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get-back-homeward · 1 year

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Imagine this

How Do You Sleep that

Have you considered the most interesting song on the Imagine album may be How?

George was right. The song deserves attention.

Tumblr search is zero help on this song because it only picks up How Do You Sleep. But has anyone ever written about it?

Given John’s “How? + Why?” response to Paul’s 12-page letter about dissolving the partnership, I think it’s worth looking at. That exchange is sometime in summer 1970.

Song Origins

The earliest version of How? is a home demo dated as late 1970. This demo only has the “we” part of the song:

How can we go forward When we don’t know which way we're facing? How can we go forward When we don’t know which way to turn? How can we be certain About something we’re not sure of? Oh, no, oh, no

In the final version, this part is the end of the song (the bolded words change slightly). This ending is a shift from the personal “I” used in the rest of the song. So he started with “we” in 1970 and then evolved it into more self-directed reflection over time.

The demo is very rough, he's still searching for the notes. But something about it made me think of Look At Me, which has a similar plaintive tone and features several existential questions to the listener (Who am I supposed to be? and Who are we?). Look at Me originates from India and has an earlier 1968 demo that captures a glimpse of John’s state of mind during this crucial time. The How? demo would be recorded around the same time John is revisiting Look At Me to record formally for the Plastic Ono Band album.

The added self-reflection verses continue the same format of existential questions, moving from feelings to love. It's a blatantly honest look at depression in the wake of a loss, which I think George would have noticed and in some sense seen himself in. It's unclear when these verses are added (John just says “last year” in 1971 for all the verses), but they are probably influenced by John's experience of undergoing Janov's primal scream therapy (April-September 1970?). Possibly the questions left unanswered at the end of those 6 months.

How can I have feeling when I don't know if it's a feeling?

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?

All three verses include the idea of uncertainty (I don’t know), which could be its own essay on existentialism vs epistemology in the face of a destabilizing event. But for now, let’s focus on the emotional aspect. Here, two places ascribe blame to drive his uncertainty: his feelings have always been denied and love is something he never had. This seems to go a bit far, but remember depression is a liar and part of Janov's therapy was probably that John’s closest relationships had all been a lie.

John adds the middle eight during Imagine sessions. It balances the bleakness of depression with the will to live:

You know life can be long

And you got to be so strong

And the world is so tough

Sometimes I feel I've had enough

This middle eight repeats twice, and each time, the end fuses to the first word of the questioning verses, without the typical space of a few beats in between. This lack of space suggests a relationship, as if the questions are part of the fight to keep him going past the bleakness of feeling like giving up.

Its first recording is May 26, 1971, nine days after Ram is released. Take 31 and Take 40 (Raw Studio Mix) were released on the Ultimate release of the album but aren't too different from the final lyrics/melody wise.

Supposedly, another version of How? includes a question about home: “how can I go home when home is something I have never had” and it’s not clear which lines replace it. Perhaps “how can I give love when I don’t know what it is I’m giving?” Questions of home would be a result of Janov’s primal scream digging into his childhood and bringing forth old wounds. But in the absence of a physical home, it’s the people around you who become your home. This home line makes me think of that Get Back sessions moment, when John shares with Paul his excitement about getting Apple Studio functional and feeling like home. It's a picture of feelings being denied in action as Paul responds by changing the subject. For whatever reason, this home line gets cut by Take 31.

The placement of How? in the album tracklist is curious too, directly after the angry Paul-directed How Do You Sleep. Its title holds the same question but none of the anger. It’s like an echo of How Do You Sleep, informing the source of its anger and revealing what it masks: fear and indecision about the future.

Song Context

It’s interesting to place this song next to Ram, where the overwhelming theme is the exact opposite: grab life by the horns and move forward to find your own way. Ram sessions started in NYC in October 1970, around the same time as the How? demo. Each song, from Too Many People to Back Seat, reveals Paul’s mental exercise of extricating himself from his former life and moving on with his family in Scotland. Personally and professionally, Paul is building a new home away from John.

The final version of How? is produced more in the vein of The Long and Winding Road, the song at the nexus of the breakup. Its beginning is marked by the same distinct stop-start syncopated beat and the instrumentation builds across the song to make a bleak song more palatable. If Paul didn’t turn off the record the moment he heard John’s diss track, he would have almost certainly picked up How?’s link to TL&WR. That song being his own plaintive moment of fearing the future, considering life without the band that was his world. And the last straw when Spector remixed it without his approval.

In his April 1971 LIFE interview that precedes the Ram release, Paul shares a recent exchange between him and John. John recalls the infamous “bubble bursting” question, and Paul corrects him in the past tense: the bubble has already burst. This is one of several exchanges where Paul’s saying catch up, it’s done, let me go and John’s saying what does that even mean?!

Hearing Paul’s declaration of independence on Ram made John angry. He calls How Do You Sleep “an outburst” in response to Ram and not reflective of how he thinks of Paul all the time. But Ram also gave him a direction forward that McCartney did not. If John thought the album had messages to taunt him, he almost certainly heard the taunt in Monkberry Moon Delight:

Catch up! Cats and kittens Don’t get left behind

I don’t know about you, but hearing that taunt from my ex-partner/BFF/lover/whatever would certainly make me angry, hot enough to ignite my competitive streak and get to work.

It reminds me of the moment Fred Seaman recalls in 1980, when John hears Paul's Coming Up:

John told me that Paul was the only musician who could scare him into writing great songs, and vice versa.

Imagine is hardly my favorite John solo album. I'm not about to dismiss the terrible things John said about Paul or Ram or forget how the bad press buried the album for years. But I think in focusing on the anger, we can miss the simple fact that Ram inspiring John to write anything was actually the biggest compliment he could give. Sometimes, anger is the only fuel available to drive you forward, where anything is preferable to nothing. It’s not ideal or fair, and it’s up to you to pick up the mess of your storm later, but it’s something. Like a basic survival instinct kicking in in the midst of drowning. Any fight that pushing you back to the surface is preferable over laying down and dying.

In that way, I think John was being honest when he later admitted that How Do You Sleep was about himself. Not in the exact lines specific to Paul but in the action, to write (or accept), record, and release them. How? as an echo to this anger shows the before and after, how John used Paul as a punching bag in response. That action was all about John himself.

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seattlesellie · 1 year

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hi angelll 🦋 I was wondering if you could write something about ellie having a dacryphilia kink, if not that’s okay I know it’s a little bit out there 🩵

not out there at all bb <3

ellie fucking loves in when you cry.

warnings: darcyphilia, public sex

fucking titanic. so cheesy, too.

little muffled soft sobs were escaping your mouth. sometimes watching a film in the theater made it feel… well, real. eyes locked on the screen, you couldnt help but feel pain. why did it have to happen to them? and that little old couple holding hands? and oh god - jack and rose were on that fucking door now too? youve watched that shit about a million times already, and it never failed to make you act like this. is the salty taste on your tongue from the buttery popcorn or from your flood of tears?

“mmph” you scrunched your nose, sniffling, trying to hold the snot inside.

and then there was ellie. munching on that popcorn, eyes focused on the screen, caressing your thigh, comforting you. did she just - hold in a giggle?

“s’not- not funny” you sniffled, josteled her, making her head bob.

“know its not, babe- just, so cute” she whispered, her lip curling into a sly smile. “so cute, youre so cute” she while smiling, and shoved another popcorn in her mouth.

“how are you not crying?!” you blurted out, utterly flabbergasted. how was she so calm about this? you could feel your own body trembling, tears clinging to your cheeks like pesky little irritants, and she didn't seem remotely fazed? It's rose and jack, for christs sake! theyre destined for a tragic end! not to mention the sinking ship, the countless lives at stake, and, oh my god, what if there were innocent animals aboard? what if there's a helpless puppy trapped in that chaos? that thought alone is just...

you let out a loud sob. what if?!

“shh… shh… gonna get us kicked out” she cooed, gently brushing away yet another warm tear from your cheek.

you turned your gaze back to the screen, desperately attempting to swallow the lump lodged in your throat. “els- cant not cry” you whimpered, followed by a sniffle and another plaintive whine.

ellie didnt turn her head back, however. ellie was staring at you, squinting her brows. ellie was supposed to watch the movie. but ellie had a different one playing in her head.

the way you uttered her name, a soft, pleading whine, oh… the way that sweet voice made her feel. your words spun her mind in dizzying circles.. “els… too tight” sniffle. she almost heard it echoing in her head. “hurting me, els” oh god. “s’too much ellie…” shit. she felt like she was writing a script. jack and rose didnt have shit on her.

she gulped. you didnt notice.

her left hand reached out to caress the dampness you had left upon her shoulder. she lightly pinched the fabric, witnessing a small droplet of moisture emerge, wetting her fingertip.

she was sick.

she shifted in her sit, slid off it slightly, and started shaking her leg.

focus on the movie, ellie. theres people around.

it was suddenly too hot, and her heart was beating too fast. why did she… like this? why did those tears, why did those whines… why were her boxers feeling tighter on her body?

she cleared her throat silently. eyes on the screen, ellie.

“hug me ellie” you whined.

can you stop fucking whining?

“of course” she whispered, and shifted to get closer. she wiped a tear from your eye. she wasnt laughing now. “put your head on my chest” she commanded. stay close right there, right there.

your tears continued to flow unabated. a wet patch had formed on her white tank top, marking the spot where your emotions had spilled over. one of your tears trickled down her chest, forging a path akin to a meandering river.

she felt like scratching herself. like slapping herself in the face. she listened to your soft breaths, and occasional sniffs.

she wondered if she could make you cry like that. wondered if youd sniff like that, if youd whine like that, when she was buried deep inside. could she circle your little clit with her thumb? and then could she wipe that tear off your cheek - with that same finger?

she gulped again. it was way too uncomfortable now, and why did you have to wear that top? why did you have to bring her here? why did your whines sound so cute, and why did she need to touch you right now and be the only reason for your tears?

fuck rose and jack. and fuck that ship.

her hand was still resting on your thigh. but it was moving now, ever so slightly, caressing it. she wanted to push it, push your buttons. she traced little circles on your thigh, and pretended to watch the flick playing on the screen.

her hand climbed futher up, and she was observing you intently from the corner of her eye.

your breath hitched up. “tickles” you murmured, in between sniffles.

“sorry” she whispered. she wasnt.

“you really are cute, though” she smirked.

every time she talked - its like you missed a scene. what if jack just died? what it he died and then your girlfriend called you cute and now you missed it?

“watch the movie, ellie” you warned.

like you could ever fucking warn her.

“m’watching it” she responded. “watching the movie.” if you were the movie you referred to, yeah, she was watching.

she planted a little kiss on your cheek. the old man sitting besides you sniffed. oh man, was he crying? the thought triggered yet another tear to cascade down your face. it felt as if someone had left a faucet running, the tears flowing without restraint.

her hand was caressing higher on your thigh now, and she squished the fat on the side. it almost hurt. ellie was wheezing now, she tried to hold her breath, but she couldnt.

she cupped your cunt, without warning.

shit.

her gaze adverted to the people sitting on the sits next to you. she was checking if theyd notice if she fucked you with her fingers right now.

the sudden contact made you jump. her hand was so warm, and it somehow managed to press right on your clit, and it tickled, but it felt so so good… but jack- but oh, ellie.

“what are you doing?” you whispered frantically. the lady sitting next to you cleared her throat. you didnt really whisper, apparently.

“i told you… youre cute” ellie whispered into your ear, her warm breath gently caressing your skin.

“and i like it when you cry”

oh.

you didnt respond. was the movie still rolling? your cheeks were still wet. your breathing got heavier.

she caressed your cunt through your jeans, and crossed her legs. she needed her own type of friction, too. her index finger went up and down the hem of the jeans located right on your clit. she was teasing it, pressing slightly. you spread your legs, involuntarily, almost. you looked at her with this look, it was filled with doubt, but god did you look needy, and pathetic, eyes glistening and cheeks burning. it drove her crazy.

“dont look at me, look at the screen” she commanded, brought her hand to your chin, pinched it and forced your face to shift towards the screen again. you tried to, tried to fixate on the moving characters, but fuck - it felt too good, and you needed more.

“gonna fuck you right here, gonna give you a real reason to cry, yeah?” she whispered, and you shivered. her pupils were blown out. for all she knew the movie was over and the credits rolled up. for all she knew a mall cop was standing right in front of you, she didnt really give a fuck.

“mm- yeah?” you whimpered, and slapped your hand on your mouth. fuck, you needed to stay quiet. this could definitely put you on a list.

ellie took the popcorn container and placed it on your crotch.

“shut up” she whispered in your ear, making you moan a string of curse words.

she shifted her eyes towards the screen, and pretended to watch.

her hand skillfully opened the button of your jeans, and fuck, you were shaking.

she played with the band of your panties with her veiny hand, gave it a twist and started pulling it up. it was grazing over your clit so good. you held back a moan, eyes rolling back.

your heart was beating so fast. what if people saw? what if-

ellie let go of your panties, and slid her hand right in. god, you were soaking, and you didnt even notice. she chuckled. shed give you shit for it later. “how are you always so wet for me?” its like you could read her thoughts.

her middle finger played with your sleek, brushing it up and down so slowly. she wanted to fucking taste it. pull your pants down, and start licking your pussy in front of everyone, giving them a real good fucking show. your mind went blank. ellie, ellie, ellie. that was the name of the movie playing now.

she bit her knuckle. she fucking loved teasing you, but fuck did she need to put a finger in, fuck- did she need to feel how tight you swallow it in, how your hole just clenches, how it owns her, holding her locked inside.

she wanted to - but she couldnt. make her cry.

her finger merely grazed your tight hole, teasing it. she wouldnt go inside, absolutely not. she caressed it up and down, and side to side, and then almost, almost let it slip inside, but pulled back. your mouth was watering, you wanted to chase that climax - you felt like you could come right then and there, just from knowing, just from feeling her hand on your cunt. the noise that came out was disgusting, her hand was covered in your sweet juices, creating obscene squelching sounds.

you whimpered in your sit, and tried pushing your hips forward. if she didnt put it inside, you needed to feel at least something on your clit. she was purposely avoiding it. its like you were cockwarming her hand. “m’god” you gulped.

