin, it was only during winter when he pushed his food onto his sisters’ plates, or served Steve most of their soup in an over-full bowl.
His eyes were the color of the first frost after Samhain. His eyes were too old, Maggie hissed, as if her fair child might hear and bring misery to their home. Too old and too wise, too silent where a mortal boy would be loud, too watchful for a human boy.
His fingers had wrapped around Steve’s jaw, quiet as her son pulled him in for a kiss. Fingers too even, at the tops, ring finger near as long as the other two. It would have been Steve who’d begun this thing between them, she knew. Sarah had watched both boys since they had found each other nearly a dozen years ago, one whose blood ran too hot and the other whose voice sang too sweetly. Fair child or no, Jamie only sang to the rhythms her son chose.
You couldn’t love a changeling, Sarah’s Gran said, wrinkled face grim. Wasn’t nothing there to love—fair folk were wood beneath the skin, hollowed out where their souls had been, always gorging and never full.
Sidhe or no, Jamie’s blood ran red when he scraped his knees. Sarah had been the one to dab away the dirt and drying blood, the one to teach Jamie how to spit on the wound to help the pain. It was Jamie, more patient than Steven would ever be, who took up Sarah’s Ma’s old brush and stood behind her in the evenings, using his strange fingers to work the tangles from her hair.
You shouldn’t love a changeling, Sarah knew, but Jamie had never brought any harm to their household, and he beamed like a child beneath his old eyes. She kept her heart latched shut, but Jamie’s nimble fingers had tugged the gate free as if she had invited the boy in.
Maggie Barnes had done as she ought, shown kindness to the sidhe lad without mistaking him for her own. Sarah, fool that she was, wouldn’t trade Jamie for a hundred mortal boys.
But it was one thing to kiss away a child’s bruises, to sing them to sleep with poor imitations of the enchanting lullabies that they’d heard under the hill. It was another thing to love a sidhe with hands and lips and fire in your blood, to love them so that you’d damn your own soul when they had none to give.
Sarah coughed. Stomped each foot, and waited for the boys to snap apart. Jamie leapt to his feet—too graceful for a boy still growing—and left Steve curled in the blankets by the stove.
“Don’t tell me you’re still scared of Ma,” Steve laughed, loud and red-cheeked like the bairn Maggie had lost. He leaned back until his head rested against Jamie’s thigh, tilting his face up and smiling easily at his fair friend. “Stay for dinner, Buck,” he said, easy around Jamie’s winter eyes the way Maggie could never be. “You can play the harmonica, after, or talk Ma into a dance.”
Jamie danced like a feather in the wind. Weightless. Hollowed wood, where his soul was meant to be. He played the old harmonica he had found like he’d been born with at his lips, music that made Sarah ache for the streets of her home.
“I’ve got to scram,” Jamie replied, running his fey fingers through Stevie’s spun-gold hair. “Promised Alice I’d take her and her friends to a show, buy them all a coke after.” He rolled his eyes and Steve snorted, two half-grown boys acting like they hadn’t been thirteen years old only a few years before.
When he looked at Sarah, ice-hewn eyes like a mirror, he saw everything she didn’t want to say. That was the problem with the fair folk: formed before the first man, fallen and still too knowing by half.
The Devil had given them hearts of stone, her Gran had assured her, but Sarah could see the regret in Jamie’s changeling eyes. She wasn’t certain if the boy was saddened because he would heed her unspoken demand and let Steve’s soul alone, or if he was sorry to hurt her, but not sorry enough to stop her son from running headlong into his own damnation.
“Come back after,” she said, the words tripping unbidden off her tongue. “Bring your damned lute, if you must.” She tugged him down to kiss her cheek, folding his cool hands in her own; Sarah had always run a bit wild, stood too close to the Beltane fire and loved the child from under the hill.
It should not have surprised her, that Steven would be the same.
“You won’t send him away,” her frail, fiery child demanded, as soon as Jamie had swept the door closed. Sarah wondered if he was begging her, or if he already knew that she was too weak to force a changeling child back to his world. “I know you saw, Ma.” Stevie’s chin stuck out, his sky-blue eyes awash with fear he wouldn’t name. “He loves me.” His voice wobbled over the words, and Sarah gripped the old wood of the doorframe and wished it were true.
