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liliannadelaphinehartifelt · 3 months

Note

Helloo!

Idk if you take requests , but could you maybe write a fic with Human!Alastor and male!reader where reader exaggerates his whole personality to comply with everyone else and is easily exhausted from it and Alastor "relaxses" reader in that way ?

Thank you in advance and have a good day !

Alastor - [ MASQUERADE ]

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A/N: This request really made me brainstorm but I've decided to break it into 2 parts. I hope you'll enjoy it! As always kindly lmk the artist of the fanart so I can tag them and give proper credit! ❤️

WARNINGS: [ SLIGHT NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ SUGGESTIVE THEMES ] + [ MALE READER ] + [ FLUFF…if you squint ]

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“You're on air in ten minutes, Y/n. Pick it up before the host gets restless!”

Your so-called manager barked from the dressing room doorway, giving one last glare your way before strutting off, grumbling a string of curses you'd learned to ignore.

“Asshole…” you scoffed, turning back to the striped mirror of your vanity; the large bulbs that lit it gave enough light in the old stuffy backstage space, illuminating every detail of your appearance.

Not one thing could be out of place.

You wouldn't allow it, committed to your role as a rising preformer in the golden age of the stage, and conditioned to perfectionist standards from years of tribulations

Suffering behind a practiced smile won you your stardom. The ambiguous beauty you possessed helped immensely in your success on the silver screen, but the truest contributor to your fame was appeal.

Humourous, intellectual, but most crucial, sex appeal.

That's what kept your admires enthralled, permanently put you in the limelight from the start, and inevitably earned you considerable amounts of money.

You weren't opposed to being called a child of Dionysus himself, envied by those who wanted you. Still, the burden of putting on a show for everyone every day without giving them a glimpse of your faults was excruciating.

Yet, you chose the burden over sulking in the darkness, remaining among the ordinary when you so clearly had the makings of a star, and your status of high popularity among the masses was proof of it.

So be it if your cheeks ached from smiling at frivolous fans that your laugh sounded less like your own the more you forced it, that flirtations of others felt like empty praises, or that every project you agreed to felt less and less stimulating.

So fucking be it.

Fame is fickle; you knew this all too well, but your existence felt meaningless without it.

Empty.

All the world's riches, the undivided favor you garnered from the public, and the sparkling awards cluttered your penthouse display shelves…

Even with all that at your fingertips, you had yet to feel seen…

Seen and truly adored.

“Two fucking minutes! Get your ass in position. This interview is being broadcast live, remember?” your manager harped at you from the hall, causing you to grunt in frustration before yelling back, “Would you shut your trap?! Fucking hell…I'm coming!”

You set aside the whiskey glass in your left hand, ran your right through your recently styled hair, and checked your reflection one last time.

“It's only a radio show. One little interview and you can go home and get black-out drunk…” the idea of spending some much-deserved time alone after running around doing a press tour brought a sad smile to your face as you stood and exited the dim room.

This would be your last stop, an interview with Louisiana’s prided radio host, and the last person you'd need to put a show on for before returning home.

“Finally…” your manager grumbled as you stepped into the hall, giving you a once over as the two of you strolled down the hall towards the host recording area, “Don't fuck this up. People say this ones a real talker and can make or break ya..” he mumbled begrudgingly.

You paid his incessant pestering no mind, flashing him a suave smile as you both stopped before a heavy door, “Don't tell me you're starting to care about my reputation now? Thought you only saw me as a nice money grab…”

Your smile grew as laughter bubled in your chest, seeing the other slowly become agitated at your backhanded comments.

“Why, you little-”

“Oh, don't be rude, sir. You'll spoil my good mood, and god knows sour spirits bring bad luck,” you smirked, enjoying the scrunch of his nose as his expression reflected his true nature, but before he could snap, you pushed the door open and slipped into the soundproofed station room.

What a fucking pain he is…

You cursed the raging man outside, sighing softly as the sound of jazz lingered through the air and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with a distinct cologne engulfed you.

The space felt and looked inviting, relaxing even, but what caught your attention was the man who occupied it.

He sat in a desk chair across the small room, facing a table full of controls and a mic to match. His face was lowered from the device, glasses resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose as he stared at what you assumed was a script for your conversation with him, but the simmering amazement overtook your curiosity about the paper he held you felt hearing him hum along to the song he was airing.

You didn't dare move an inch closer, satisfied with watching and listening to him from afar, oddly entrapped by the silent allure he cast.

It was no mystery that people loved the sound of his voice. You'd be fooling yourself if you said you hadn't found his commentary enchanting, but looking at him in the flesh, you were sure he'd flourish on the silver screen like no other.

He could indeed win the eyes of many…

Yours especially, and to some degree, he had already, but you hesitated to admit it even as he turned to face you.

Oh…. he is a beauty, that's for sure…

That was the singular thought in your mind as he smiled, standing from his seat before approaching you with all the confidence you'd merely portrayed.

“Hello there. You must be Y/n L/n. I'm Alastor Hartifelt. It's a pleasure to meet you, my friend!”

His voice was as smooth, melting into the background melodies inexplicably, and your heart lightened immensely as he held out a hand for you to shake.

“The..the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hartifelt..” you inwardly scolded your delayed greeting, losing track of your practiced charm relatively quickly in his grasp. Still, in seconds, you recovered from the blunder while returning his smile.

Alastor took you in with a glance up and down your figure, cataloging every detail of your appearance out of habit, but when his gaze met yours, one thought crossed his perceptive mind.

Longing?

How curious…

You hid the familiar emotion well; seeing past the veil of contentment wasn't tricky, and though he was tempted to bring it forth.