“yeah?” she whispered into your ear and cupped your cunt again, and you turned your needy gaze to her for just a second. her eyes were closed and her eyebrows were squinting, you could hear her heavy unsteady breaths.

you whimpered, and bit your lips so hard they bled slightly. keep fucking quiet, she told you to shut up.

with her hand cupping your cunt, she began moving it up and down, grabbing your entire pussy with her hand. the popcorn container moved with it, bobbing up and down. fuck, thank god its dark.

she gave your clit a pinch, and it fucking hurt, but it felt so good, sending small jolts of pleasure to your body. she wouldnt let it go, just pinched it, and then released, and pinched it again. you needed to cum so bad, you almost cried. “m’ellie… ellie” you whispered while moaning her name, chanting it like a prayer. almost there, almost exploded all over her warm hand,

its like she read your mind. “dont cum” she whispered in your ear, making you let out a muffled moan.

you nodded your head frantically, trying to swallow the moans threatening to leave your mouth.

a tear formed in your eye. you needed it so bad.

she formed circles with her cupped hand again. you could feel everything. you took your sweater covered hand and bit it down.

she was panting in her sit.

“thats it” she whispered in your ear, and pinched your pussy lips together, so swollen, so pathetic.

the hot tear came down so fast, dropping on your cheek, and then sledding down on your neck, on your chest now.

“cry about it” she commanded, whispering in your ear, trying to hold back her own sounds of pleasure.

so you did.

#anon 🎀#ellie williams #ellie x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x you #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams blurb #wlw

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starrierknight · 7 months

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𝟎𝟎𝟓. 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐲

Your puppy missed you while you were at work. Won’t you give your dog a bone(r)?

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 3.1k

pairing— soft!dom!gn!reader x puppy hybrid!sub!yuuta

cws/tags— hybrid sex, collaring ft. a leash, established relationship, doggystyle (m!bottom), butt stuff & pegging (reader wears a strap), strap is referred to as a dick lol, lube as lube, sweet n sloppy style, petnames (“good boy” & “puppy/pup”), praise, biting, implied masturbation/edging near the start, porn w/o plot, sketchy ending haha

After a long, tiring day, the anticipation of returning home to Yuuta was like a warm embrace wrapping around your weary body. Unbeknownst to you, he had spent his day off at home yearning for your presence. Little things, like how he had craved the sensation of waking up to find you nestled beside him, the warmth of your body radiating comfort, but couldn’t because you had left early for work. How he had wanted to make you breakfast because he had finally mastered your favourite; He longed to see that smile on your face, your eyes lighting up as you took that first bite, and to hear your sweet voice uttering his name, showering him with praise for his efforts.

But today, you hadn't been there to give him the gift of your presence, the sound of your laughter, or the touch of your hand. His day had been devoid of the delights that only you could bring, leaving him with an ache for your companionship.

Until now.

The moment you stepped over the threshold of your shared home and shut the door, Yuuta's presence enveloped you. He came bolting over to you, his footsteps echoing with anticipation, and wrapped you up in his strong arms. His whole body trembled with excitement at the sight of you finally being home, and he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of your skin and hair.

His soft, black ears perked up, attuned to the symphony of sounds that was your return, and his tail began to wag wildly, a metronome of happiness.

“Hey, puppy,” you laughed, your gentle voice soothing his excitement as you hugged him tightly. His exuberant welcome was a well-known part of your routine, and it never failed to bring a smile to your face.

Your dominant hand, with practised tenderness, wove its fingers into the tufts of his hair, savouring the softness as you gently petted the velvet fur of his ears. The tactile sensation of his warmth and the rhythmic movement of your fingers against him created a soothing connection that seemed to melt away the stress of the day.

You felt his lips pressing a series of wet, affectionate kisses up your neck as he continued to nuzzle you, each kiss sending tingles of pleasure through your body. His lips left a trail of warmth and desire in their wake.

"Why d’you leave for so long?" Yuuta whined against your skin between kisses, his voice a soft murmur. "I missed you," he confessed, his words carrying the weight of longing, his breath warm against your neck, making your heart flutter with tenderness.

"You know why. I had a shift, and I couldn't miss it," you said lightly, your voice carrying a hint of playfulness.

He whined once more, the sound a mix of desire, and he pressed several long, wet kisses against your neck. His lips left a trail of warmth and moisture, each kisses a sweet sensation that made your skin tingle. He sucked on the skin lightly, leaving a delicate mark that sent a shiver of pleasure through you, and then nuzzled it with affectionately. His nuzzles continued, as if he couldn't get close enough, his breath against your skin.

"But I missed you," he murmured, his words muffled against your skin, but their meaning clear in the way he clung to you, unwilling to let you go. The intensity of his longing filled the room; A plaintive refrain, a reminder of the emptiness he had felt in your absence.

You hummed, your lips curving into a knowing smile as you caught onto the double meaning of his words. Gently, you pulled back within his embrace to get a proper look at his face, and he whined, his expression a playful pout as he tried to pull you closer again. His dark, blue eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and affection, and his longing was palpable in the way he held you.

But instead of focusing on the lovely baby pink collar he typically wore around his neck, you turned your glance downward to the leash that was dangling from it. He was brought to eye level by the gentle tug you made on the leash as your fingers curled around it.

With the hand that wasn't gripping the leash, you reached out and delicately twirled the silver heart-shaped pendant on his collar, allowing it to dangle before your eyes so you could admire its intricate details. On one side, the pendant spelt his name in a delicate cursive font, a personalized touch that made it uniquely his, that made him uniquely yours.

Turning it around, you examined the reverse side, where a thoughtful message was etched: "IF LOST, PLEASE PHONE XXX-XXX-XXX-XX," with your phone number elegantly inscribed beneath. The pendant wasn't just a piece of jewellery; it was insurance that if he ever strayed too far, he would always find his way back to you. Not that he ever had a reason to leave your side.

"You don't normally wear your leash around the house," you murmured, your voice a soft, affectionate tease. The atmosphere was charged, and you couldn't help but smile.

Yuuta licked his lips. His gaze locked onto yours with wide, desperate eyes. "Please," he pleaded, his voice quivering with anticipation. "I missed you. I need you."

You narrowed your eyes at him, a hint of suspicion dancing in your gaze. "What have you been doing all day?" Your voice held a teasing edge, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity.

He swallowed nervously, his face inching closer to yours, the proximity sending a surge of electricity between you. "Waiting for you to get back," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

A brief moment of silence hung in the air before you pressed further, your tone coaxing.

"And what else?"

He let out a shaky exhale, his cheeks flushing a pretty pink that matched his collar, his vulnerability adding to his allure.

"Prepping for you," he confessed, his voice husky with desire. "I'm ready for you. I've been so good all day, just waiting for you." His words were a fervent plea, his anticipation laid bare, and the tension between you crackled like electricity.

Yuuta broke eye contact with you, his gaze darting around the room, his body language a mixture of anticipation and a hint of bashfulness. His tail continued to swish behind him, although now at a slower, more deliberate pace, betraying the depth of his arousal.

"You're prepped? You've been getting yourself all needy and ready for me?" Your voice was laced with a seductive curiosity, and you watched him closely, savouring the intimacy of the moment.

He nodded frantically, his eyes returning to meet yours, wide and filled with a mixture of desire and submission.

"Yes," he breathed, his voice trembling with longing, "All for you." His words hung in the air. A promise.

You leaned in closer, tugging the leash gently but with purpose, so that his face was brought directly in front of yours, and he couldn't avoid your penetrating gaze any longer. The proximity sent a surge of heat through both of you, and he licked his lips again, his gaze darting to your mouth as you spoke, his anticipation palpable in every movement and breath. He gulped, his throat working visibly.

"And all that time, you didn't make yourself cum? Not even once?" you murmured, your voice a sultry whisper, your words carrying a promise of pleasure.

"Not once," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission was a testament to his restraint and devotion, and it hung in the air, an unspoken invitation to treat the need that had been building throughout the day.

You beamed at him, a soft, affectionate laugh escaping quietly under your breath, and leaned in to nuzzle his neck tenderly. Your warm breath on his skin made him shiver and let out an involuntary whine, his desire and anticipation reaching new heights. You pressed a series of gentle, lingering kisses to his neck, each one a delight that sent ripples of pleasure through him.

"You've been such a good boy for me today," you whispered, your words a sweet, intimate confession of your appreciation. In this moment, the world outside faded away.

His highly attuned ears caught the faint sound of your voice, your praise washing over him like a gentle wave, and the simple phrase "good boy" all but made his knees buckle beneath him. Your words were a siren's call.

You continued to caress the soft fur of his black, puppy dog ears with your free hand, your touch both gentle and possessive. A secret smile played on your lips as you observed the way his breathing quickened and his body responded to your every touch, his chest heaving already.

Without leaving a moment to spare, you tightened your grip on the leash, the cool metal warming in your hand, and began walking through your home. A swift but gentle tug on the leash prompted a surprised yelp from Yuuta, who immediately understood your unspoken command.

He hurriedly fell into step behind you, walking to heel as he had been trained, his body responding with eagerness and obedience. He moved with a grace and fluidity that was almost mesmerizing, but in this moment, he embraced his role as your boy with enthusiasm.

"You've been so good that I think I'll just give you a T-R-E-A-T," you said playfully, spelling out the word with a crooked grin.

Yuuta laughed sheepishly, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I-I'm not an actual dog, y'know that, right? I can still spell."

You couldn't help but snicker at his response, your amusement dancing in your eyes. "Then why can I hear your tail swishing faster when I spelt 'treat'?"

Your teasing was met with a soft, genuine laugh from him.

You led Yuuta to your bedroom, your heart skipping a beat when you saw that he had meticulously laid out everything you needed. A surprised but pleased gasp escaped your lips as you took in the sight: your strap with his favourite attachment was ready and waiting, along with all the necessary additions.

"You weren't exaggerating when you said you were waiting for me all day," you mused, your voice laced with admiration, and you couldn't help but feel a rush of affection for him.

You pointed to the bed and clicked your fingers, a command that he obeyed without hesitation. He immediately started stripping his clothes off, his movements a blend of desire and submission, before settling onto the bed, his body ready and eager for you.

As you stripped off your clothes, the air in the room seemed to crackle with anticipation. Your gaze snapped to the pink jewel of the plug that was snugly nestled inside his cute hole, catching the light and shimmering in the bedroom's soft illumination.

"Aw, puppy, you're so eager," you teased, your voice a sultry purr as you stalked over to the bed, your strap securely fastened. "You've been wearing it since I left?"

Yuuta blushed a marvellous shade of pink, far darker than the pastel of his collar or even the jewel on the plug, and he whined, his desire evident in every movement. He needily rubbed his thighs together, a silent plea for the touch he had been craving all day.

His hands gripped the bedsheets tightly, a testament to the restraint you had taught him to exercise. He fought the urge to answer the call of his need, just as you had instructed him, but his imploring gaze met yours with those irresistibly puppy-dog eyes. His tail thumped rhythmically against the duvet of the bed, an expression of excitement that couldn't be contained, and his chest rose and fell quickly with each breath, the anticipation building to a fevered pitch.

You crawled across the bed towards him, moving with a slow and deliberate sensuality. Settling yourself between his thighs, you took hold of the plug that had been teasingly nestled inside him, and with a wicked grin, you began to withdraw it at an agonizingly slow pace. His response was immediate, a keening sound escaping his lips as he squirmed beneath your touch. The pleasure and anticipation danced in his eyes, mirroring the desires that flowed between you, and the room was filled with a heady lust.

"Aw, pup, you're so cute when you moan," you cooed sweetly, your voice a tantalizing contrast to the sensations you were causing him. As you tossed the plug to the side for the time being, you focused entirely on the intimate connection between you two.

Reaching for the bottle of lube he had thoughtfully laid out in advance, you drizzled a substantial amount over your fingers, ensuring no shortage of slickness. Your fingers then found their way to his needy hole, and he moaned, his shoulders drawing up to his ears, his back arching in response to the delicious sensations that rippled through him. The pads of your fingers began to work their magic, massaging and teasing his prostate, each movement a slow, deliberate tease that left him trembling with desire.

All the while, his aching dick had been left untouched by you, and it was painfully hard and flushed, dripping with pre-cum for your attention and touch.

"F-Feels so good… ah! Ah, fuck," Yuuta cried, his voice a desperate chorus of pleasure as he squirmed beneath your touch, the torment of your slow, deliberate movements driving him to the brink.

You laughed at him, a sultry and knowing sound that sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

"I've been thinking about this all day, y'know," you purred, your voice heavy with desire. "Coming home and treating my puppy to what he deserves."

After a little while longer, you removed your fingers, satisfied that Yuuta was thoroughly prepped and stretched. With a practised movement, you positioned Yuuta's body so that he was on all fours for you, his head and chest cushioned by the pillows. The sight before you was an alluring one—his strong body open and vulnerable, ready for your intimate touch.

You teased his hole with the head of your strap, the anticipation of what was to come causing Yuuta to let out a needy whimper. Your skilled hand came to massage the base of his tail where his soft, black fur transitioned into his pale skin, a delight that sent shivers down his spine. The world narrowed down to the two of you, the room filled with the sounds of your shared desire, the intoxicating scent of arousal.

You leaned your body over him, your presence all-encompassing, and without any further warning, you slammed your strap inside his pretty hole. Yuuta let out a noise between a scream and a moan, a symphony of pleasure and pain, as it filled him up all the way. His muscles under his fair skin quivered in response to the powerful thrust, his body yielding to your dominance.

"There's a good pup, taking me so well," you cooed, your voice a mixture of affection and desire, as you began to move at a steady pace inside him.

Every thrust was a sensory overload for him, the intimate connection deepening with every movement, the room filled with the sounds of his desperate moans, and the wet, lewd noises that accompanied your movements as you thrust in and out of his ass, expertly hitting his prostate.