“He can’t,” she breathed, and Steve looked over at the table, where Jamie had already set out cream and bread for the brownies to eat. “Steven, your soul is—”
“No,” her son interrupted, his eyes watery but his voice firm. “Even if Bucky – I don’t, I don’t care, Ma.” He sniffled, and wrapped the blanket tighter around his folded knees. “I love him. It doesn’t matter if you don’t think he can love me.” He cocked his head, watching her in a quiet way he must have learned from his fairest friend. “You love him, too,” he finally said, an accusation with a faint, knowing smile. “And it doesn’t matter to you.”
Sidhe, her brash, American son wouldn’t say. Pretended not to believe, though he let her and Jamie keep the old ways. But if Steven Grant would never speak of the good neighbors, or watch for the dullahan’s whip, he knew his own heart.
“No,” she admitted, and settled down beside him, pinching his pinked cheeks and feeling the warmth from his human hands. “It doesn’t matter to me.” Her son smiled, and the whole room brightened. Perhaps the fair folk weren’t so stone-hearted after all, if they warmed to her son’s easy grin. “He’ll be back this evening,” she promised, and Stevie flung thin arms around her and squeezed. “And I suppose we’ll three have a dance.”
Fairies repaid good with good, Sarah knew. And even if Jamie couldn’t love him, he would never let her son fall.
Some would call Killian Jones a hopeless
romantic. He’d call himself a fucking glutton for punishment.
Ten years had passed since he’d danced in this very same gym with
Emma Swan, kissed her and taken her home. Ten years since he’d lain with her in
his bed, limbs tangled with her head resting on his chest in post-sex bliss.
Ten years since he’d woken up alone, a single, scribbled sentence on a piece of
paper breaking his heart.
He’d skipped graduation, wholly unable to be in the same room as
Emma, picked a fight with Liam and left town, driving across the country to San
Diego and the Naval Training Center. Throwing himself into his career, letters
and phone calls home had been sporadic, especially after he shipped out with
Special Ops at the age of twenty-four. It had been hard for the military to
track him down when Liam died, the news finally catching up to him at the massive
cave complexes at Zhawar Kili in Afghanistan a week after his brother was
already in the ground.
The job was all Killian had left until a joint op with Army Special
Forces went horribly wrong and leaving him permanently disabled, doctors unable
to save his left hand. He found himself medically retired at the age of
twenty-six, too much loss hardening him.
Yes, now you’ve done it. I PROMISED myself that I wouldn’t do ANY fan fiction UNTIL I had finished my third novel. But damn it, this ship has driven me to drink — in the sense that I gave in and wrote this piece. NC-17 just in case, though it ended up less explicit than I expected.
A possibility of what might have happened if Milady had taken Athos’ gift.
“Crimson and Glass”
Athos held the door open and stifled his irritation as Milady swept past him, elegant despite the warn quality of her dress. She looked around the small room disdainfully. “This is what everything a Musketeer has can buy?” Athos bristled despite himself, but kept his voice steady and cool. “There is still coin left over.” He focused his eyes on the chipped wall, as he dryly noted, “What you chose to do with it is your choice.” Milady looked over her shoulder, her icy expression knowing and bitter. “Ah. How magnanimous of you. And so with this gift you free yourself of the burden of my crimes?” Athos returned her look, but kept his composure, refusing to rise to her bait. She surveyed the small room, the paltry table bearing a glass of warm, sour wine, unfinished by the last tenant. She glanced over the dusty mirror on the wall, and to the tiny, thin sheeted bed in the corner. “I suppose you believe a woman can make her way in the world on a few coins and her own cleverness.” “You could, if you had taken the money and left Paris,” Athos reminded her, irritated at himself for letting some of it show in his voice. “The city is expensive.” “And what life could I have made for myself in the country?” Milady countered, the twist of her mouth hinting at some raw pain. “Finding work as some migrant laborer?Subject to the whims and cruelties of a small man eager to exert what little power he has on those below him? As a maid or washerwoman, prey to any merchant whose house she entered, vulnerable to the fury of his bitter wife?” Milady turned her sharp gaze on Athos, her green eyes flinty and hard. “Or perhaps you agree with D’Artagnan — that I should end my days plying my trade in some dirty brothel? On my knees for coin from any unwashed peasant or lecherous nobleman who cannot gain a woman by his own merit?” Her eyes dared him to look away, and Athos tried valiantly to answer her challenge. But she painted her options too keenly, and despite the anger at her that was always present in him like an aching brand, the thought of her brought low left a sour taste in his mouth. “You have education. Cleverness. And — charms. You can certainly find a way to avoid such outcomes.” “I am known to all the nobles in Paris, now,” Milady reminded him curtly, as she ran a gloved finger down the table and grimaced at the dust. “The king’s shamed and discarded