You two shook hands briefly but firmly. Alastor stepped back, gliding his hand out to mention towards the recording station. “Come, have a seat, and please call me Alastor. We will be on air after all; formalities aren't necessary for an engaging broadcast.” His smile grew, emitting an unearthly kindness as you nodded in understanding before sitting in the chair opposite his.

“You make an excellent point, Alastor. I hope we enjoy each other's company.” You chuckle softly, feeling a tad nervous for a reason unknown but genuinely harboring a rise in excitement, hearing him respond promptly.

“I have no doubt we will…” Alastor muses more to himself, a delicate edge to his voice as he trailed behind you, and a certain twinge of intrigue rattled your spine at the implication.

For the first time in a long time, you weren't dreading the inclinations of your fame, gradually succumbing to the sparks of joy Alastor evoked with the most straightforward words and becoming surer of the fact as he took his seat next to you.

“Shall we begin?” he implies cheekily, and you reply in a quick, witty fashion, “We shall.”

————-

“Care for a drink, my friend? I believe we’ve earned ourselves a cold glass of whiskey… that is, If your evening is unreserved.” Alastor made the offer moments after switching your respective microphones off, quickly arranging the recording panel to a specific setting as he listened for your response.

Your mouth moved quicker than your mind; a distinct rush overtook at the thought of spending more time with the charismatic radio host, “I'd be delighted to join you. I must agree that our interview went quite well. It's rare to have an easy conversation with a stranger these days..”

Alastor raised a brow, sparing you a glance as he finished sliding keys and flicking switches into place to keep a calming stream of music lingering in his broadcast, “So, I'm still a stranger to you?… My, and I thought we were getting on so well…“

He spurs you casually, an air of hurt in his expression, and it stuns you, causing a red hue to rise on your cheeks, “Th-that's not at all what I meant, Alastor…” Your lower head twinges of embarrassment staining your consciousness, and for the third time that evening, Alastor had chipped away at your charm.

He enjoyed it….

Seeing you falter and conform to his standards, though you didn't need to, at any time, you could've remained indifferent to him and taken your leave the moment he shut your mic off, but you remained.

Solely because you'd grown attached to him or the defect he had on you.

Humbling, genuine understanding, but above all else, validation.

“My dear, I am only poking fun. I take no offense to your words, and I hope you'll grant me the same courtesy!” Alastor reached for you, thumb and forefinger slipping under your chin to lift it, and you obeyed his gesture with a soft smile. “Oh…I…”

You paused, swallowing thickly as he raised himself from the chair, head lowered toward yours as he stood above you.

Had he always been so tall?

So brooding?

You weren't entirely sure, but your heart raced, every nerve in your body tingled with anticipation as if you were a deer caught in his headlights, but you couldn't retreat or evade him.

“You what?..” Alastor cooed quietly, chocolate eyes on fire with an emotion you'd long forgotten but returned subconsciously.

Control.

You needed to be back in control, or the next breath between you two might lead to something…

Your mind played scenario after scenario, beginning to short circuit as he peered down at you, lips only inches from yours, and his other hand reaching to caress your cheek. His touch is searing, warmer than those you'd felt before, intentional, and your entire being buzzed in his grasp as if in a drunken stupor.

He was dangerous… able to tear through your facade easily, which was terrifying.

Polarizing.

Don't let him get any closer…

Keep him at a distance…

You've only just met him...

Warnings rang in your head, but your eyes lowered to his lips, and your voice remained quiet as you responded to his question.

“I" 'd like to have that drink before the night ends. Wouldn't you?"With a gentle nudge of your head and a soft laugh, you draw away from Alastor's touch. The space between you increases, and the ability to breathe becomes less strenuous as you stand to your feet, collecting your overcoat before slipping it on, "I'm not familiar with the city yet, so I'll leave it to you to show me around." The chipper in your tone amuses Alastor; you'd perfected the art of illusion so well that in the clutches of what some might consider an intimate moment, you balked and reclaimed sensibility like it never occurred, though you wished for it to carry on further.

He'd met and spoken to his fair share of actors, learned their ticks and telling habits, and used it against them when he saw benefit in toying with them.

However, being able to see right through you evoked another motive for the host, and he dared to think it was mutual.

"Well, I'd be honored to show you the ins and outs of this lively town I call home so long as you promise to keep up," Alastor retrieves his coat, a heavy jet black trench withered accents paired with matching hat, stylish in all the right ways -presumably warm to be in. Still, you were sure if he ventured into the night dressed like that, any stranger would fear him.

They had good reason to, but you didn't need to know why.

Not yet…

With a coy smile, you followed Alastor out of the station, matching his strides as he paved the way to a nearby speakeasy, "You'll find it quite entertaining, my friend. Few visit at this hour, but my dear Mimzy puts on a vine show regardless!" Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of Alastor being infatuated with another, for what reason you weren't sure, but your disappointment flashed clear in your eyes that he took it upon himself to clarify his remark.

"She is an old and loyal acquaintance. Nothing more. Nothing less."

You perked up at the explanation, face burning with a blush as you raised both hands to dissuade his interpretation of your expression, "I understand. You needn't explain anything to me-"

Alastor halted in his tracks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he peered at you curiously, "Hm, so you did assume we were something to begin with?..."

Shit, was I that obvious?...

"Not at all..." you lie, as calm as ever but internally conflicted.

How could he go about messing with you so boldly?..

And why did it excite you?..

"Your eyes say otherwise, my friend..." he counters your nervous reply with a smug smirk, beginning to walk off as if he wasn't toying with your head, "My eyes?..." you whisper in response.