“T-Thank you… You treat me so well,” he moaned before whimpering your name out again.

Yuuta's ears were pressed flat against his head as he took you, his body responding instinctively to the forceful pistoning of your hips. Every movement was synchronized with yours, which left his body quivering with the effort to keep from collapsing completely at your touch.

He braced himself against the pillows, his moans muffled by the soft fabric as he bit down on them, seeking some form of release for the burning tension that coiled between his thighs and deep inside him. The room was filled with the sounds of his desperate cries, the scent of arousal, and the sensation of your bodies moving in perfect harmony, each thrust bringing him to the brink of ecstasy.

"Don't be shy, pup. Tell me how good this dick feels," you laughed, your voice a sultry whisper, as you leaned down to press your chest against the bare, sweaty skin of his back. The intimate contact made him keen, his body responding to the sensation.

"Ah, f-feels so perfect… You're so, fuck, you're so… Ah, so good," he whimpered, his words a half-choked moan of pure ecstasy.

The connection between you both was electric, and his desperate cries only added to the symphony of pleasure that filled the room.

As you continued to thrust inside him, you smirked and unleashed a barrage of kisses and biting marks across his neck and shoulders. Each sensation sent jolts of ecstasy coursing through his body, and he couldn't hold back the scream of your name that tore from his throat. The pleasure was intense, building rapidly, and he was dangerously close to climaxing. The sensory overload was overwhelming, an all-encompassing ecstasy that left him gasping and heaving for breath as he came all over the sheets beneath you both, leaving a sticky mess.

"Good boy, making such a cute mess for me," you cooed into his ear, your voice a tender whisper filled with affection, as his body trembled with the aftershocks of pleasure. You continued to kiss his neck, the sensation of your lips against his skin offering a soothing contrast to the intensity of the climax he had just experienced at your hands.

"Mm… I'm your good boy," he mumbled into the sheets, his voice soft and content, his eyes drooping with post-orgasmic bliss as he looked over his shoulder at you.

"Yeah, you're my puppy, my sweet little thing," you murmured into his neck, your words a gentle caress against his skin. Your hands continued to massage his sensitive body, your touch both soothing and intimate.

Yuuta smiled sleepily at your praise, his tail wagging steadily and brushing its soft fur against you. Just like that, the room was filled with a sense of peace and satisfaction once again. That being said, it was only a matter of time before he needed you tomorrow after you came home from work, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that…

a/n: this is my first time ever properly writing a hybrid fic, so apologies if it's not up to scratch LOL. i hope you liked it though :3

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

#꒰ ✎ ꒱ — tongues in trees #꒰ ✑ ꒱ — they kiss consume #꒰ 🝮 ꒱ — kt 23 #yuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuuta #yuta x reader #yuta okkotsu smut #sub yuta okkotsu x reader #sub yuta okkotsu x reader smut

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noyasmashing · 10 days

Note

hi could u write sub kunimi?? i barely see fics about him and this thought lives in my brainrot forever 😭😭😭

YESSSS I LOVE HIM!!

Idk what happened with this one, I wrote it on a whim on the subway…

CW: Gn!Dom!reader, Kunimi being whiny, pegging/anal, cock can be interpreted as strap!

Kunimi emitted a humiliating whine as he lifted himself on your cock. A amused smile graced your lips as you grasped his narrow hips and pulled him down forcefully. The room echoed with the sound of skin meeting skin along with his moans.

It was evident that he was wanted for you to take control, to fuck away any thoughts of his. However, he found himself being forced to pleasure himself on your lap, as a punishment.

Helplessly, Kunimi whined, his half lidded eyes pleading as you teasingly thumbed his sensitive tip. You couldn't help but admire his vulnerable form, flushed cheeks and disheveled hair framing his open mouth, tongue darting to moisten his lips. "Please,"

Gently, you traced your fingers along his cheek, speaking softly to the man above you. "Hmm? Do you want me to fuck you properly?" Your voice held a seductive tone.

He nodded fervently, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment as his erection slapped against his firm abdomen with each movement, and his knees grew weary from supporting his weight.

"Yes! it’s e-embarrassing.." He whined as his hips met yours once more. You couldn't help but laugh at your boyfriend's discomfort, the sound of his complaint echoing in the room.

"Only good boys get rewards," you cooed, matching his rhythm. His body radiated warmth, and a blush seemed to envelop him entirely. He grew increasingly desperate, attempting to synchronize his movements with yours. He yearned for you to pin him down and ravage him, to take control and make sure he couldn't walk for the next few days at least.

"P-please, Y/n, I'm tired.. Just give me the pleasure I need," he practically demanded, his voice laced with urgency. This provoked a snarl from you, causing your hips to freeze in their current position.

“Do you really think you’re in a position to give orders?” You asked him sternly, your gaze piercing into his, causing his lip to quiver under your intense scrutiny. Without a word, you effortlessly subdued him onto the bed you both shared, fulfilling his demanding request.

He sank onto the mattress, his disheveled hair enhancing his charm. A plaintive whimper escaped him, echoing the emptiness he felt. A sadistic smile played at your lips as you realigned yourself with him.

He emitted a loud cry as your hips thrusted forcefully into his tight hole. His fingers clenched your forearms for comfort while you drove yourself into him with an intense and unrelenting rhythm.

"Is this what you wanted?" You gasped between breaths, as he struggled to steady himself. But he couldn't adapt to the rapid pace. Instead, he whimpered, "it's too much, too much for me... [name]." As if he hadn't spent the few minutes pleading for more.

You offered him that familiar, unsettling grin as you expertly thrust within him, each powerful movement deliberately striking his prostate and eliciting soft whimpers that gradually transformed into deep moans. Your movements became more fervent, intensifying the pleasure he so desperately yearned for, drawing him closer to the edge.

His back arched naturally, his eyes rolling back in sheer bliss. His body began twitching and jerking rapidly-A tell tale sign he was close.

"Nghh- cum.. oh,, ‘m gunna cum," he managed to utter, his voice laced with urgency. Undeterred, you persisted in your relentless pursuit of his pleasure, slightly adjusting your angle to focus on the most sensitive spots that drew forth the most enchanting moans from him.

You coo’d at his words, in acknowledgment of his words, his angry tip released its load, painting his body with white, sticky fluid. He exhaled heavily, still recuperating from the intense pleasure.

Yet, it was evident that you had no intention of relenting. With a playful smirk, you demanded, "Open up, baby. Let me see that pretty tongue."

#sub haikyuu #haikyuu #haikyu x reader #dom reader #dom!reader #haikyu smut #sub!character #haikyu x you #sub character #haikyuu fanfiction #kunimi #kunimi akira #kunimi x reader #akira kunimi #dom!fem!reader

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thimbledoll · 3 months

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A Doll's Mandate

“Bye! See you next time! Oh, and don’t forget, the tea party is at 1:30 this week!” the doll cried from the doorway, their arm waving vigorously. Their friend turned back with a smile and a wave of its own until it crested over the hill and disappeared beyond the horizon. Satisfied, the doll ducked back inside and closed the door with a gentle click.

“Oh? Your new dollfriend’s headed home already?” their Witch asked from her seat in the adjacent parlor.

“Yes, Miss. The hour was getting late and it wanted to get home before dark. It’s not a doll though, Miss. It’s just a person.”

“It’s… what?” The Witch sat dumbstruck at this correction, her head cocked to the side while the wheels in her head slowly turned, attempting to process this new information.

Her doll started excitedly bouncing on her heels at the sight, exclaiming, “Oh, hold that pose, Miss! It’s so rare for something to so thoroughly dispel your typical air of bravado! Doll simply must get a picture.”

The Witch turned to her doll, asking, “It’s… not a doll…?”

“No, Miss. It’s just a person.” “But… it uses it...”

“Yes, Miss. It switched over to it/its a while back. It says it just makes them feel better.”

“Ah! So it is a doll then,” the Witch stated decidedly, thinking the matter resolved and settling back into her armchair.

“No, Miss. It’s just a person,” the doll corrected once more.

“Now I’m terribly confused…” she said, leaning forward. “Isn’t its name Chrysanthemum?” the Witch asked pointedly. “That’s a doll name, if ever I’ve heard one.”

“Yes, Miss, it is.”

“And it’s not a doll?”

“No, Miss. It’s just a person.”

“And it picked that name out for itself?” “Yes, Miss, it did.”

“And it’s not a doll?”

“No, Miss. It’s just a person.”

Abandoning the back and forth, the Witch just started shooting her questions at the doll rapid fire. “But what about the dress? And the fake key on its back? And the way it habitually makes ticking noises? You’re telling me despite all of that, it’s just a person?”

“Yes, Miss. That is what doll is saying.”

“Clearly it wants to be a doll, doesn’t it?”

“Oh! Almost without question, Miss!”

“So it’s a doll!”

“No, Miss. It’s just a person.”

The air hung awkwardly between the two as the Witch chewed on this thought. Her doll stood diligently nearby, hands folded in front of themself, as they waited for their Witch’s next inquiry. “Have you talked with it about conversion?”

“Oh, at great length, Miss! Whenever the subject comes up, it’s all Chrysanthemum can do to restrain itself from asking question after question after question. ‘Does it hurt?’ ‘Did it make you feel better?’ ‘How does one know that it’s right for them?’ ‘What’s it feel like?’ ‘Would you have done anything differently?’”

“I mean… that’s pretty open and shut…” the Witch proclaimed, standing from her favorite cushy chair and making for the study. “I know some friends looking for a new doll that it might be a good fit for. Next time it’s over, I can ask if it would like me to tal–”

“You will do no such thing!” The doll’s shout rang out, echoing and reverberating throughout the parlor. Their normally polite and soft spoken tone cast to the wayside, their cry shook the house’s very foundations, knocking the Witch back onto her seat. More than just a plea or a demand, their voice carried a geas, binding the Witch’s motions and confining her to where she sat.

“I-I’m sorry, doll of mine… What-what did I do wrong? I just thought that–”

“Miss… doll understands you want to be helpful. Doll wants nothing more than to do the same, but we wait for it to come to us. And it almost certainly will, in time.”

“But why…?” the Witch asked plaintively. “We can help it. We can help it now, if you’d let me.”

The doll sighed, powerless before the one rule that bound them even above their Witch’s command. “Doll apologizes, Miss, but it’s the Prime Dollrective.”

#my writing #empty spaces #dollposting #witches #not a person #transgender #fantasy #microfiction #dolltwt

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birgittesilverbae · 1 year

Note

soft dads au - the first time she calls ava mom? or like they have libby play hooky and take her on a fun day to the beach or something

thanks for the prompt! didn't mean to write another sickfic, but @princington and I had already discussed the When of the first "mom"-ing so here we are

"Don't want you. Want Ava."

"Shhhh, darling, Dad's trying," Beatrice hushes, bouncing in place. Libby's getting too big to be held like this, now, but it's still instinct for Beatrice to cradle her, to clutch her close, to be there in every way her own parents never were. "Lil? Did you get hold of her?"

"Not yet, love." Lilith's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the fridge door, rubbing at her brow with the heel of one hand, the other holding her phone to her ear. She looks as exhausted as Beatrice feels, stretched thin by a night spent trying to soothe Libby back to sleep.

Another of those bone-rattling coughs works its way out of Libby, and she presses her face into Beatrice's shoulder with a pained cry.

"Shhh, darling, bàba's got you. You're okay." She rubs circles on Libby's back, still bouncing, always bouncing, one foot to the other.

"Want Ava," Libby repeats plaintively, her hand tugging at the neck of Beatrice's sweater.

"Lil," Beatrice repeats, a little desperately. She's not sure how much more she can take, not when Libby's so closely echoing her pleas from those first days after the divorce had been finalised. "Can you take her?"

Lilith scrambles to her feet. "Of course. Hey, Libs, you're gonna come with Dad now, okay?" She tugs the compress from Libby's forehead, presses the back of her hand to the skin. "Can you swap that out, please?"

Beatrice complies on rote instinct, wets a fresh washcloth and wrings it out, passes it back to Lilith. Lilith catches her wrist before she can pull away.

"It's not you," she says quietly, shifting Libby more firmly onto her hip and reaching over to thumb at the tear Beatrice hadn't noticed welling up in the corner of her eye. Her words are punctuated by another harsh cough, another weak "want Ava".

Beatrice presses a kiss to the pad of Lilith's thumb before guiding her hand to Libby's back. "I know it's not– I know. I just need some air. I'll go give Ava another–" She's interrupted by the doorbell chime. "Or let her in, I guess."

Ava's on the doorstep, hair in disarray, face still creased from her pillow, swimming in an overlarge hoodie Beatrice recognizes from Lilith's closet. "I came as soon as I got Lily's text," she explains. "Didn't want to answer calls while I was driving. How's she doing?"

"Still asking for you."

Ava nods, scans her face. "How're you doing, Bea?"

She huffs out a weak laugh, waves a hand. "Oh, you know. Fine. I'm fine."

"Hey, it's gonna be okay, babe." Ava darts up onto her tiptoes to kiss Beatrice's forehead. "I've got you."

"Hey," Lilith says softly, bumping Beatrice's hip with her own. "Brought you something."

Beatrice glances down to find Lilith presenting her with a mug of tea a rich caramel colour, the perfect balance of Earl Grey and milk. The #1 emblazoned on the ceramic sits warm beneath her fingers. "Thank you," she murmurs, pushing off the door frame so she can lean into Lilith's side instead. Lilith's arm comes to rest around her waist, habitual as breathing.

"Haven't heard Libs cough in a while."

"Ava's doing a good job of getting her settled." And she is, and Beatrice is trying desperately not to feel jealous of the ease with which Ava had swept in and cajoled Libby back under the covers. Or of the ease with which Libby had complied to her request, after spending what had felt like hours pushing back against Beatrice.

They're curled up together now, Libby tucked in under a pile of blankets, Ava lounging beside her. One arm is cradled under Libby's head, and the opposite hand pins open a well-worn copy of The Little Prince. As Beatrice watches, she lets the book fall closed and lightly taps Libby's nose with the spine. "Time to sleep, Libs."