mistress. My only honest option is to become the wife of some mid-level man who finds the idea of bedding a former favorite enticing.” Athos wished fervently that she would cease mentioning how her prospects were entwined with her sexual skills. “You have other talents.” “Yes,” Milady pounced, smiling in a way that left him longing for a stiff drink and a bottle to smash against the wall. “I am sure there are many legitimate jobs for a woman who can kill and spy and plot like a man. Why, how have I not enlisted with the female version of the Musketeers? Surely they would value my services. Tell me, why have I never encountered them before?” Athos clenched his fists. Do not rise, he instructed himself. Find a way to end this. Leave. “You have time yet to make your plans. If you need any assistance that I can give … do not hesitate to ask.” He turned to go, and heard her snort. “Yes. I’m sure you relish the thought of me coming to you, begging for your aid. But unless I am threatened by some enemy I cannot, for some reason, defeat on my own, I believe we can be quite free of each other.” Athos was at the door, thankful for the excuse to leave, when he stopped up short. He wrestled with himself, wishing more than anything to leave this tortured room and the pain that she embodied. But his sense of fairness and justice (he swore it was that, that and nothing else) forced him to turn. “There is something you must know,” he said, echoing the same words he had spoken to make this conversation necessary. “Catherine. My brother’s former betrothed. When I was in Pinon, recently, I encountered her, and … I could not lie. She knows you are alive, and she still bares you a grudge. I warned her that you were the king’s mistress, but she may yet come for you. If you leave Paris now — you avoid any such confrontation.” Athos expected anger. He expected calculation. He even expected disdain, or to watch the cold mask of Milady resettle over her features, showing him the brutal survivor he had come to have wary respect for. He did not expect to watch fear, fury, agony, and rage wash over her face at his news. He did not expect her to stumble back, as if she had taken a physical blow. And he did not expect her next words. “You,” she whispered, as if she were seeing him for the first time, and was horrified at the sight. “You coward.” Athos’ eyes widened. He struck him that of all the things she had accused him of, that word had never left her lips. “*What* did you say?” “Coward,” she repeated, spitting out the word as if it burned her, and had the power to burn him too. “You knew you could not kill me as the king’s mistress, you didn’t have the strength to do it with your own hands. You never did. So you set that mad bitch on me to do the job you are not man enough to carry out yourself.” “I did not set her on you!” Athos hissed, stepping forward. He had tried, tried to keep his temper. But always, always she drew it out of him. “I could not lie to her that you were dead.” “You could!” Milady asserted. “You most certainly could. You were under no obligation to tell her about me. You chose to tell that monster I was alive, hoping that she would come and exact the revenge that you cannot bring on me yourself!” “You killed her betrothed!” Athos seethed at the way she tried to turn it around, to make *him* the villain when *she* was the murderer. “You killed my brother, and ruined her life—” “Her life!” Milady shouted, appalled and infuriated. “*I* ruined *her* life?” She glared at him, and then began to laugh — an awful, jagged sound devoid of any joy, wild and upsetting. It was everything Athos could do not to clamp his hands over his ears. “Oh, yes,” she said, between bouts of the sickening sound, “yes, of course. Of course I did. I came into your lives, and took everything she so desired. Of course she must bear me enmity. Of course it was not enough to ruin my happiness because it was not hers. She must now have my blood as well.” She ceased laughing to turn her lovely eyes on Athos again. He could see a flash of abandon and insanity in them. “Yes, of course. She could not make your fool of a brother dance to her tune, so she finally takes matters in her hands herself! And you will sit back and watch, just as you did then!” “Watch you kill her as you killed my brother?” Athos spat. “Everyone is to blame but you, then? Even now you will impugn his name when you have caused his death!” “*She caused his death*!” Milady spoke the words as if they were rent from her. “She sent him to find the ‘truth’ of my crimes!” Milady grinned, all bared teeth and hatred. “But she could not control him, her betrothed, her intended. She hoped that he would bring the list to you, turn you against me. But your brute of a brother had his own ideas.” Athos turned away, turned his back to the other wall. “I will not listen to this.” “No, of course not,” Milady continued, unsparingly. “You would not listen then, and you will not listen now. You never questioned why he would come to me first, with his evidence, rather than bring it to you. You never thought to wonder at why he would present me with a list whose contents I was already aware of. Never considered that he would do so only to demand something in return for his silence.” He could see her through the mirror on the wall, could see how the rage in her face slipped away just