"They are the doorway to the soul...I've learned to walk through said doors, and you, my dear, hide a lot of fears behind them." Alastor chuckles, ears tingling as you reclaim your spot at his upon reaching your destination. Still, you're less concerned with the dark alley lit with a singular neon sign situated above a heavy lead door and more worried about what he is implying regarding your emotions.

Who was he to know anything?

Sure, he was pleasant to be around, an avid intellectual with a knack for continuing conversation with you, and you had no reason to believe he'd been faking his friendliness to you from the start...

That still gave him no right analyzing you, prod at your exterior with more confidence than necessary, and you intended to let him know it.

A glare beset your expression, mouth open to speak, but you weren't allowed to do so as the lead door swung open.

Alastor guided you close to his side as a gaggle of patrons spilled from the doorway, ranting and raving about the time they had inside. Their rowdy behavior irked him, but you did not comment on the matter as he placed a hand on your back to lead you inside after their dysfunctional departure.

“Drunken idiots,” he mumbled begrudgingly, and for the first time you'd seen the radio host truly bothered. He'd been so composed during your interview, inviting and flirtatious on and off the air, so getting a glimpse of his annoyed state felt like a treat.

At least you knew he had flaws, insignificant but telling ones.

“Um. Alastor, you can..” you paused, unsure if you wanted to let him know he was still holding onto your waist as he led you inside the dim speakeasy. Alastor hummed, irritation gone, and his coy smile widening as you shuffled alongside him. “Y-you can let me go now.”

“Oh, nonsense, my dear! I wouldn't want you to run into unsavory characters like the ones that just passed..”

He quickly navigated the lingering crowd, clearly familiar with the club's layout, and you marbled at its unique atmosphere as he led you through it. “I can handle myself, Alastor,” you tried again to reason, but Alastor was quick to give a response as he ushered you to sit at an unoccupied lounge chair complete with a table and lamp.

“I'm sure you can but I'm rather fond of keeping you close.” He sat next to you after setting his coat and hat aside.

What did he mean by that?..

“How selfish of you,” you feigned disappointment as he shifted to face you with a soft chuckle leaving his lips, “Would you be so kind as to forgive my greed for your attention?” Alastor stares you down, noting how you bite your lip, another nervous tick you'd yet to disregard in his presence. “I'll consider it if you buy me a drink or two..”

The suggestion was meant to sound confident, unmothered by the mounting pressure in your chest, but it came out breathless. You were sure that you'd mastered the art of indiffenece, permanently established a mask of charm, but as much as you wished to maintain the certainty…

Alastair disproved it with little more than a gesture or equally compelling word.

It was unsettling, intoxicating too, but undeniably riveting.

“A small price to pay,” he mumbled, eyes lowering to your lips as you laughed softly and leaned back to admire the other patrons roaming or dancing around. “I never said I was cheap..” you taste him, gaze drifting to him as he shifted closer. You wanted to jump out of your skin as his arm came to rest behind you, head lulling to ward your cheek as he breathed into your ear. The resulting warmth made you shiver, quickening your breaths, and your body tingled with intrigue.

“No…” Alastor affirmed your jest, free hand raising your chin, tilting your head to face him as he continued, “…but you are desperate to be loved. One might say that's just as inappropriate, mon Cher..”

His tone dripped with condensation, a sensual purr loud enough to drown out the jazz and chatter surrounding you, and for a moment, he was all you could comprehend.

You should've felt angry, unsettled even, but his words struck a more profound emotion.

Comfort.

You weren't crazy, a constant wonder for the masses to marvel at and never care about.

Alastor could see you.

He wanted to…

“And so what if I am? Why would it concern you?..” there was no harsh undertone to your question, and it earned a sultry hum of amusement from him. “You've interested me, so I must not ignore your charade. I'm partial to the truth of a person, and you, my dear, abandon it in the hopes of success..”

Spot on.

It is shamelessly hurtful but direct nonetheless.

You clicked your tongue dismissively, attempting to turn your head away from his grasp, but Alastor held you tighter.

A glare crossed your face at the brushing grip he established, but a pool of excitement rushed to your crotch as well.

“I'm not one of your scripts to read, Alastor..” you scoff, rolling your eyes to make your point clear, but he isn't affected by the arrogant gesture.

“My apologies if it seems that way, but my intention to know you, inside and out, is purely innocent...”

“I find that hard to believe…” you retort, very aware of the minimal space between you two, and it became harder to focus on anything else but his soft lips that were stretched thin into a smile.

God, I was doomed from the beginning… you think to yourself as you laugh at your shameless line of sight. “Believe what you wish, my friend, but I enjoy being the object of affection..”

“That's inappropriate to suggest,” you mutter, face burning with blush and your hands raising to grip his wrist and collar. Alastor hummed, amused by your denial, “Mm, I suppose it is…would you like another apology?”

You shake your head, tugging him in by the collar of his shirt, eyes lifting to his, full of determination, “A kiss will do just fine…”

He holds your gaze, checking for mockery, but there is none. “That's the first honest thing you've said all night, mon cher,” Alastor points out in a hushed tone, lowering his head to place a slow kiss on your lips as they pull into a satisfied smile.

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I rewatched Heartstopper for this. Was it helpful? Yes. Did it make me cry harder than the first time I watched it? Also, yes. Will I forever love that show?… (yes). Again, this is just part 1! The second half is being drafted. Please look forward to it. I'm not sure it'll include smut…but I'll debate on that later.

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

He's so cheekyyyy but I love him for it hehe like he’s just the right amount of ‘cocky asshole’ ya know? ❤️ credit to creator!