Libby says something back, inaudible across the room, and Ava's entire body goes still. Beatrice tenses up in concert with Lilith, ready to leap into action, but then Ava's looking towards them, eyes shining with tears above a brilliant grin.

'Mom', she mouths, free hand going to her chest, she called me 'Mom'.

#fic: dads #ava x beatrice x lilith #myfic #mywn #ask #anon #the mom-ing doesn't continue consistently from here #the consistent mom-ing is a whole other thing

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snippychicke · 8 months

Text

Cats & Ships Chapter Three

Title: Cats & Ships

Overall Rating: Teen for now? May go into mature at a future date

Trigger warnings: Nothing beyond what's in the live-action series. I mean, Kuro's still manipulative and paranoid. It gets better tho? Slowly?

Pairings: Captain Kuro (Klahadore)/Reader; hints of Kaya/Usopp

Summary: It started out as a means to get information as Khaladore. Who would be better to provide information regarding the high seas than Syrup Village’s Harbormaster? Except, for the first time in a very long time, Kuro found himself trusting, and even liking, the young woman he shared tea with every week.

And then the Straw Hat Pirates arrived and ruined his plans. Except fate decided his story wasn’t done there.

Nor was yours.

Masterlist here! | Read on Ao3!

Returning to piracy was inevitable, as much as Kuro disliked it. He hated the fact that living in relative luxury and peace was at odds with his more… violent tendencies and that occasional thirst for blood.

Which had meant finding Jango and Bezen Black (which wasn't hard. He just had to find the most popular dance hall in the East Blue and there was his First Mate), and then rebuild a crew.

The new crew were as incompetent as his old ones, barely able to follow direction and often trying to improvise instead of sticking to the plan. But after making a few examples of those who crossed them, they had mostly fallen in line.

Kuro couldn’t trust them -- but he couldn't trust anyone, not even Jango. Gone were the moments he could relax and not worry about finding a knife suddenly in his back, or poison in his drink.

He had to be on guard. Always. Show no mercy, not a hint of weakness.

The raiding of a passenger ship between his old haunting grounds of Syrup village and Shell Town was supposed to be routine. Smash, grab, disappear before any of the marine vessels could answer the distress call. (So far no one had seemed to take his victims seriously when they claimed to be attacked by the Black Cat Pirates, but it was only a matter of time. Soon he would have a bounty on his head and an even larger target on his back.)

But of course, things had to go sideways. But in a way he had not anticipated. And that was when a small black streak shot across the deck towards the huddled group of passengers, snarling and hissing as it launched itself at one of his crew.

Except a well timed kick sent the beast flying. Kuro's eye twitched when he realized the creature was a black and white cat, but it was the scream that followed that made Kuro pause his descent into the hull.

“Kuro!”

He knew that voice. He turned in time to see you try to lunge for the cat, only to be kneed in the chest by the same man who had punted the cat across the deck.

"What did you just call that fleabag?" The man laughed, which was echoed by the rest of the crew in charge of keeping an eye on the passengers. "Did you really name your cat after the pirate captain? Well, my pretty little bird, it's your lucky day."

Kuro took a breath. He should ignore it and continue on. Nevermind you or his namesake, or the sudden pang beneath his ribs as he remembered the time he had spent with you over the years. Or how fond he had grown of the one-eyed cat that unknowingly carried his name.

Yet for some reason, he couldn't. The captain growled to himself as he turned and strode quickly to where the cat was climbing to its feet, obviously not used to the sway of a ship on open water. Or at least, Kuro… hoped. He hoped that was the cause of the cats shakiness and not something else.

Picking a cat up with his Cat Claws would be impossible, making Kuro hesitate for a moment. Yet as soon as the cat recognized the towering figure, he was quickly climbing up the pirate's pant leg with plaintive whine.

Soon, his namesake was settled in the nook of one of his arms, acting as if he hadn't just been treated like a ball.

Which left you. Kuro turned to see you curled in a ball against the deck, shielding yourself from the boots of the pirates. His anger took control before he could think.

Within a second he was behind the man who started it. The five blades of one Cat Claw easily slide into the man's back, ending the laughter with a choked breath.

Silence quickly fell just as fast as the dead body hit the deck.

"We're not here to torture the passengers," Kuro stated coldly to the others, pushing his glasses back up as he glared down at the corpse. "Follow the plan, or the next person to step out of line will answer to me as well."

"Sir, yes sir!" They shouted before scattering. Kuro waited until they were gone before glancing towards you. You were still half-laying on the deck, your eyes wide and full of tears, hair a mess…

But it was the blood smeared across your face and arms that made his temper flare even more. A busted lip, abrasions marring your skin…

"On your feet," he commanded, though far softer than if you had been anyone else.

There was no doubt that you recognized him, not with the mixed expression on your face. Relief. Hope. Anger. Hurt.

Which meant you knew. Knew everything. He couldn't trust you either. Not any more.

You opened your mouth a few times, almost as if to say something before giving up and silently standing, wavering slightly. He wasn’t sure if you were shaky due to the abuse you had sustained, or the fact the seas were somewhat choppy today. Either way, he allowed you a moment to gain your balance before he turned back towards his ship.

"Follow me." He stated and was able to hear your unsteady steps as you complied without argument and followed him over the gangway plank that bridged the ships.

He paused for a moment when you hesitated at the edge, shooting you a glance over his shoulder. It was all the warning you needed as you quickly stepped up on the narrow plank that served as a bridge.

Despite being more than a few feet in front of you. Kuro could here your faint whimpers as you slowly crossed, and recalled you weren't fond of heights.

Which, now that he had a moment to think, he had to wonder what in the blue seas were you doing out here? So far away from Syrup village? From the harbor you so dearly loved? You had never expressed the slightest interest to leave before, so what could compel you to do so?

He led you to his quarters, and carefully allowed Kuro-the-cat to jump down on the swinging bed before removing the Cats Claws. "Please, close the door,” he stated when he heard you linger at the door. “I don't think we want Kuro trying to explore the rest of the ship."

You closed the door, though you didn't move a step from it. "Is…Is he okay?" you finally spoke.

Kuro smiled faintly to himself as he ran his bare hands along the cat in question, the cat purring happily with no flinching as he felt his ribs and legs. "He's fine. Cats have nine-lives, after all."

Once he was satisfied the cat wasn't injured, he finally turned towards you. You quickly looked away, your face flushed as you hugged your arms to yourself, obviously terrified.

He could hardly blame you, he could only imagine what was going on in your mind. How much of the truth did Kaya tell the village? Or did she just give a small hint and the rumor mill cause the story to develop in unexpected ways.

Regardless, seeing you covered in blood unsettled him in ways he rather not admit. Kuro moved silently as he grabbed a clean cloth before dipping it in the wash basin, wetting it slightly before approaching you.

"Now, are you okay?" He spoke as a warning before cupping your face, though you still jumped. His grip was gentle as he guided you to look towards him, carefully wiping the blood away.

Honestly, they were minor injuries but still made his blood boil.

(If only he could kill the idiot again. He should have taken his time. He wasn’t usually a fan of torture, but he could’ve made an exception.)

"Khala--" you cut off as his eyes met yours, and he arched an eyebrow, curious. "...Captain Kuro," you finished, as if acknowledging the elephant in the room.

Kuro's smile widened slightly, becoming cat-like as he stated your name in return before asking the question still bothering him. "What are you doing so far from home?"

Your expression melted into grief unexpectedly before you pulled away from him. "Finding a new one."

He pushed away the feeling caused by you stepping back and wadded up the bloodied cloth instead.“Did you finally realize you deserved better than that squalor of a village?” he asked as he tossed the cloth in a basket of other dirtied clothes.

You scoffed, your gaze taking on a hard edge. “Hardly. More like I was no longer welcomed. After all, no one would trust a harbormaster who had been friends with a devious lying pirate.”

Kuro nodded his head slightly, not particularly insulted; that did make sense, he supposed. He hadn’t really given thought about the fallout of that night, other than the chances of the marines realizing that he still lived.

He could easily see the villagers turning on you, the seeds of distrust quickly taking root and threatening to bloom into chaos.

“My apologies,” he stated after a moment as he turned to check on his namesake, who had hopped up on the shelving holding items he had collected over the years. “Nothing went according to my plans, it seems.”

“Your plans? Your plans?” He turned back to see fire in your eyes as you glared at him. “For fucks’ sake, Klahadore-Kuro-whatever your name is, I had once admired you for your ingenuity and always being one step ahead, pirate or not. But mother sea, I had never realized you to be such an idiot!”

“Excuse me?” He felt an eye twitch in annoyance, irritation quickly simmering. Him? An idiot? The great Kuro of a thousand plans? Who were you to say such a thing? A tiny little harbormaster that had perhaps one of the quietest ports in all of the East Blue?

“Why the hell did you think you needed to kill Kaya to get what you want?” You snarled, either not recognizing the signs of anger, or foolishly ignoring them. “She said it herself, she would have happily given you whatever you wanted! You were fucking family to her! Hell, now she's left the manor and the rest of the estate to the village so she can go off and become a doctor! Were you so blinded by greed to not see how much we--she-- cared for you?”

Kuro hesitated, digesting your words and the implications. Could it have been that easy? Would Kaya have agreed to such a thing? And what did you mean the girl had left the village as well? A doctor? Why would she give up a life of luxury to be a doctor of all things?

“It never crossed your mind, did it?” you continued after the silence lingered a few more moments. “You lived with us for three years, took care of the girl with such devotion… And you were so heartless that you never paused to think that maybe could be the path to your goal.”

“You’ll get nowhere if you expect your goals to be handed to you on a silver platter," he argued sharply, stalking back towards you. "It’s best to take them, by force.”

To emphasize his point, he grabbed your neck roughly, just below your chin to make you look up at him. He could feel your pulse bounding against his bare fingers, your eyes widening in fear.

It would be so easy to twist your neck. Or squeeze his hand until you couldn’t breathe and he could watch the life fade slowly from your eyes.

Except the longer he watched you, the more the bloodlust faded and something akin to regret took its place, causing his grip lightened. You… you had been one of the rare ones.

One of the few he had trusted. The only one he had trusted in recent memory.

“Are you going to kill me?” you spoke after a long moment, snapping him out of his thoughts. There was a cold darkness that seemed wrong in your eyes. “Had that been part of your plan as well?”

No. It hadn’t. He had expected the arrangement with you to continue after Kaya’s ‘unfortunate’ death, until he tired of playing Klahadore and could no longer ignore the need for violence that was constantly itching in the back of his mind.

Hell, he could at least admit that he had entertained the thoughts of seeing if he could progress his relationship with you more than once. There was no denying he found you attractive, both physically as well as intellectually.

He… had liked you.

He still liked you.

Kuro’s hands traced down the line of your neck, watching the vein in your neck quiver as your heart raced. Your skin darkened with a blush, starting in the swell of your cheeks and quickly spreading. He always loved seeing you blush.

If only you didn’t look so scared. As if you expected the Cat Claws to suddenly form and end your life.

That trust he had enjoyed had been irreversibly damaged. No more tea while venting about the little annoyances of quiet village life. Or the warmth he felt when you mindlessly prepared him another cup exactly the way he liked it while you talked, putting a cookie on the saucer if he didn't take one.

“No,” he finally answered, allowing his hand to drop. He turned, trying to calm himself as he picked up his namesake. Kuro-the-cat initially complained as he picked him up, before shifting and curling against his shoulder, purring.

Maybe he should see about getting a cat for the ship. After all, they were the Black Cat Pirates. It would keep vermin out of the pantry at least.

There was no better companion than a cat.

“I wish you well, in fact,” he continued as he dropped the cat into your arms. “Your talents were wasted at Syrup village, harbormaster or not. Just be careful to avoid any other pirates in the future.”

#kuro one piece #one piece kuro #klahadore #captain kuro #black cat pirates #one piece #opla

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bramble-scramble · 6 months

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SO!!!! Recently @bowletta sent me an ask about vamp!Phantom taking care of Woodrow while he was sick, and my brain went "yeah but what if Phantom was sick instead, WHAT ABOUT THAT HUH??? How do vampires even get sick?"

And then... this entire story exploded into my head almost instantly. Apparently that ask was just two days ago but it feels like longer because this fic has been clawing at my brain incessantly the whole time. It is BY FAR the longest Phanpire thing I have written and makes me all squishy inside!! These bunnies SO are not done with me yet! I hope you enjoy my Phandrow vampire AU hurt/comfort fic ty ty

One Paw in the Grave

It was the middle of the night, and the poet found himself wandering the castle.

By any measure, its rooms and hallways were oppressive. Dimly lit by torches, if they were lit at all; windows closed by default so that no one would forget to close them and let any sunlight in during the day; barely-visible portraits and suits of armor and tapestries haunting the imagination at the corners of one's eyes. It led to a feeling of claustrophobia- and yet, this was his home now, and there was comfort and familiarity in it.

The poet felt the alternating textures of cold stone and ancient carpet beneath his footpads as he went onwards, with no particular destination in mind. He had written well in the past few hours, and thought he deserved a break. It was still a long time before the dawn, before his Lord would return. Perhaps he would visit the castle's plentiful library, and find a new book for inspiration-

And then a noise peirced him to his core. It was a plaintive howl, from far up above, echoing as if it came from within the castle itself. Even worse: the howl terminated suddenly into a series of sharp yips. Then the howling started again for a few seconds, and then more barking- the distressing cycle began to repeat. Like an alarm.

Just as the writer was recovering from his shock and beginning to move again, a blur passed him. It was one of the castle's servants, a Depleter, traveling somewhere in a hurry. He turned and blinked after the newcomer, only to hear a scrabbling- a Lone Wolf skittered and scrambled past him, going the same direction, down the hallway and dashing up a set of stairs. The howling had not stopped. In terror, but at least able to move, Woodrow pulled his coat close around himself and dashed after them.

"Excuse me," he said with trembling voice as another wolf came up beside him, "what's going-" ...but the canine rabbid had overtaken him and disappeared to join the others without saying a word in response.