enough to let out the desperate hurt that colored her next words. “Did you love him so much that you would not see what he was?” Athos glanced up at her eyes in the mirror, and saw them harden. “Or did my former life so disgust you that you could not believe I would have any honor to defend?” “You lied to me.” Athos forced the words out, and was almost surprised that the cold voice was his own. “You never told me the truth of who you were. You could have. You could have trusted me. But instead you waited, and then my brother was dead. Why?” “Because I feared what you might do!” “Was I such a cruel husband that you had to fear me?” Athos’ mouth pulled into a grim, humorless facsimile of a smile. “Did you doubt my— did you doubt me so, that you would have lied to me forever? Did you *calculate* that I was such a fool that I would never see it unless it was before my own eyes?” “I only lied to protect what we had!” Milady swore. “You lied to protect yourself,” Athos cut her off brutally. “You lied to protect your position, the position you gained by tricking and beguiling me for a fool. Everything about you was a lie.” Milady was still, her eyes widening in true shock. “Is that what you believe?” she asked in quiet fury. “All this time, is that what has haunted you?” Her voice rose in bitterness, wavering. “All this time, you told yourself everything I did was a lie? That the woman you hanged was not your wife, never your wife— but a calculating whore? That all that time I was but a viper in your bed, lying to you every night, in everything we did?” Milady took a step forward but seemed to stumble slightly, and when Athos was brave enough to turn to look at her, he could see pain and agony tear away the last of her mask. "Is that it, *Olivier*? You saw my past and knew a street slut could never have any true feelings? God DAMN you!” Athos pulled back as she suddenly hurled the glass of wine at him. It shattered on the wall and sprayed its ruby droplets over their faces. "You coward. You true coward. I should never have— I should have given myself to your brother when he demanded it of me, then. Yes! Yes, I will speak it again!” she snapped, even as Athos tried to shake his head against it, to deny her words. “Your precious brother wanted what you had, just as his shrew of a betrothed wanted what I had! So they worked together to undermine us. Catherine saw a way through exposing my past to leave you free to marry her. And Thomas—” Milady finally spoke his name, with all the venom of a spitting snake. “*Thomas* saw a way to have what he saw denied him every day. Once he knew the truth of me, he saw a low woman, a woman who would not dare deny him when confronted with the evidence of who she truly was.” Milady drew her head up, and flung the last words at Athos, the words she knew would drive from him the last of his composure. “But I foolishly allowed myself to believe that my past was behind me. That in the love of a man who made me feel that I was worthy of such a thing that I could behave like a woman of honor and turn him down.” She choked on her final words but valiantly managed to get them out. “But he would not take my answer. I believed you would listen. That you would understand. But you proved no better than he.” Her face worked as she kept her eyes locked on Athos’. “So God damn you. I should never have fought. I should have exchanged one brother for another, for truly you are no better. God damn you to *hell*, Athos.” Her next words caught in her throat, and even her pride, so powerfully forged in pain, could not keep her voice from breaking. “I let myself love you.” Athos had thought she could not spin him any more. He had though this night could not drag him back into the abyss any further than he had ready plunged. But the desperate openness of her face, an openness and honesty he had last seen only that night in the burning house, when despite all he knew she had looked so like his Anne — “This is hell,” he murmured, through leaden lips. “You have already well damned me, Anne.” She hissed at the use of the name, and then took a step back, bumping into the rickety wooden table in alarm as he crossed the room to her. “No,” she denied, as he drew level with her, too close for her to have space within which to spin lies of self defense. “You have drawn us here. And you haven’t even the courtesy of an enemy. You won’t make your hate pure and cast away your—” She pursed her lips and turned away. “You keep looking at me,” she finished, trying to make it a statement of only disgust. A failure. “Is that what you desire?” Athos heard himself ask. He could drink whole taverns worth of liquor, and yet the sensations driving him now were more powerful than all the reddest wines and darkest cognacs in a king’s cellar. God, how he craved it, this loss of control that he chased with drink and could never match, until now. “What do you desire?” Milady turned her head to the side, exposing the pumping veins in her neck and chest, the swelling red line that was rising up to color the porcelain skin of her throat. “You’re drunk. You’re mad,” she accused, she deflected. “You’re a coward, and a fool, and a hypocrite like him—” For once, it was he who moved, as his hands grasped her shoulders and his lips found her mouth. She must have been expecting it too, because she opened for him, and he was lost.