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phoenixcatch7 · 27 days

Text

I know the fandom generally hand waves tawky tawnys back story because 'powerful and eccentric gentlemanly tiger shapeshifter' is pretty cool as is, give or take a stuffed animal or two, but I looked it up out of curiosity and???

Not only does this man (tiger) have many (many) WILDLY varying backstories (on brand tbh) a lot of them deal with quite uh, intense dehumanisation (de-sapient-isation?).

I'm not even joking, in one they have him as a member of an alternate reality where humans died out and humanoid animals rule, except tigers are still kept in zoo cages and denied basic rights. Tawny nearly gets executed for wearing clothes and reading a self help book, and is forcibly stripped naked and locked up again, meeting the marvels when they're tossed into his pen under the assumption that he'll eat them. WHAT?!

In his first appearance (in the 1940s) he's a side character, a bipedal bengal tiger migrating from India to America to, quote, 'integrate himself into American society'. Despite his kindness and politeness, he's met with fear and discrimination, to the point marvel shows up and realises he's chill and helps him get a job as a tour guide for a museum. The writers surely weren't trying to say something with that, no.

Other origins include:

A normal tiger accused of killing a person, granted the ability to walk and talk like a human by a 'local hermit' with a serum to help clear his name.

Mary's mass produced tiger teddy containing a scarab necklace that contained black Adam's powers (?) that was briefly brought to life by satanus as a six legged pooka (English/Celtic/Irish ghost fairy??) to fight his sister blaze and eventually 'earning' permanent personhood from the wizards friend Ibis for being so good at his job.

Random magic tiger who joined a wartime superhero group fighting mind controlled supers and once killed the leader of the Tiger men and took his place.

Random tiger at the zoo Billy thought was cool and tried to turn into a smilodon by sharing his powers, failed. Never left the zoo.

Ifrit tiger who liked to disguise himself as a stray cat or homeless person, who helped Billy when he became homeless.

Enchanted tiger kept on a lead by Pedro, who transforms with him into a smilodon. Quality of life dubious, because this was flashpoint.

Genetically enhanced bengal tiger saved from mind control.

Meta human (maybe??)

A mystical tiger and 'servant of Shazam'

Now that is a roster. The word tiger has lost all meaning to me. Give this guy some civil rights.

I reckon in any universe where one is true tawny would tell the rest as stories to anyone who asked XD. Keep them in their toes lol.

#dc comics #shazam #tawky tawny #billy batson #dc captain marvel #character analysis #Character origins #Like fr tawky is so unflappable but he goes through all this ToT

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 days

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Task Force 141 Masked Metal Band AU x Backup Singer Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, brief mention of alcohol

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Part One of Second Act

The men behind the masks reveal their faces. You make a sudden realization.

Chapter Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // second act masterlist

Blood is ink.

Ink is blood.

The ink—

is dried.

Black ink from a plain ball-point pen.

The contracts are signed. Sealed. Have been for the last two weeks. There is no going back. No returning to the normal that you knew.

There is only forward motion toward a new beginning.

And what a beautiful fucking beginning it is.

The energy is electric, the crowd a surging, pulsing thing that moves in time with the music. You long to be down there, to be with them. But you are tucked away. Off to the side. Observing and enjoying from afar.

Lechery’s lead singer jumps and sways around the stage, microphone in hand but not near his mouth. The black straps hanging off his pants swing with him. His head is tipped back, black mask skyward, as if in ecstasy. The front of his leather jacket is open, exposing a black-painted bare chest. His hand is splayed wide, lightly running over taut abdominals.

Between the edge of his mask and ear is a visible paint line. It gives way to brown skin and black hair cropped close to his head.

Both the guitarist and bassist are just as into the drum solo as the lead singer is. The bassist is closest to you and his energy is that of a wild animal. His head whips back and forth along with his hips, and his short-length mohawk moves with him, the hair unstyled and free to do as it likes.

The bass drum rolls end over end in an impossibly smooth consistency. It is heavy. Fierce. And the crowd is screaming, throwing themselves around, crashing into each other and breaking apart like waves battering a coastline.

You feel the pounding of the drum in your chest as if it beats beside and between your bones.

As of now, it is just the four of them.

Lechery. 141 Music Group’s newest sensation.

They have no names. Not assigned ones anyway. They do not talk on stage. They only sing. They only perform. The music speaks for itself, and the masses are salivating for it.

It’s the final show of their European tour. In just a few months, they’re heading for North America, and you’re joining them. A back-up vocalist. One of three.

The other two stand beside you. Olivia’s frizzy, blonde curls bounce against her shoulders as she headbangs. The girl is likely to throw out her back—her form is terrible—but she’s having a good time, and that is all that matters. Lena stands next to Olivia. She bobs and sways, eyes closed as if in euphoric bliss. In her right hand, she clutches a plastic cup half-full of lukewarm beer.

The London crowd roars their approval when the solo ends and smoothly transitions into “Necrosis.” It’s the heaviest of their work—a throat-choke of a thrill that sends the masses before the stage into another frenzy.

“Put these in!” A tall, dark-haired man with tanned skin extends his hand, presenting three sets of foam earplugs.

You glance at his black polo as you reach for a pair. Lechery’s symbol is on the right side in red. Below that is “Vargas” and “Stage Manager.”

“Thanks!” you shout, shoving the foam into your ears as “Necrosis” ramps up and the shredding of the guitar vibrates your veins.