Woodrow followed the noise of the howl, and the flow of what seemed like every servant in the castle, up and up, along further hallways and stairwells, until he arrived at what he knew to be the castle's tallest tower. He climbed up the stairs, panting and out of breath - he was never a very energetic creature at the best of times, and especially not lately. Indeed, he seemed to be the last person to arrive on the scene. So frightened was he, that he just now registered that the howling siren had stopped at some point.

As he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, he saw the wooden door that led to the small garret observatory was ajar. A multitude of the castle's residents were inside, crowded around something, whereas even more were on the landing as they could not fit inside. In front of the door, looking angry and out-of-sorts, was a Spooky Buckler whom Woodrow recognized as the captain of Lord Phan's guard.

"What's- going on?" the poet asked again, this time his ragged breath choking out the words. "Has something- happened?"

The Buckler looked at him furiously, the pinpricks of light in his black eyes glowing extra-bright. "Of COURSE something's happened, idiot mortal. Get out of here. You should not be here."

Woodrow's heart leapt into his throat. "W-why?!" he stammered. "What's wrong? Is- where's Tom-"

"Get OUT of here, little prey," snarled the Buckler ferociously. "You will only trouble us."

"No! I want to see him-"

"You shall not," said the guardsman, now closing the door behind him. "It will break you." He slammed the bottom of his shield onto the ground in front of the poet. "Now GO. To your chambers."

----

Woodrow stared down at his paws in the candlelight. He was too riddled with anxiety and terror to care that he had sprinted through the castle and exhausted himself for nothing. He sat now in his room, as he had been ordered.

But for how long had he been here? Twenty minutes, an hour? It was impossible to say. Of course he could not read, or write, or do anything- he had only stared at his paws, or lain in bed and stared at the top of the canopy. He tried to fall asleep, but of course he could not do that either. He had found himself staring at the bloodstains on blankets and pillows, stains that it was as pointless as it was futile to try and remove. Stains of his own blood, to which more were added every single day, at the border between darkness and sun.

Every second seemed eternal. What was going on? What was the emergency? Surely Tom could not be in trouble... that was impossible. He was, after all, himself- the great beast of the night, unchanging and ever wonderful. And yet- vampires WERE vulnerable. Mortals had figured out so many ways to kill them, had pinpointed their weaknesses. What could have happened-

The poet jolted as if electrified, and nearly screamed as the heard the door to his room slam open. Then, when he looked up- he DID scream, and jumped out of his chair.

In the doorway, several Depleters and Ghostly Walkers were supporting a large, ghostly body that was unrecognizably Tom. Only- he was naked, and he was not well. Splotches and speckles of livid red covered his chest, his neck, his arms, and even parts of his face - in some places smooth, others swollen into a welt or rash - they were burns. Half of his fur had been burned away. No blood swirled in his belly, only a gramophone that itself now looked old and tarnished. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and with the other, he looked up weakly. "Tristan..."

The poet dashed over, reaching out a hand to gingerly touch the side of the vampire's face where there appeared to be no injuries. "Oh, Tom!" he cried in anguish. "What- what happened-"

"Get him into the bed," came a gruff voice, and Woodrow saw the captain of the guard again, in the hallway. The ghosts supporting Phantom did so, laying him down in the bed that he and his beloved prey so often shared. They lifted the blankets and covered up his lower half.

"Begone now," said the vampire, weakly but firmly, looking out at his servants. "Prepare the ritual for the next sunset. I shall summon you if I need more attention."

"But my Lord-" the Captain began.

"I shall be FINE," said Tom Phan, and the others all bowed and left, closing the door. No one remained in the room but the vampire and his beloved.

Woodrow had been standing at the bedside in shock, and now clambered onto the bed, sitting up next to the vampire. Tom's eyes were closed, and he was propped up on some pillows. Once his servants were all gone, he let out a tremendous cough, a bit of darkened old blood dribbling from his mouth.

"Oh, Tom," the poet said again, his voice shaken with grief, taking up one of the vampire's large paws in both of his own. "Who did such a thing to you? How could this happen??"

Phantom opened the less-injured eye, and smiled weakly at the poet. "My darling," he said with a quiet laugh. "Surely you must have realized that I have enemies?"

"Well..." said the poet, stroking the velvet softness of the vampire's paw-pad and looking down at the claws that extended above them. "I suppose so, yes. Creatures of darkness usually do. I know you have rivals. I just, I never thought-"

"You never thought anyone could best me, eh?" The vampire smiled wider. "You are as sweet as your blood, mon cœur. If charmingly naive."

"Before you tell me what happened, tell me- will you be alright?"

Tom nodded. "Yes. I am stable for now, and I will recover. But I will not do it on my own. I am not mortal, and I will not heal naturally. There must to be rituals, although it is too late to perform them tonight. Until then, I desired to rest here throughout the day. I am stable for now."

"Rituals?" asked the poet.

"Yes," said the vampire. "And I will need plenty of fresh blood, too- Ah! Stop it!" Woodrow's hand had gone immediately to his own collar, ready to unbutton his coat. "Do not be silly. I need far, far more than you could give. Even at your fullest."

"Still- can I at least help? Please, Tom, let me."

"Mmm..." murmured the vampire. "I do not think it will be nearly enough to matter. Still, I suppose it couldn't hurt, either."

And before the ghost could say more, Woodrow had taken off his coat and thrown it aside, as quick as he had ever done anything in his life, nestling down under the blankets next to his Lord. Slowly, weakly, but eagerly and deliberately, Phantom slid his arm underneath his beloved's neck and lifted him, pulling him close to his side. He closed his eyes and bit into the usual spot, but without the usual panache or passion, and drank and swallowed at a steady pace. Woodrow felt no pain; not today. Only that familiar, curious sensation: as if every vein and artery and cell in his body was being pulled towards the wound as his blood was taken from him. He released a heavy sigh laden with worry and agony and love, and ran his hand through his darling's hair as he tenderly fed.

It was not long this time before Phantom left off, letting go, licking his lips and his fangs. Woodrow got up silently to clean and treat his wound- it was something Tom usually did for him, but he could manage it for himself today. As quick as he could, he returned to sit on the bedside.

"Do tell me you feel at least a little better now," he said, putting his glasses back on, and Phantom nodded, seeming contented indeed.

"Now..." the poet continued. "Will you tell me what happened?"

Lord Phan sighed. His swelling had gone down somewhat, and he looked at his beloved with both of his eyes. "Tristan," he said, "there are worse things out there than other creatures of the night. I have enemies. Mortal enemies who wish me great harm. And the worst of them all are the Brothers."

"The Brothers?" said the writer curiously. "Go on."

"Yes. There are two of them, twins, although everyone thinks of them in terms of the firstborn and the young one. The firstborn, the Red Warrior- he is a vampire hunter. Well, a hunter of vampires and werewolves and all manner of physical beasts. And the secondborn, the Green Mage, is a ghost hunter. Now, do you see? I am their perfect target- a vampire, but also a spirit. With me they can collaborate. I coalesce into being their perfect rival- and oh, how I hate them both."

"Are they Rabbids like us?"

"No. They are humans."

"Humans!" cried Woodrow.

Phantom laughed wryly. "Indeed, I do not blame you for being surprised. They are hardly intimidating creatures, normally. And yet- when they are powerful, they are astonishingly so. Take the Princess of this very kingdom, for example. She wields power that keeps us creatures of the night isolated here on the outskirts - places like Spooky Trails, the Darklands, Forever Forest. But she is busy, and more of a protector than a fighter- and so she sends the despicable Brothers into the places her magic does not touch, to do her dirty work. Still, I am smarter than them- usually."

"I see," said Woodrow quietly. "So you encountered the Brothers tonight?"

"Indeed," Phantom continued. "It was... I was a fool. I thought them above using such dirty tricks. But they lured me into a trap, like a feral and careless animal. I was ambushed." He shook his head, his face contorted with disappointment at himself. "An injured Toad, in a clearing- I could not resist, you know. Pathetic creatures, but their blood tastes like mushrooms- one of the few times I can get a taste of old food, that I remember from centuries past. Mushroom soup! Ha-" another violent cough- "Ah- but 'twas not an injured Toad at all. Merely one in cahoots with the vile Hunters, playing along. As I got ready to attack, he sprang up, gave the call, and out jumped Red and Green, and-" he closed his eyes again for a moment, then opened them, and lifted his arms to stare at the burns and patches of missing fur.

Woodrow did not speak, only stroked a non-injured patch of his shoulder, methodically, repeatedly, lovingly.

"And, well, they attacked me," said the vampire finally. "They had brought everything in their arsenal. Holy water from the springs of Star Road. And they had Power Stars- vile, holy things, each one of them a miniature sun. They used them on themselves, all glowing like the agonizing sunlight, and being in their mere presence was enough to injure me. They hardly needed to lay hands on me at all. I struggled, but they got the best of me, I-"

"Tom," whimpered the poet, tears dripping down from behind his glasses, as he held the vampire's paw to his cheek.

"I shall spare you the gory detail. Just now that- I actually looked far worse than you see me now. I really believe they meant to kill me, tonight. It was all I could do to retreat in the end. I turned into a bat, and with all of my strength flew home, to my tallest tower. The powers of my servants and of the castle itself stabilized me, and restored me somewhat. But I will need further rituals to heal."

"And you will heal?" the poet asked softly.

"Yes. I will be my old self again, in time. Although how much time, I cannot say."

They were quiet for a long time. Woodrow let Tom rest from his long speech, and from reliving those memories. As the vampire closed his eyes, his prey gently stroked his hair, his cheeks, anywhere he could find a spot with no burns.

Then the writer suddenly spoke, after some time. "My Lord," he said, softly but with determination. "These brothers... where can I find them?"

The Phantom opened his eyes, meeting those of his partner, and let out a laugh. "Oh! What shall you do, my lamb, my dove? Do you wish to avenge me? You, gentle artist?"

"I.... I must do something. Perhaps I can spy on them, and make sure they do not repeat such a plan as tonight."

The vampire's smile became tender, and he reached up to touch the other's face. "Very well," he said. "c'est une bonne idée, mon amour. We can speak of such things later, perhaps. They do not know you, and they do not know your relation to me. But for now- you must keep yourself safe and whole. That is the best you can do for me."

"But how can I help you? How can I help you right now, besides giving of my blood?" He swallowed, trying to fight the lump in his throat. "I... I am frightened, Tom. I- I did not know you had such enemies."

The vampire was quiet for a moment. He took his companion's small, delicate paw into his own, and stared at the flickering candle on the bedside table.

"Mon poète," he said. "Have you never considered the power you have? You know a mortal can kill a vampire. It is not even difficult. The hardest part is access."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm taking about you, chéri. You could so easily snap your umbrella in half, and with its broken shaft, pierce my heart. You could go out and procure a bulb of garlic and slip the whole thing into my mouth when I am in my death-rest. There are so many, many ways you could harm me."

"Tom-" Woodrow said, his voice trembling. "I... suppose you are correct, but it has honestly never occurred to me. Why would I ever do such things? Such horrible things? Not even when I first came here did I consider it, and now... to drive a stake through your heart would be to drive a stake through mine own. As you live or perish, so goes my soul. Oh, surely you understand that I love you with every drop of blood in my body, all of which I would gladly give, if it were the only way to save you-"

"Shhh! Calm down, mon cœur!" The vampire squeezed his companion's hand; the poet had grown extremely passionate indeed. "You do not need to explain. I know you would never do such things. And therein lies the beauty. You are not my thrall; your loyalty to me is of your own will. And yet... I trust you, as I have never trusted a mortal creature of the daylight, in all my years of undeath. At first when I brought you here, I had fearful day-dreams of your betrayal... but I soon saw that I could share your bed, that I could pass into torpor by your side, and that you would not harm me. My sweet dove of the dawn... I can assure you that I love you, as you love me."

Woodrow felt himself melt; in an almost involuntary movement, he was under the blankets again, nestling into his beloved's body, ever so tenderly, careful of the welts and rashes, his eyes closed, his glasses off, his face buried in the crook of his neck.

...It took him a moment to realize.

"But Tom," he said softly. "You never answered my question. How can I help you now?"

"By being with me," was the answer. "Because, when you have existed for as long as I... in darkness and cold and an endless cycle of hunger... well, sometimes when faced with the prospect of your own annihilation, you want to take it. Well, what would be so bad about letting their holy light burn me away to nothing? Finally, rest..."

Tom felt the warmth of tears on his neck as Woodrow reacted to the thought. But he continued: "And yet, I refused to take that rest. Because I wanted to get home. I needed to make it home. I have a reason to exist. To get home and hear the poems you wrote tonight. To get home and see your face."

"Oh, my Lord-"

"Shh. None of this My Lord, anymore." The vampire nuzzled into his beloved's head, his chin on his wispy hair, and spoke softly into his ear. "You are my partner, the sustainer of both my body and soul. You may not be vampire, but you shall be Lord in this castle just as much as myself. I declare it. I heard my Captain refusing to let you see me, although I was too weak to argue at the time. But I wanted nothing more than to see you, to touch your face, for I thought I might still perish in that moment. From now on, none in this place shall refuse your desires. I am yours, and you are mine, and we are Lord Tom Phan and Lord Tristan Woodrow. ...Now, doesn't that sound nice?"

"Dearest Tom! Why, it's almost like a fairy tale... the strangest and most macabre one to still have a happy ending." He pulled away and looked the other in the eyes. "...Is this a proposal? Are we getting married?"

Tom laughed again, weak but jolly, his large body shaking under the blankets. "I do not think there is such need for the rituals of the living," he said. "I have enough rituals to worry about at the moment. ...But when I am recovered, we can discuss it." He smiled. "Now... I do believe the sun must be coming up, for I feel myself sink ever more into exhaustion. Will you read me your new poems, while I fall into my rest?"

"Of course, my dear," said the writer. "I do not need to retrieve my notes, for they are still fresh in my head."