Light came through the windows of his room, throwing into relief Anne lying naked and restful on his bed, and damning him again. It refused to let him lie in the sweet delusion that he had made a mistake, one mistake, one that he could be forgiven for. But no. She lay, bare and beautiful, her hair mussed, all evidence of his continued sin. His coat thrown over her, because she should not have to lie cold in this sparse bed, simply because he had ripped her skirt and torn her bodice to shreds. Her hair was a mess of tangles from how his hands had buried in them, breaking her elaborate braids as he held her down and listened to her moan and beg and promise. If only had he taken her the once, as an extension of their fight, with the scratching and screaming and swearing, hatred motivating them as much as lust. Then, at least, he could cling to the defense of fury blinding him, and the longing of six long years undermining his strength. But when they had finished that first, desperate and wild joining, he looked down at her. And her face was so open, so stunned, so honest and free of artifice that he could not remember the hateful mask of Milady, could not remember that it was not Anne lying in his arms, his wife, his love. And so he had given in again, kissing her warm, willing mouth, and then traveling down her known body, discovering it anew. It had been so long, so long, and yet every dream that had reminded him of her, that had haunted his nights no matter how much he tried to drive them away with wine, had etched itself into the motions of his body. He remembered how to get her to arch, how to draw the whimpers from her, as he descended to her thighs. And he shivered again, remembering the sweetness of her, how she had gasped and threaded her fingers into his hair, and yes Athos, yes, oh God, yes, don’t stop, my love, please, yes. He wondered if anyone below in the street heard her scream through the thin walls, whether anyone stopped and listened to the continued stream of endearments and pleas as he rose up to kiss her lips and take her again, slowly and steadily and praying to God that every word she whispered and gasped in his ears was, for once, true. He turned away in shame when he realized that his desire was rising again, that he was still not sated. He tried to recite a litany of her crimes, her lies, but her scent was too overwhelming, and when he felt her hand on his shoulder he flinched. “And now?” she spoke softly, her voice lazy and warm with just waking. “Are you ashamed of yourself, Athos?” He turned, his hair falling over his eyes, still damp with sweat. “I should … I should go.” Anne ignored him, letting her fingers rise up his face. “And then? Will you drown what we’ve done in wine in some tavern? Will you scorn to see me, and pray that she arrives and stabs me in the back to rid you of ever having to face me again?” “She favors a pistol.” Anne smiled. “Ah. So it will be quick then.” Athos closed his eyes, trying to block her out, desperate to find a way to end the yearning that he could feel threatening to take over once more. “I do not — wish to see you harmed.” “Merely to have it done out of your sight, then?” He opened his eyes with a look of stern annoyance, and Anne giggled, truly giggled. “You have such a variety of expressions with which to show disapproval. I imagine you barely need speak to your brothers-in-arms, simply glare at them and they take your meaning.“ “I don’t believe I’ll ever match your collection of expressions,” Athos responded quickly, and watched the playfulness leave her. “So. We are back to that, then?” she said softly. “Even after what we’ve done here, you will see only a liar and a murderer?” Athos tried to set his jaw. “This cannot happen again.” Anne closed her eyes, and Athos wanted desperately to take the words back. To kiss her again, to abandon the world for this room. But Milady was already opening her eyes, redressed in her armor already. “Yes, of course. Never again.”
can you please rec me some of your favorite stand-alone novels? thanks :D
yeah dude! i don’t read too many standalones because i’m really greedy when it comes to books and am always chasing sequels like “noooo 300 pages wasn’t enough, give me more” but these are a few of my faves:
dark places and sharp objects by gillian flynn
dangerous boys and dangerous girls by abigail haas
on the jellicoe road by melina marchetta
you against me by jenny downham
the secret history by donna tartt (are you guys sick of me rec’ing this yet b honest)
living dead girl by elizabeth scott
forgive me, leonard peacock by matthew quick
vicious by v.e. schwab
the coldest girl in coldtown by holly black
crank by ellen hopkins
unteachable by leah raeder
we all fall down by robert cromier (i read this in high school and it’s so fucked up it’s actually been banned in most schools but it’s a must read, same with tunes for bears to dance to and the chocolate war, actually most of cromier’s books are banned so you should probably just read them all anyway)
deathless by catherynne m valente
in cold blood by truman capote
where you are by j.h. trumble
the dreamers by gilbert adair
some girls are by courtney summers
the hollow dolls by m.t. dahl
middlesex by jeoffrey eugenides
the truth about alice by jennifer mathieu
upside down sad face:
my friend leonard by james frey
a monster calls by patrick ness (imagine mufasa, beth greene, dobby and the dog from i am legend all dying at the same time and that is this book )