He smiles and nods, presenting the other two pairs to Olivia and Lena. Lena takes hers but Olivia is completely gone, punching out like she’s fighting the air, completely oblivious to everyone around her. Lena sticks hers in her ears and grabs the other pair, pocketing them, side eyeing Olivia in the process.

Vargas’ head tilts as he listens to something in his earpiece. He activates the walkie on his shoulder and rapidly fires off on someone in Spanish, switching to English once he walks away.

You return your attention to the stage.

This is the first time you’ve seen the members of Lechery live. It’s completely different from the photos and videos on your phone. More tangible but entirely unbelievable. They are right there. Solid, whole, and yet apart as if you’re seeing them through a veil.

From stage right, you can only see the lead singer, bassist, and guitarist clearly. The drummer is tucked in the back. All you’re able to make of him is a plain, black balaclava. That isn’t his usual choice. There is almost always a skull face, but Lechery has never been known for a consistent dress code. The only standard they stick to are covered faces and painted bodies.

They rarely—if ever—leave any part of themselves exposed and untouched.

Perhaps that will change for the North American tour. There are thirty-two scheduled shows over a three-month period. A few of those are music festivals. Consistency might be needed—and one of your contracts touched on wardrobe. It’s entirely possible they might go in a different direction for the upcoming tour.

It’s an insane amount of work, but you’re ready.

“Necrosis” ends. There is massive applause from the crowd. It continues on and on as the leader singer approaches the very edge of the stage. He bows slightly while the guitarist and bassist look on, unmoving.

The roar of the crowd never ceases. It only grows louder as he exists via stage left. The guitarist and bassist incline their heads as well before slowly following his lead. It is the drummer who remains. He rises lazily as if stretching his muscles. Descent from behind the drum set is casual, and he never glances at the crowd.

The man is large. You didn’t notice that before. All the pictures and videos never did the sheer size of him justice. He does not exit stage left. He heads right for you even though his gaze is elsewhere—somewhere beyond.

But as he draws nearer, his gaze shifts, focusing in on you.

As if running face-first into a wall, he stops, eyes widening before hardening. It’s strange how assessing his gaze is. It is recognition, confusion, and apprehension all tangled together like broken branches. You’re not entirely sure that you like or appreciate it.

You’re struck dumb, blinking, unable to say anything. That stare of his is solidifying, shifting everything within you into stone.

But it’s not like you need to speak. He composes himself and walks right past, nearly bumping your shoulder in the process. You turn with him, watching him disappear somewhere backstage.

“That fellow looked at you funny.” Olivia says “fellow” like feller, a twinge of irritation in her voice.

Lena snorts, takes a sip of her beer, and grimaces. “Olivia. Your accent is slipping.”

“No it’s not,” she snaps, and then blanches when she catches her “no” coming out with a faint r on the end. “Oh fuck.”

Lena laughs good-naturally as Olivia playfully punches her in the arm. Olivia is from West Virginia, and she’s spent most of her life training herself out of her accent. It slips sometimes—usually when she’s pissed off, irritated, or frustrated—but it’s never smothered when she sings. Her voice is an eldritch hymn that could awaken the things that slumber beneath the mountains there. Lena is the opposite. Her voice is melodic and soft. A bit soulful.

The three of you together create an eerie sound. Haunting. Which is why you were signed on in the first place. It’s what Lechery is seeking for their upcoming live shows.

Lena downs the rest of her beer and gags with disgust before tossing it into the nearest bin. “We need to go back to the rental to get ready.”

Olivia beams. “That’s tonight, isn’t it.”

“Calm down,” laughs Lena. “It’s just a party.”

But it’s not just a party. This is the celebratory “the tour is over and done with” party. It’s for the band, tour crew, and everyone from the music label who had a hand in the planning and execution.

You, Lena, and Olivia were invited to the final show and afterparty as a gesture by the label. It’s supposed to be for “networking purposes” but really, it’s to introduce the three of you to everyone. There is always turnover, but the road crew from this tour will likely be the same for the North American one—at least in some capacity. International travel is always a sticky thing.

The three of you aren’t meant to linger anyway. Like the crowd, you disperse, nearly skipping back to the rental place. Olivia and Lena sing pieces of Lechery’s discography in different voices while you keep directions on your phone. The rental isn’t far from the venue, but you’ve been in it for all of two days, and London is not your city.

When the three of you finally make it, it’s a bit of a whirlwind. There is only an hour, and each of you need mirror, bathroom, and shower time.

“Where is it again?” asks Olivia, glancing up as she searches for the street sign.

You switch between the Maps and Notes app on your phone. “It should be right around the corner.”

“Thank fuck,” groans Lena as she pushes off from the building she’s leaning against.

“Should’ve gone with boots,” sings Olivia, poking Lena in her side with a knowing grin.

You ignore them as they start to bicker like teenage sisters. Stopping at the curb, you glance both ways, and check the map again.

“It’s this way,” you call over your shoulder, turning right.

The directions on your app bring the three of you to a stop at a four-story brick building. The ground floor is an antiques shop. Its lights are off, but that isn’t what draws your attention.

There are two doors. One is clearly for the shop. The other is propped open and guarded by a large, burly man that must be security. Behind him is an ascending staircase.

“I think we found it,” whispers Olivia, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

“I think we did,” you affirm, striding forward.

You give the man at the door your name. He only stares at you. You glance at Olivia and Lena who shrug.

Olivia steps forward, giving the man her best smile. “Olivia Mills.” She pauses. “Sir.”

Again, he remains quiet.

Lena sighs loudly and gives her name like it’s an inconvenience.

The man is silent for a few strangled seconds before he grunts and steps to the side.

With a giddy squeal, Olivia snags you and Lena each by a wrist, yanking the two of you forward and into the stairway.