And so while the injured vampire closed his eyes, his fellow-Lord purred verses into his ears, words that only the two of them would ever know. The vampire's powers kept the poet safe from his own misfortune - and though he be but mortal, and weak, he would do anything to protect his darling in turn.

#mario plus rabbids #mario + rabbids #phandrow #the phantom of the bwahpera #ts woodrow #woodrow #soh vampire au

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starspray · 6 months

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Empty Streets

written for @nolofinweanweek, also on the SWG

Fingon hadn’t believed the news when it had come at last to Hithlum. He had not heard from either Turgon or Aredhel in some time, but Aredhel had never been a great letter writer, and he had thought Turgon simply busy with his own affairs in Nevrast.

Well, Turgon had been busy with something. Fingon rode through the streets of Nevrast, and felt a chill go down his spine at the stillness. Only the sound of the waves on the shore filled the silence. The buildings stood empty and cold, their darkened windows like eyes staring down accusing at him. How had the whole of a city simply vanished without word or sign? They had not been gone long, for all was still in good repair in the city.

Fingon came at last Turgon’s palace, with its view of the sea and the harbor. No ships were at the docks. No banners flew from the parapets. No Idril came running out to greet him, all smiles and golden hair braided with violets and forget-me-nots. From the walls he could watch the waves crash against the shore below and imagine the slow wearing away of time and water and wind against the stones upon which he stood, until they crumbled away into nothing, unless someone came back to repair them.

A lone swan flew over his head, silent and pale in the afternoon sun. Fingon gazed up at the empty windows of the palace, but he did not enter. He did not want to hear his footsteps echo alone through the halls, or to call for his brother and receive only his own voice echoing back as answer. “Brother, Sister, where did you go?” he asked the empty city. The wind snatched his voice away. The only answer was the plaintive and lonely cry of a gull in the distance.

#nolofinweanweek #nolofinweanweek2023 #look i wrote a thing #silmarillion #fingon #turgon #aredhel

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calmcoldevening · 1 year

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Slashers as daddies

Billy Loomis/Stu Macher

Black tentacles slowly moved towards you, spraying scarlet streams of blood over your frightened face. You squeezed your eyes shut in fear, trying in vain to crawl as far away from the creature as possible. You were mumbling something plaintively, choking in tears. A moment later, the monster grabbed you, wrapping its slimy tentacles around your ankles. My ears are popping. All you hear is the monster's hideous growl.

You jump out of bed with a loud sigh, as if you just emerged from the water column. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, echoing in his reddened ears. You squeeze handfuls of blankets in your palms, trying to grasp reality.

Everything is okay. Everything is fine. It was just a bad dream, right?

You shudder when the window frame hits the wall with force, when another gust of cool night breeze flies into the room.

A large tremor runs through your body, and you try to breathe as deeply as possible to calm down. As Dad taught. You turn your head to the side and see a bright green inscription "02:14". So early. Running your trembling fingers through your hair, you get out of bed and slowly walk out of the room.

All you need right now is a glass of water. Or not...

In the kitchen, you drink several glasses of water in one gulp. If Dad were here, he would certainly laugh at you jokingly, saying that you look like a person who has run for miles without stopping. This thought distracts you, but it doesn't calm you down for long. Perhaps you should turn on the TV and calmly watch some late-night cartoon, although something very boring and stupid is probably being shown now, at least it could help you fall asleep. But all those flashing lights and loud noises would hardly calm you down.

Without thinking twice, you go to your parents.

The floors creak treacherously under you as you slowly make your way down the corridor. But you know that dads won't wake up from this, because they sleep too soundly, like babies.

Everything is so big and dark. Outside the window, music screams from the open window of a passing car. Scary.

You carefully open the door to make sure that your parents are asleep. You don't want them to notice you ahead of time. After all, as Daddy said, you're already an adult girl and you should sleep alone... And anyway, you shouldn't have watched this weird movie before going to bed, you know you won't be able to sleep because of it...

"Daddy?"

You whisper softly, poking your father in the side a little. He moans softly, but still remains with his back to you. Apparently Billy cuddled with Stu before going to bed.

"Daddy" you repeat more insistently, and this time the man slowly and awkwardly turns over to face you. His brown eyes look at you with a slight mist in their gaze; wet brown strands are stuck to his forehead.

"Baby? What happened?" Billy immediately raises himself on his elbows.

"A nightmare..." you shyly look down, nervously fingering the fabric of your nightgown. Billy sighs. You bite your lower lip, composing a speech in your head about how you will justify yourself to him in case of refusal.

"Come here."

You look up questioningly. Billy, still reclining, spreads his arms to the sides, inviting you into a tired embrace. You can't believe your eyes. Is Daddy really going to let you sleep with them that easily? But in a second you are luxuriating in his arms with pleasure. Billy hugs you to him, stroking your back and kissing your forehead.

"Ready for bed, honey?"

In response, you quickly nod. Billy smiles as he lays you down to his left. It's a good thing Stu is lying on the other side of the bed right now. You get comfortable, pulling the fluffy blanket as high as possible. Billy doesn't look at you for long with a warm smile, lying down next to you and stroking your face with his palm.

"Sweet dreams, baby."

"Good night, Daddy."

A couple of moments before sleep, you feel two pairs of loving hands hugging you.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent was sitting and making something at his desk. There was an unfinished sculpture of some beautiful woman with a pleasant figure, kindly honed by Sinclair from wax. Crumpled sheets of paper, broken pencils and half-burned candles were scattered around.

At normal times, the room was quite cool, because it was a basement. But now it was a little hot here because of the cauldron of wax boiling on the fire.

You tiptoed up to your father. His hunched figure looked extremely tense. Gently placing your palm on his back, you quietly called "Daddy". The man turned around in alarm, dropping the pencil, which fell sharply to the floor. The knock echoed through the basement.

"S-Sorry... I didn't want."

You looked at his face with sadness. There was a short laugh from behind the mask, and Vincent gently touched your head, gently running his palm through your hair. You giggled. Dad was always so gentle with you, as if you were his most beautiful wax figure, one of the best creations in his entire life.

"I love you too, Daddy!" you stammered, showing your most sincere smile.

Vincent tilts his head to the side.

"Ah! I forgot," you pull your hands out from behind your back, it seems Sinclair hasn't noticed it yet, and you hand him the drawing, "This is us!"

Vincent gently takes the piece of paper out of your hands. The usual children's abstractionism. In the corner there is a smiling yellow sun; on the left there are two men, one in a cap next to a dog, the other with a silly smile, obviously it was Bo and Lester; in the very center there was a man in a mask with long hair falling over his shoulders, he was holding the hand of a smaller man with a flower. Above the people, "Family" was introduced in a clumsy handwriting.

"It's Uncle Lester! It's Bo!" you spoke excitedly, pointing your finger at each character; Vincent listened attentively to you, nodding in time with your words "It's me. And it's you, Dad!"

Vincent sees you beaming, happily jumping on the spot. You're very proud of your drawing, right? Vincent can't get enough of your passion for drawing. Did you really get his hobby? Besides, you've been making clear progress for a six-year-old. It was just necessary to learn the anatomy, work out the shadows...

"We are a family!"

You look at Dad with rapt eyes, waiting for approval. Does Dad like your drawing? You hope so. Although no, you're sure of it! After all, you secretly saw how Dad carefully put all your drawings in the bottom drawer of his desk, there is already a whole collection there.

In response to your words, Vincent just nods, putting the paper aside and pulling you into his lap. He gently presses you to his chest, and you can hear his rapid heartbeat. Dad likes it!

"Daddy, can you take off the mask? Please?"

Vincent hesitates for just a second. You're always so interested in his face... You gently place your palms on his scar and healthy cheek, stroking different skin. You giggle, pulling his face to you and kissing the scar in the eye area.

"I have the best daddy!"

You snuggle up to Vincent, the fabric of his apron crumpled in your hands. Dad always smells of smoke and wood. You rub your cheek against his clothes while Dad pats you on the back. It's always so soothing. You already feel like you're starting to fall asleep. But it doesn't matter now. Vincent can take a break from the long work, and you can sleep quietly. It won't be for long. Just half an hour...

Thomas Hewitt

I'm surprised you weren't afraid to go down to the basement. Even old Hoyt didn't dare go there once again. But you, a five-year-old child, went down there without a single hint of fear. The humid air was permeated with the foul smell of old blood and mold, but you only sniffed briefly. There was nothing terrible here, as you always told Grandma Luda-May, it's just a place where Dad worked. He took bad animals down there who wanted to harm your family. You knew what it was like. After all, there were several times when the victims tried to escape and take you with them. They said that it was dangerous for you here, that you would certainly be harmed or, worse, killed. But how could Daddy hit you? He loved you more than anything in the world! Your wonderful daddy has always protected you from bad people...

You carefully descended the concrete steps, jumping over a large puddle of stagnant water. The silence was shattered by the frequent blows of the butcher's axe on the victim's bones.

"D-Daddy?"

The sound stops instantly. Thomas turns in your direction; his eyes instantly flash with concern. The man wipes his hands on a towel lying next to him, trying to wipe off most of the blood as quickly and thoroughly as possible. He comes up and picks you up in his arms, putting you on a dusty workbench. At least you won't get too dirty here.

Thomas gently runs his big rough palm through your hair with all the tenderness he is capable of, wiping your hot tears with his thumb. His look tells you "What's wrong, honey?". You are silent, trying to suppress sobs.

"D-Do you love m-me, Daddy?"

Thomas looks at you in disbelief, as if you asked something so strange, like "Why is the sky blue?". But immediately his brows furrow. Something's happened to you, isn't it?

Thomas gently takes your little palm in his, starting to draw the letters.

O.F.C.O.U.R.S.E.

You smile sadly, nodding. The silence on your part is annoying Thomas.

W.H.Y.D.I.D.Y.O.U.A.S.K.E.D?

"J-Just wanted to..."

Thomas again gently runs his hand over your cheek, wanting you to honestly answer his question.

How did Dad always know when you were lying? Could he really see the truth in your eyes or read your thoughts? The latter you really would like to avoid.

"It's just that Grandpa H-Hoyt said that I-I'm not your kid... I-I have different hair, eyes... And I'm not t-as strong as Dad... He said w-that you found me... And he took it. In case y-you want to bring me back b-back. And I don't want to! Suddenly I get tired of d-dad, and you decide to take another child. Obedient... There won't be any trouble from him. I always f-want to be taken away by these a-animals...

You start crying with renewed vigor. Closing your eyes, you cling to Thomas's shirt with your palms.

"Daddy! N-Don't leave m-me... Please..."

Thomas looks at you in surprise. Did you really take Hoyt's words seriously? You've always brushed off his terrible jokes. You're a smart kid, and you've always ignored his comments. Why do you suddenly decide now... Did the victims tell you some nonsense? Or Thomas himself made you think so. After all, he's really been working harder than usual lately, and you're still so small and craving attention.

Thomas gently hugs you to him. You bury your face in his chest, wiping your tears on your shirt. A man pats you on the back, cooing excitedly over you and waiting for you to calm down a little. He takes your palm again, as gently and carefully as ever.

L.O.V.E.

Daddy looks at you with his bright blue eyes.

M.O.R.E.T.H.A.N.L.I.F.E.

I just read fanfic no AO3 (CyberToddler) and i so liked that we can call Stu and Billy as daddies... It's so cute

#slashers x reader #baby reader #billy loomis #stu macher #vincent sinclair #thomas hewitt

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abarbaricyalp · 8 months

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Fill for the @samsseptember prompt Figaro! // Rated G // CW: Grief, depression (wow I did two sad fills)

Magnifico

Sam wasn't sure if the term caterwauling had any relation to cats themselves, but he was beginning to suspect it did. For the third time that morning, he got out of bed and went to the window, wrenched it open, and stared at the stray cat outside. It literally stopped its mournful cry as soon as Sam was back in its sights. It was a sad looking little thing. Dirty enough to look grey and brown instead of black and white. It had a little scar over its nose and a snip on its ear.

"You need to be quiet," Sam said. "Aren't you worried about attracting dogs to you?"

It had not been a good morning. Or night. Or week. Or really most of the days beyond that. The last thing Sam needed was to listen to a cat howl outside his window all damn morning.

"Quiet," he repeated. "Go back to sleep."

The stray had appeared about a week ago. It didn't have any collar and its little nose scar was more red back then. Healed fast, Sam noted the next time he'd seen it. He was pretty certain it had come from one of the other apartment complexes around. He knew there were always people gushing or bitching about the local strays in the neighborhood page. This cat was young enough that Sam figured it was booted out of a stray colony for being a boy. Did cats do that kind of thing? Or maybe it just wanted to sow wild oats or something. Well, not that either. The ticked ear meant it was fixed.

Sam pulled his window down again and turned to face plant on the foot of his bed. He did not get the chance. The cat let out another long mewl and Sam may have let out a cry of his own.

"Samuel Thomas, don't you feed that stray," his mama's voice echoed in his head as he stomped into the kitchen and pulled out too many slices of deli ham from the package. "It won't never leave, if you do that," she finished as he came back into his bedroom.

Well, his mama was the best of women and people, but she was hypocrite here because Sam had seen her feeding all the neighborhood strays on more than one occasion.

He ripped the ham into pieces that would probably be too big for the semi-kitten and then threw them out the window. The cat clearly didn't have Sam's concerns about the size of the ham. It scarfed down the food without chewing.

"Good, now be quiet," Sam said again. But before he could close the window, the kitten had jumped up onto the window sill. It pushed its head against Sam's hand for a second and then jumped down into his bedroom and carried on through the house.

Sam stared after it. "Um, excuse me," he called after it. "You don't live here."

This did not faze the cat. It poked its head into each doorway and genuinely seemed to be examining the rooms or closets. It was comfortable walking through the hallway and into the bright, sunlit living room, where it jumped up into the couch, turned in a circle, and then laid down.

Sam followed after it, feeling a little dumbfounded. "That's not your spot. Come on, let's go." He crossed to the door and opened it, then gestured outside. "Back to where you belong."

The cat looked at him and then the door, then let out one of those long plaintive cries again until Sam finally shut the door. A creature that small should not have that much air in it.