“I swear to God, Oli.”

“Oh hush, Len. It’s your fault you chose the wrong shoes.”

Lena rolls her eyes. “Don’t appreciate my arm being pulled out of its socket,” she mutters.

The stairs are steep, the steps short, and the walls tight. It’s like you’re ascending to an attic space and not the second story of a building. But when Olivia tugs the two of you through the opening and into the room, you forget all about the horrendous stairs.

The space is gorgeous.

It’s an entirely open except for a support column or two. The walls are brick, the floor an aged wood. Above you are exposed beams, metal piping, and thin hanging lights. The far wall that looks out over the street is all tinted window. Directly in front of you is an open bar and a buffet table piled high with all sorts of finger foods. There are a few high-top tables set up in this area.

In the middle of the room are two pool tables. The one furthest from you has a spiral staircase next to it made of a dark metal. A couple people descend from above with drinks in hand. At the far end near the windows are sofas and a few tables.

Music plays from speakers mounted near the ceiling but it’s not overly loud. The noise of the people isn’t that troubling either. It’s rather subdued for such a tight space.

Of everyone here, you recognize almost no one other than a handful of people from 141 Music Group’s primary office. You can pick out those in road crew from their shirts, but everyone else is a toss-up. You wouldn’t even be able to identify the band members of Lechery if you saw them.

And you will meet them. There was an entire portion of your contract that outlined not discussing their identities in public or with unnecessary parties. They’re supposed to be here. But who are they?

Are they even in the room?

“These are some familiar faces.” You glance to your left. The same man that handed you the earplugs at the concert extends his hand. “Alejandro Vargas. Stage Manager.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself. Lena gives the man a little salute and Olivia beams as she greets him.

“We’re your backup singers,” Olivia says brightly.

“For the upcoming tour?” He whistles. “Have you been shown you the markup for the stage yet?”

You shake your head. “No. Not yet.”

He holds up a finger and starts digging around in his pockets. “I have it. It’s—” He pauses, hands tapping against his legs in disbelief.

Alejandro sighs loudly and turns to a nearby high-top. “Rudy! You have my phone?”

Rudy smirks behind his beer bottle. “I gave it to your lighting director.”

Alejandro mutters what you can only assume is a curse in Spanish. He rolls his shoulders, his gaze assessing the rest of the room. “Last time she had it she deleted all my photos and replaced it with a single picture of her middle finger.”

Lena snorts and Olivia’s eyes widen.

“I better find her,” he says, almost absently. “Enjoy the party.” Alejandro inclines his head and starts to walk toward the pool tables. He points, and shouts, “Valeria!”

Over the music, you hear her annoyed response. “What is it now, Alejandro?”

Lena shifts to one leg, popping her hip, a mischievous grin on her face.

“What?” you prompt, because you know she wants to say something but only wants someone to ask.

“I bet they’re fucking,” she whispers.

“Oh my god,” you say to the ceiling as Olivia cackles.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” shrugs Lena.

“I need a drink.” You hook your arm around Olivia’s and start to drag her toward the open bar.

Lena follows, her hand raised placatingly. “We can put money on it now.”

The three of you grab drinks and select a few items from the buffet before a representative of 141 Music Group whisks you away. Then it’s a never-ending stream of people. By the end of all the introductions, the only name you recall without issue is Kate Laswell. But you’ve met her before. She’s band manager, and had a vital part in bringing you on board.

“Are they here?” you ask, indicating the room without trying to look obvious.

Laswell frowns. “Who?”

“Lechery,” you clarify. “We haven’t been introduced to them.”

Laswell smiles softly and gives a little shake of her head like she’s recalling a fond memory. “Behind. They’re always punctual for shows.” She gestures to the room with a little wave of her hand. “Parties and other obligations are an entirely different story.”

She glances over your shoulder and then raises her cup toward someone you can’t see. “There they are.”

You, Lena, and Olivia all turn in the direction of Laswell’s extended arm. At first, you’re not sure who you’re looking at—but then you notice familiar broad shoulders.

The air is sucked from the room. Your vision narrows as if you’re being squeezed through a funnel. Your gaze zeroes in on his face, and when he turns, you follow his line of sight. There are three more faces.

And all four are familiar.

You’re shoved downward. Like Alice falling through the rabbit hole, you descend into old memories.

Of a shady punk bar in London. Of a dark corner where you kissed one and then the others. Of a time when you thought you were mature but were just an ignorant young woman who didn’t understand all the harsh realities the world hoarded in its hungry maw.

Of a summer spent abroad.

Of a love affair that flared hot, and never died out because you left. Returned home. No goodbye.

You know them. All four of them.

Their faces are branded into your brain. A cherished memory you only withdraw from the recesses when you’re needing a bit of comfort.

And you know this face.

Simon.

The one you met first. The one that slipped beneath your skin to make a home, only to crack open your ribcage to allow for more.

He is staring right back at you, and now you know why he paused when he was exiting the stage. He recognized you. That is entirely clear by the crease between his brows.

But it wasn’t just Simon. There were three others.

And those three others are right there, loitering near the bar, completely oblivious.

“Girl, you look sick. Do we need to leave?” whispers Lena into your ear. She has her back to Laswell, her face close to yours. “You okay?”

Over Lena’s shoulder you spot Olivia. She frowns with concern.

They know, but they don’t know. You, Olivia, and Lena have been friends for the last few years. You’ve told them the story of that summer, but they don’t have all the pieces. They are lacking some of the more personal details.

This is not the place to upend that box.

What the three of you need to do is say your goodbyes and leave, but that would be rude. While you’ve done a circuit of the room, most of those were brief introductions, and the whole point of this is to meet people that you’re going to work with for the rest of the year.

You have to stay. You must, and yet you’re fucking terrified.

Because there is nowhere in this godforsaken room to hide. It is completely open.

You have to face them.

“I need some water,” you chuckle, and wince at how insincere you sound.

Laswell has already moved on, speaking to a man in a suit.

“The bar’s right there. We can go grab one.” Lena’s head tilts to the side. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice.

“I’ll grab it. The bartender has to have some bottles back there.” Lena glances away from you and squints. “One of them is walking toward us.”

“Who is?” you ask quickly, fully turning to face the window.

“Blonde hair. Brown eyes. Handsome in a scary way.” Lena’s gaze returns to you and her frown deepens. “Seriously. Are you okay? We can go.”

“Fuck,” you mutter.

“Do you want to sit down?” asks Olivia.

“Please,” you say a little too loudly. You grab Olivia’s arm and head for the sofas over by the windows.

You drop onto the cushion and keep your eyes trained on the traffic below.

Olivia leans in, her blonde curls falling forward. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow harshly and rub at your temple. “Remember me talking about the last time I was in London?”

Olivia’s bottom lip pops out as she thinks about it. “I think so,” she replies slowly. “There were those four guys that you—” Her eyes widen. “Oh shit.”

“Oh shit,” you repeat.

Olivia leans back, and then her gaze shifts. You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

Simon’s scent hasn’t changed, and it invades your nostrils, filling your lungs with him. From your peripheral, he walks into view. All you see are his dark jeans and the bottom of his leather jacket.

You refuse to look up. You refuse.

Simon says your name, and it is so sweet that something in your stomach twists.

Olivia’s gaze flicks between you and Simon, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t greet him, even as he says your name again.

Not looking at him—not addressing him, especially here—is only going to cause more problems. What an impression to make on the first day.

You unglue yourself from the traffic, and it is as if your eyes move through sludge. You are a skeletal creature who claws at its cage seeking the light that is Simon.

Those dark eyes—a whiskey brown—are piercing. And they are just as you remember them.

“Hello, Simon.” You hate the gentle sigh that accompanies your voice.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His brow softens.

“Thought I recognized you.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @miaraei

@cherryofdeath @sapphichotmess @saoirse06 @haven-1307 @ferns-fics

@spicyspicyliving @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower

@sageyxbabey @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @umno-yeah

@mudisgranapat @ninman82 @blackhawkfanatic @contractedcriteria @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @lxblm @beebeechaos @lifes-project @lulurubberduckie

@lovely-ateez @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @suhmie @jaggersinclair

@dakotakazansky @hantheconqueror @certainlygay @sammysinger04 @iloveslasher

@yawning-grave81 @ash-tarte @azkza @daemondoll @yansouleater

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kayden666 @aykxz98 @soapyreaper @statixx-x

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dizzymoods · 7 months

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During the Troubles, Civil Rights Leaders went to Ireland to learn about the plight of the Irish people and to support their fight against colonialism.

Standing on the success of their nonviolent principles which led to civil liberties here (to whatever degree the CRM was successful) and in their ignorance of the history of Ireland, they tried to get the IRA to adopt nonviolent, peaceful civil disobedience.

At the end of their tour of Belfast, where they learned the history and politics of Irish resistance, all of them come to the conclusion that here violence is necessary. The Irish have exhausted all other means including nonviolent ones. Even if some of the CRM leaders maintained nonviolence as paramount, they understood that certain exceptions must be made because — regardless of if they approve of violence or not — their job is to support colonized people and follow their lead.

There is a lesson here that we should apply to the Palestinian struggle.

I’ve seen people pearl clutch over seeing so many dead Palestinians as part of the colonial violence of the camera. This misses the point of why those images are being shared.

Last decade many Black americans, myself included, talked about the commodification of Black death. videos of state murder plastered on every news channel 24/7, going viral across social media platforms connected to the legacy of lynching postcards and gator bait. We demonstrated that those videos rarely got an indictment and only once a conviction. Many of the families of these victims of police murder made it clear they don’t want the image of their loved one to be of death. The reason why we share Michael Brown’s graduation photo instead of the photo of his corpse is because Lesley McSpadden demanded it. With all this in mind, we understand that in most cases the sharing of those images are antiblack.

The Palestinians do not have that history. The Nakba never happened, despite israelis calling this the second Nakba. genocide joe said 40 israeli babies were beheaded after it was found out that the story was some wingnut footsoldier’s lie, not even official israeli hasbara. It was like 2 weeks ago that genocide joe said the number of murdered Palestinians (at the time around 5,000 Palestinians were martyred — the number is now over 10,000) was a Hamas lie.

Linguistically there is no murdered Palestinian. All the headlines read “x amount of israelis killed and some palestinians died”. visually there is no dead Palestinian. official israeli hasbara is trying to flood social media with videos of patient-actors getting into place in Indonesian medical training programs to “debunk” the countless videos of martyred Palestinians.

The denial of the scale of israel’s genocide of the Palestinians is so bad that reporters in Gaza are holding dead children in front of press cameras because Palestinians do not die and are not murdered.

The profit motive of these images is actually in their absence. not their over saturation like with Black americans. The west needs israel as a destabilizing force in the middle east. The strategy of the western media then is to bury these images, to not give them a second of attention. So logically the Palestinian strategy is to proliferate these images to show just how horrifying israel’s crimes are.

Two things can be true at the same time; what works for you doesn’t necessarily work for me etc.