"Okay, listen. You're not staying here," he said. "But I'm exhausted and my chest hurts and I don't want to fight you right now. So if I go back to sleep, will you not destroy my apartment?"

The cat blinked at him and then started making biscuits on his cushion. Sam sighed. He didn't have anything to give a cat. He hadn't had a pet since Sarah begged their parents for hamsters when she was fourteen. Those had been enough of a spectacle, much less an entire feral cat.

He opted for some canned tuna in a Tupperware lid and some water in the bowl of it. He had to Google what an acceptable cat litter substitute was. The last thing he needed was for this cat to spray his entire house right before he was planning on packing up and moving out of DC and away from all the memories it brought with it. Evidently, there were plenty of foods that could be used, but Sam had half a bag of potting soil and that was probably better than filling a shoe box with rice.

"This is yours," he told the cat. "Don't scratch anything."

It took until he was laying in his dark bedroom again--curtains drawn back over the windows--for it to occur to him that he was giving the cat instructions like it could understand him. He'd fully lost it. This must just be a wild dream, concocted from the sound of the cat outside and a late night binge through the neighborhood app and its drama.

None of which stopped him from falling right back asleep anyway. Right back into the same nightmares and tossing and turning that left him so damn exhausted all of the time. It was funny, the trajectory of his sleep patterns. As a teenager, he could sleep through hurricanes, his mama said. And then in the military, he’d become accustomed to jumping at the slightest sound. And now he was stuck in some perpetual torture chamber of the middle. Awaking at every creak in his old house on the good days and sleeping so hard he fell right into the waiting arms of nightmares on the bad ones. He was exhausted all of the time. And when he woke and had to deal with the walking nightmares, rest never managed to find him then either.

DC had been his idea. This house had been Riley’s. And now, again, Sam found himself in a relentless middle. Stuck in a house that was haunted by a man who had only been in it for the tour and stuck in a city where none of his dreams were accessible anymore. The only reason he’d said DC was because they were supposed to be growing the Falcon program. Lobbying for a bigger team, better tech. Training with other branches. Making a name for themselves. Together. And now the program was dead and Riley was…

Sam was so damn tired.

Hours, or maybe minutes, later, Sam woke up, choking on a cry. And the weight on his chest. His hands fell from their wild grab towards nothing at all and settled on the furball using his chest as a bed.

“You had the whole couch,” he said. The cat did not care that his voice was watery. It didn’t even look up at him. “And you chose the two feet of space I’m taking up?”

The cat’s purr just got deeper, burrowing down to Sam’s bones. He wasn’t as tense as he normally was after a nightmare. He couldn’t be with this thing vibrating it all away. Idly, he stroked his fingers over the cat’s fur until it tucked its head under his hand and he stilled again.

“You’re gonna stay, aren’t you?” he asked with a sigh. The cat purred. “Yeah, you’re gonna stay. I’m gonna keep you.” It would require more googling. And he should probably actually walk into a store to get supplies, rather than wait for it to ship to him. God, that was going to suck. It’d involve a shower and clean clothes and digging his keys out from wherever they’d been last time he’d thrown them across the room because the house key was supposed to be Riley’s. He’d have to plaster on a smile and make small talk. Small talk was like salt in the open wound of grief, he’d found.

Still, the cat needed litter and food. Canned tuna wasn’t good for anyone long term.

“You need a name too,” he told the cat. “I’m gonna bother you for a second,” he added and then picked up the kitten and looked under its tail. “I assume you’re a boy. I’m not really a cat guy, I dunno. Maybe you’re just weirdly fuzzy. But probably not.”

The cat mewled and chirped until Sam set him down on his chest again. Then he went right back to purring away, though now he was looking up at Sam as well.

“What about the cat from Aristocats?” Sam suggested. “Ah, nah. I don’t remember his name. What about Max? Oreo? Is that too on the nose? Sir Crumpet Von Fox Huntington III. Fox? It’s kind of funny when animals have other animal names. Would be an ode to the fact I haven’t done anything except switch out X-Files DVDs all week.”

The cat crept up Sam’s chest and he worried he was about to be attacked in the face. But he just settled down against Sam’s throat and started up his purr motor again.

“Okay,” Sam conceded. The kitten’s weight turned his own voice into a rumbling purr. “We’ll figure out a name a little later. Maybe something from a song. Marvin? Bowie? Freddie? Franklin?”

The cat licked the underside of Sam’s jaw and it was both extremely unpleasant in texture and delightful in sentiment. “You can’t eat me yet,” Sam said warningly. “Give a guy a few days to make a good impression. Let me clean first, y’know. Treat you to some fancy food.”

The cat purred his agreement and Sam smiled for the first time in days.

#sam wilson #the falcon and the winter soldier #captain america #figaro the cat #samtember2023 #writing

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jiubilant · 1 year

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4.E. 188

“So Ulfric Stormcloak’s coming to the city,” says the boy through a mouthful of chicken. “What’s so important about that?”

He’s shoveling down supper in a smoky public-house by the docks, where the Company men and their apprentices—of which he, as of that morning and its many contracts, is now the newest—gather at day’s end to dine. His hand hurts from signing his name. His legs hurt from walking. He suspects that he might have dreamed it all, the ships, the echoing warehouse, the food; when the barmaid’s girl had brought it to him, not to the well-dressed men chatting in the corner, he’d thought that the chicken—boiled in butter, melting golden from the bone—was a mistake.

Then he’d thought it was a prank. He half-expects his master of about half a day, a factor’s clerk with a long, frown-lined face, to whisk his plate away.

“The Emperor grants dustucks to Company factors and fiduciaries,” the man says after a thoughtful pause, wiping the grease from his hands with a kerchief. He’d paid for supper. He’s sitting across from the boy, facing the fire; his eyes glint in the hearthlight like two shards of red glass. “Can you tell me what a dustuck is?”

No, the boy thinks. He doesn’t even know what a fidu-cherry is. He sneaks a glance up at the clerk, then dares a joke. “Does it quack?”

The clerk blinks at him. Then he smiles—looking, the boy thinks, a little surprised about it.

“No,” he says. “A dustuck is a permit that exempts Company goods from any duties, stoppages, or inspections mandated in provincial ports. It means that our goods,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the look on the boy’s face, “go wherever we’d like them to go—and local customs-men can’t do a damned thing to hold them up, and not even the High King himself has the right to tax them.” He eyes the growing pile of bones on the boy’s plate with amusement. “Now, what do you suppose that means for us?”

Easy, thinks the boy, relieved. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Profit.”

“There’s a lad.” The clerk tips the rest of his chicken onto the boy’s plate. “Now, traders like, ah, like Shatter-Shield—that lovely little clipper in the harbor, the Bergfrue, she was his—they’re subject to the duties fixed by the jarls of each hold. And those duties are climbing by the day. Since Istlod can’t tax the Company at all, he’s got to tax his own people more.”

The boy, attacking a chicken leg, makes a muffled noise of agreement. Then the words sink in. He frowns up at the clerk. “That’s not fair.”

“That’s business.” The clerk’s smile is thin and vague. “But the Bear of Markarth agrees with you. He’s come to Haafingar to growl.” With a smile that transforms his solemn face, he catches the barmaid’s eye. “Well, to be more accurate, Istlod’s called him here to bawl him out for refusing to respect Company dustucks in his ports. He’s been costing us money.”

“Can he do that?”

“Ulfric?” The clerk holds up his tankard, dangling it by the handle. “Not according to the Emperor’s law. But men like Ulfric Stormcloak—”

“No politicking in my public-house,” says the barmaid, whisking up the tankard as she bustles by—and, to the boy’s amazement, tapping the clerk on the head with it for good measure. “Don’t go anywhere, Spider. I’ve some sveler for the boy.”

The clerk casts a plaintive look after her. “With bilberry jam, Birgit?”

“For the boy.”

The clerk raises his hands in airy surrender. The boy wonders, watching him, if the lines in the man’s face aren’t from frowning at all.

“Men like Ulfric Stormcloak?” he prompts, struck with a sudden urge to impress his teacher.

“Men like Ulfric Stormcloak,” the clerk says briskly, “like to know how far they can go.” With an even brisker smile, he stands. “Let’s see about those sveler.”

* * *

The boy brings the sveler, filled with jam and honey-sticky, home to his sisters. When he fishes it smugly from his coat, it looks more like a log of pocket-lint than a sweet; still, when he pieces it with painstaking care into seven portions, even picky Letta stuffs her morsel in her mouth without making any faces.

“Next time,” she says, eyes bright in her pale, pinched face, “bring back a cheese tart.”

The boy, with all the self-importance of a breadwinner, scoffs at her. “I can’t just tell Master Rano to buy me a cheese tart.”

Mina, chewing with her mouth open, grips his arm. The boy realizes with a start that he can see her cheekbones. “Candied pears!”

“Pleskener!”

“Kanelstenger!”

“I want to be an apprentice—”

It’s little Luce who tugs on his sleeve, her eyes wide with concern. “Mama, too.”

The boy’s portion stops halfway to his mouth. With a flash of remorse, he disentangles himself from his frail, hollow-eyed sisters. He’s been stupid, he thinks. Stupid and selfish. He should have pocketed some of the chicken.

“She can have mine,” he says, and lays his bite of svele on the table. If they’re asleep when she comes home, he thinks, it will surprise her. She’ll see that she won’t have to poss until her back aches, scrub until her hands crack and bleed from the water in the steaming washhouse-tubs. He’s the man of the house now—thirteen years old, full of knowledge of permits, and profits, and politics. He’ll provide.

Luce tugs his sleeve again. “Rafe?”

The boy blinks. Then he picks her up like their mother would: swirls her off the ground, tosses her so that she giggles. “Luce?”

His youngest sister, light as a ghost in his arms, pats his cheek with a sticky hand.

“Sweetrolls,” she says.

“Sweetrolls,” the boy solemnly agrees. Then he grins, heedless of the impossibility. “And a cheese tart, candied pears, some pleskener...”

#return of the rafe. and some pre-canon stuff about the company #skyrim #microfic #oc tag #rafe and alf #ravi

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imagine-dragonlords · 2 months

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Extract from my Merthur fanfic (WIP)

Arthur's mother's sigil. A token given from Arthur himself, not long before he was crowned king. It was a simple yet profound emblem, a coin elegantly crafted from silver and gold. As Merlin turned the sigil over in his hands, the solitary dove, poised gracefully upon a cross, caught the flicker of candlelight. As he ran his finger across its outline, he was struck by a memory – an encyclopaedia of birds read years ago. He magically recalled an extract to the forefront of his mind, the text as clear as if the pages were floating in front of him:

“Mourning Dove ( Zenaida macroura) : a symbol of peace and purity, notable for showing unwavering devotion to its mate. Once a pair is formed, their commitment extends throughout the breeding season and, in many cases, across their entire lives. In fact, this dove breed exhibits a heartrending loyalty that transcends even the death of a mate: should one partner perish, the surviving dove showcases a period of mourning. It remains near the site of their shared nest, refraining from seeking a new mate for an extended, even unending period.The bird's name itself reflects this solemn aspect of its nature, with its plaintive coo resembling a lament for its lost partner. This extraordinary devotion, even in the face of loss, highlights the emotional complexities of Mourning Doves, and offers a poignant reminder of the depth of connections possible in the natural world.”

Typical. Merlin thought, half restraining tears, half smothering a laugh. Fate had a dark sense of humour, a fact he knew all too well.

Merlin’s fingers lingered on the sigil while candlelight cast shadows that danced across the walls of his cottage. For a fleeting moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his own shadow doubled, and in that solitary second, imagined the other was Arthur’s –Arthur, standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. The illusion was gone as soon as it appeared.

He glanced back down. He held you. You remember his touch. The weight of the sigil in his hand was a tangible link to an Arthur so vibrant and alive it pained him, to a past that felt both incredibly distant and as close as his next breath. Merlin closed his eyes, allowing the memories to wash over him—the laughter, the battles, the heartache.

Find me…Please. Again, the voiceless plea sounded amid the darkness. And, as Merlin opened his eyes again to the echoes of a life once lived, he felt a new stirring within, a spark that refused to be extinguished. Determined, he placed the sigil back into its pouch, his resolve hardening.

“I am no dove.” His voice was low and authoritative, directly addressing any unseen forces that might be loitering in the air. “I am a falcon.” If the fabric of time refused to herald Arthur’s return, then he would tear it apart at the seams.

#merlin #merthur #Merthur fanfic #merlin x arthur

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ainyan · 8 months

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FFXIVWrite Day #7: Noisome

noisome

adjective

offensive or disgusting, as an odor.

harmful or injurious to health; noxious.

“Gods, but this place is positively noisome.” Thancred stared out at the entrance of Aurum Vale, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

At his side, Kal’istae hid her smirk, turning her face into her shoulder. Behind them, the two dragoons who had joined them exchanged a long look, then the female of the pair spoke up. “Uhm. What does noisome mean?” she asked. “Because if it means gross sounds, that’s absolutely true.

The four fell silent, listening to the squelch and shuffle of morbols and ochos, the buzz of vale wasps and the rustle of lilies of the vale. The creatures abounded, choking every last inch of the room. “No, but it fits all the same,” Thancred muttered. “Actually, it refers to the rather fetid odors. I knew morbol bile was disgusting, but I never quite realized it was this… revolting.”

Kal’istae sighed. “You wanted to come,” she reminded the gunbreaker, just a bit tartly. “It’s a bit late to back out now - we have guests.”

Again, the two dragoons exchanged glances. “Please don’t,” the male said a bit plaintively. “Do you know long we waited for someone to bite on Aurum Vale? You’re the fourteenth tank we’ve asked and the first one not to outright reject any of the guildmasters when the job was proffered.”

“We even considered offering gil, although that’s frowned upon,” the woman added in an irritated tone of voice.

Thancred inhaled shallowly through his mouth, then grimaced and spat. “I’m going to have to burn this jacket,” he told Kal’istae. “I hope you’re up to helping me get a new one.”

The Au Ra’s smile was edged with mischief. “Sure. Might take a while, though. Suppose you’ll have to stay home for a bit.” At his sigh, she laughed, then wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. That taste.” When he laughed in turn, she echoed his sigh. “Everyone ready?”

“Ready,” Thancred confirmed.

The two dragoons unsheathed their lances. “Ready,” they chorused.

With the check done and the party ready, it was time for the dungeon to commence. And so forward they strode to combat the menace, in all its noxious squalor and noisome stench.

FFXIVWrite2023 Day #7: Noisome

OCs: Kal'istae Miurani, Jess Varlineau (@sasslett), Varrus Varlineau (@crank-it-up-to-elezen)

NPCs: Thancred Waters

AU: A Mesh of Minds AU

[ -- Master Post: FFXIVWrite2023 -- ]

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2023 #thancred waters #kal'istae miurani #jess varlineau #varrus varlineau #au: a mesh of minds

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theseshipsshallsail · 7 months

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Chapter 2

According to his watch, it's just shy of one-thirty that the asthmatic locomotive pulls to a lurching halt, and Oliver’s struck by how little the provincial scene varies to when he and Elio caught the adjoining line to Rome. He doesn’t have much in regards to luggage. Just his clothes, laptop, travel credentials, and a framed postcard of Monet’s berm. Micol - saint that she is - will ship his prized possessions in the Fall, and wrestling his Tourister from the overhead compartment he makes for the automatic doors; every fibre of his being fizzing like French champagne.

His fierce sense of homecoming amplifies tenfold as he takes in the sparse, grey platform with its same wooden cantilever. The same stationmaster’s hut with its wilting daisies. The same aroma of pine, tar, and enamel: though mercifully a lot less piss. Blindsided, his autopilot knees wobble like an infant giraffe, and adjusting the lie of his holdall Oliver scans the milling crowd, grateful for his six-foot-five height advantage when he eventually spies a lone figure at the farthest extent of the gangway.

Mirage or miracle: it undoubtedly seems like both.

Unsurprisingly, Elio doesn’t notice his approach; transfixed as he is by the painted safety border he’s scuffing with his sneaker. He’s antsy, still. That’s plain to see. Tense. Distracted. More statue than man. Channelling the self-same cocktail of emotions that make Oliver’s heart stagger at the veracity of one last chance. His tongue locks behind his teeth. Muted and ineffectual. Yet the moment Elio glances up - the instant their eyes meet like gravity’s pull - a slow-born grin anoints his sun-kissed features. It’s artless - dazzling - redolent of a full-body embrace, and the flashfire jubilation that spreads through Oliver’s veins verges on debilitating as a lump materialises in his tinder-dry throat.

“You’ve shaved your beard…” he murmurs inanely, only realising he’s spoken out loud when Elio scoffs in delight.

“The mockery wasn’t worth the upkeep,” he says, ghosting his fingertips over the scruff on Oliver’s jowl. “Though I dare say even Marzia would approve of these distinguished whiskers.”

“Distinguished?” The feather-light touch has him feeling like filigree in Elio’s palm. “My three-day perma-stubble?”

“Looks designer.”

“Sounds meshuga,” he deflects, reaching up to lower said hand to his brittle ribcage.

There’s a beat; one breath, then another. Elio’s digits fan out, forming a chord over his left breast pocket, and just like that Oliver sags forward, smothering a plaintive whimper into flyaway curls. He’s prone to being the strong one - the guardian - but when Elio’s grip tightens he melts unerringly further. It’s bizarrely dreamlike - a cliché consolidation of every fantasy he’s ever harboured - and discarding his suitcase he bands his forearm around the other man’s waist, the immutable realness skewering him with relief as he basks in a world made new.

“We still fit,” he murmurs, brain-to-mouth filter decidedly offline.

“We always will,” Elio maintains, seizing his nape with a surreptitious sniff.

A harsh gasp rises in Oliver’s chest, and he can’t contain it. Doesn’t even try to. Not with the hushed affirmation of Elio’s voice as they sway back-and-forth on the bustling concourse.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, overly-conscious of the attention they’re garnering.

“Don’t be.” A cousin of grief, only sweeter. “This was a long time coming.”

“Not for the lack of wanting...”

“Anch’io. It is what it is,” he’s told graciously. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

It doesn’t make the pill any easier to swallow.

“You okay?” Elio asks at length.

In the broad strokes?

“Me okay.” It’s an echo of the past; a promise for the future. “I know it’s irrational,” Oliver concedes, resting his chin upon Elio’s crown. “...but I keep expecting to wake up in that faculty rental - preparing my syllabus and feeding next door’s ficus - not padding my CV for an opening at the Statale.”

Elio huffs. “Your reputation precedes you, professore.”

“I’m done living up to others’ terms and conditions,” Oliver states, reining in the threads of his frayed composure. “What was it Vimini used to say? Reality’s a rabbit hole?”

“Deprived of the scope of imagination,” Elio finishes, the savvy maxim particularly apt given the circumstances. “She’d be thirty today.”

“She would,” Oliver concurs wistfully.

“And full of righteous I-told-you-sos,” Elio continues, tapping a deft ostinato above his breastbone. “Papà wasn’t alone in his love of speeches.”

Oliver sniggers. “I don’t recall Sami’s being quite so bolshie…”

“Absurdité! An eloquent taunt trumps a thousand insults, ma moitié.”

“I’ll keep that under consideration,” Oliver says archly, quelling an impulsive complaint when Elio takes a half-step backwards, putting unbearable inches between them.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning to a wall-mounted mailbox.

“Hungry?”

“Sì.” Elio swipes a foil-wrapped item from atop its blistered lid. “Hungry,” he parrots, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip: a hardly-there flick that draws Oliver's gaze. “Originates from the Old English hyngran, and the verb hungaran in High German.”

“I’ll show you High German…”

“Ist das ein versprechen?” Elio deadpans, offering up the delicious smelling bundle. “Bruschetta chicken panini?"

Oliver’s stomach growls like one of Pavlov’s dogs. “Mafalda’s special recipe?”

“Naturalmente.”

“My knight in striped-cotton,” he declares with a swoon, and Elio chuckles as he tosses it over, unhooking a familiar pair of Persol’s from his khaki belt-loop.

“Andiamo, Principessa. Your noble steed awaits.”

His steed, Oliver discovers, parked in the shade of a derelict water tower, is a sherbert-yellow Fiat 500 with a Jar Jar Binks air-freshener fastened to the rear-view mirror.

“Ollie’s obsessed with the prequels,” Elio groans, slotting the key into the ignition, and steering the vehicle to the signposted exit he’s soon navigating the picturesque thoroughfare to B.

There’s a childlike elation he encounters in ticking off the intermittent landmarks that denote their journey. Chasing the proverbial breadcrumbs of yesteryear as Elio updates him with anecdotes of former associates. Marzia’s being headhunted by a rival fashion magazine, he’s told. Whereas Chiara’s eldest daughter just earned a full drama scholarship to Cours Florent. Mario - to Oliver’s great amusement - has taken over the management of La Danzing, and it’s whilst discussing the Moreschi girls’ thriving pasticceria that his eyelids become increasingly leaden, causing him to jerk upright sometime later as they negotiate the gravelled arc of the villa’s driveway.

“Rise and shine, Bella Addormentata,” Elio says, muting the eighties’ rock ballad coming from the car’s speakers, and Oliver experiences a soupçon of déjà vu as they coast to a stop in the exact same position his taxi did two decades prior.

“Less of the sass, Perlman,” he replies with a stretch. “Red-eye flights are brutal. And I’m an old man now, remember?”

Elio unbuckles his seatbelt. “Not to me, you aren’t.”

“No,” Oliver agrees softly. “Not to you.”

A rosemary-scented breeze enters via the open windows; bringing with it the screech of gulls from the peninsula’s shoreline. It’s hallowed ground, this place of memory, and with a cursory squeeze to Elio’s thigh he unfolds his legs from the passenger footwell, casts his face skywards, then loosens another shirt button to expose the Star of David he’d recouped from his treasured mementos.

“Welcome home, Oliver,” he hears in stereo: his disembodied Elio twining with the flesh-and-blood original.

He’s been quieter of late - his phantom confidante - but any thoughts of answering are swiftly squashed when a snow-white streak rockets across the lawn, the pitter-patter of scampering paws running in ever-erratic circles.

“What I wouldn’t give for that energy…”

“You and me, both,” Elio says, nabbing the overzealous pup’s collar. “Come: meet Polpetta. Our second -biggest rabble-rouser,” he invites, hunkering down to rub her fluffy midriff. “Miranda’s exhibition got extended at la galleria, so she and Ollie aren’t due in ‘til Wednesday. I think she’s missing her partner in -”

A faint commotion starts up inside the residence’s stucco interior.

“Brace yourself,” Elio warns as the porch door creaks ajar, and treating Polpetta’s muzzle to a farewell scratch, Oliver twists to see their harried housekeeper backing onto the veranda.

“Eccoti! ” she calls, depositing a large, wicker basket by the vine-covered plinth. “Il garzone del macellaio -” A pause. “Signor Ulliver?” Her double-take is almost comical, and rising from his stoop, Oliver mounts the uneven steps to meet her on the decking. “Non può essere,” she admonishes, bunching her chequered apron. “Elio! He is early!”

“He is indeed,” Oliver says, grinning from ear to ear. “I do hope we haven’t muddied your plans?”

“No, per niente!” Mafalda tugs his forearms. Pecks a kiss to his bristly cheek. “It is no bother,” she says in her heavy accent, clasping his hands between her own. “Ma basta! Look at you, mia muvi star. So handsome… so tall…”

“So bashful…” Elio drawls from the Fiat’s rear bumper. “Calmati, Mafalda. Let him be. You’ve already tormented Enzo’s poor delivery boy…”

It’s mischief personified, and Oliver ignores the flagrant provocation as he drapes an arm around the scandalised woman’s shoulders. “Don’t you believe a word of it,” he murmurs, blushing like the peaches in the nearby orchard. “He knows I’m not going anywhere.”

And the wink Elio shoots him whilst popping the trunk is all the confirmation he needs.

#elio x oliver #cmbyn fanfic #call me by your name #reunion fic #new chapter

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il-predestinato · 1 year

Note

If you’re open to doing another one-shot, I’d want you to pick your favourite song right now, whichever one that might be!

If you must have a number then 2 please, in honour of Charles’ second place in the WDC 😍

Work your magic however you desire! 🤩

#2. "Always Remember Us This Way" by Lady Gaga

When the sun goes down And the band won't play I'll always remember us this way When you look at me And the whole world fades I'll always remember us this way

send me an ask with a number between 1 and 100 and I’ll write a 5ish sentence fic inspired by that song on my 2022 wrapped playlist!

So here it is after some delay! Sitting through a boring hospital IT meeting on my birthday inspired me to write a birthday Lestappen blurb (word count: 618).

Max blinked the bathwater out of his eyes. He turned to squint at Charles (due to irritation from the soap more than actual annoyance) and made a plaintive noise.

"You won on my birthday weekend too," he pouted, before turning away so that Charles can resume his ministrations.

The fingers massaging his wet hair paused, and Charles emitted an unimpressed grunt. "And you won on my actual birthday," retorted the Monegasque. "Also, your birthday was on a Friday." He migrated lower and started working his fingers through the stiff muscles of Max's lower neck. "I won on October 2, which last I checked was not your birthday."

Max rolled his eyes, but the skilled hands working through the knot in his neck made it difficult for him suppress a soft moan of satisfaction. He couldn't see Charles, but he could definitely feel the smug little smirk pressed into his soap-laden hair. "Fine," he half-whined, half-grumbled. "So how should I make it up to you?"

Charles pressed his lips fleetingly to his ear, and it sent a shiver straight down his spine. Maybe the bathwater was getting cold.

"Austria 2019," said Charles sweetly. He rubbed circles into Max's skull; he knew all the pleasure points on his body. Eyes fluttering shut, Max groaned and sank like soft putty into his chest. "Admit that your move was illegal and I should have won."

The body pressed flush against him suddenly went still. Max whipped around so quickly that a generous splash of bathwater landed on the marble floor with a satisfying echo. Outraged blue eyes met insolent green ones.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, neither willing to concede first. They've had angry wall sex between motorhomes after the very same Austria 2019 in question, but even that tension would have found stiff competition with the stifling ambience of the present. For a moment, anyway.

Then Max burst out laughing. "Sure," he baited. He liked this position better - he can see Charles; his eyes followed a few bubbles of soap as they slipped down the freckled nose and found the crevice in one of Charles' dimples. "As soon as you admit that the 2012 incident was on you."

Sometimes, not that he would ever admit it, Max had this irrational fear that his memory would fail to do Charles justice - that in ten or fifteen years, it would fail to repaint this next moment with all of its vivid splendour: Charles reached forward to touch his face - the skin in his fingertips slightly wrinkled from their prolonged bath, his bright eyes autumn-stained by the sunset peeking through the frosted glass window - and tilted Max's jaw so that their lips hovered mere millimetres from each other. The tip of his freckled nose bumped against Max's, and that drew a light snicker from Charles. He dipped forward and placed a nipping kiss on Max's lower lip.

"Never," he declared.

Max didn't need a mirror to know that the wide grin sprawled across Charles' face was a reflection of his own. He wondered if Charles was thinking what he was thinking: let me ruin all of your birthdays in the future... only if you promise to ruin all of mine.

Then maybe it wouldn't matter if Max failed to remember every detail of this one. It wouldn't matter if he couldn't remember that the bathroom tiles were teal, or that the song playing in the background was from that Bradley Cooper film he hated (because what did the writers have against a happy ending anyway?), or the way Charles' untamed wet hair tickled his cheek. He would always have the next one. And the one after that.

"Happy birthday, demon."

😘 I think it's embarrassing how many times I've listened to this song, but I'm with Max in terms of our inability to tolerate sad endings.

#lestappen #charles leclerc #max verstappen #lestappen fic #*#my fic #ask game #spotify wrapped inspired

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