The other thing i’m seeing are liberal frameworks to understand genocide. Of particular ire is desirability politics. *jujubee voice* just say white supremacy.

Desirability is tertiary at best. israel is genociding Palestinians because they want control over Gaza and the West Bank (and Lebanon too). They are not genociding Palestinians because Palestinians are “undesirable.” They make Palestinians undesirable to justify taking their land. Talking about this psychoanalytic bullshit distracts from the primary reason for the displacement and mass murder of Palestinians: the taking of their land.

~*desirability*~ is just one way that israel tries to justify its crimes. Desirability is a circular logic that can only make sense once you manufacture its premise irl. It means nothing without the material conditions it claims are true. Its super easy to call someone an animal after you put them in a cage. It’s super easy to call a people dirty savages after you restrict their access to water. It’s super easy to call someone violent after you sequester them in small, barely livable spaces and stress them with bombings and check points.

It’s also — there’s a way in which opposition to something reifies the very thing that you oppose. Toni Morrison continues to beat everybody’s ass. What does it do when you see a baby with half a skull and say “this happened because she is undesirable”? Undesirable to whom? Not me.

Palestinians are not so passive as to oppose white supremacy and desirability. The Palestinian people are a proactive people. Palestine is the issue. Palestine has a people. Palestine has an ecology. Palestine has life. Palestine is life. Palestinians fight for life. life can neither exist nor blossom under white supremacy.

Any analysis that does not begin with this is a distraction. And distractions only benefit the colonizers.

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coffeeghoulie · 24 days

Text

Mushy May Day 19: Confessions

Aether doesn't know much about fire or water courtship rituals. Ifrit's there to knock some sense into his head.

Thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the divider

this one is a doozy, I wrote this in pretty much one sitting yesterday and it's like four pages? turns out i have a lot of dewther feelings. Contains some (resolved) miscommunication, water/fire hybrid Dew, the first time I've ever written Ifrit, and some of my fire ghoul lore

Aether is, admittedly, not used to other ghouls. Quintessence packs run small, a tight-knit family group at the largest. But this is something else. Ghouls of every element, even some hybrids, all of them mostly cooperating and coexisting as a larger pack than Aether's ever known. He spends a lot of his first few months close to Omega's side, seeking comfort in his fellow quintessence ghoul.

There's one ghoul, however, who's intrigued him from the moment he was pulled from the summoning circle. Quite literally too. There had been hands on his wrists, pulling. One had been Omega, hands that felt familiar even as a stranger. But then the other wrist, fingers almost dainty, barely able to wrap all the way around.

He had looked up, and if the summoning had knocked the breath from his now-corporeal lungs, Aether found it impossible to breathe.

There was a water ghoul standing above him, silver, pin-straight hair falling over his shoulders, almost obscuring the teal gills that line his neck. He's slight, and was staring with wide, bright blue eyes down at him, a hazy lavender coloring his cheeks.

Aether had swallowed hard, tried to shut his mouth because he knew he was staring. But the water ghoul was staring too, and Aether was helped to his feet by the others. Omega had asked his name, draped a purple, starry blanket around his wide shoulders, and with one more glance at the water ghoul, had lead him from the summoning chambers.

He sees him around the pack den, standing alongside a water ghoulette and a fire ghoul who's almost as broad as Aether himself. He learns his name is Dewdrop, that Mist is teaching him bass so he can go along with the Ghost Project to support the third Emeritus brother when they leave on tour again. He watches the way Dew's fingers fly over the fretboard, the way steam curls from his gills when he's stuck on something frustrating. Dew's beautiful, and Aether feels eyes on his back when he's pretending not to stare himself.

They dance around each other for weeks, sharing glances and brushed touches between the den and the practice room, the uniform fittings and Masses.

And then things start to change. Dew actually starts approaching him, asking to practice together, rhythm guitar and bass. Aether's a little too quick to agree, anything to spend a little more time with the little ghoul he's way too infatuated with.

Aether still remembers the first time Dew cornered him after practice, grabbing his hand and unfurling his fingers, intense eye contact as he pressed something hard and smooth into his palm, closing his fingers around it before darting off after Mist. The ghoulette had glanced between the two of them, a smile that was a little too smug and knowing for Aether's taste on her lips.

He looked down into his palm, finding a pretty piece of stone, so dark it's almost black, glittering with quartz all throughout, worn down smooth by water. Aether furrowed his brow, turning the pebble over in his fingers, before taking it back to his room, setting it on a shelf above his desk.

The pebble quickly became part of a collection, various colors and shapes decorating just about every surface in his bedroom. They're all beautiful, and Aether finds himself turning them over in his hands, wondering why Dew's only giving them to him, not sharing them with the rest of the pack.

This continues, even as the Ghost Project sets out to tour. Dew keeps giving him little gifts, pressing them into his hand. The first time they get to stay overnight at a hotel, instead of cramming themselves into tiny bunks on the bus, he and Dew are assigned together. Or maybe, Dew bat his lashes at Terzo and got him to reassign keys. If he did, Dew will never tell. Regardless, they head up the elevator together, bags slung over their shoulders.

Aether slips the keycard into the lock, pushing open the door to a room with two queen beds. Altogether, not a bad hotel room, but he's nearly dead on his feet after that night's Ritual.

"May I make you a nest, Aether?" Dew asks, setting his bag down on the hotel dresser, beginning to rifle through it for a clean set of clothes.

Aether yawns, jaw popping with the force of it. "That sounds great," he says earnestly. "How about I strip my bed and we use both sets of bedding? Make it extra comfortable."

Aether just barely catches the way Dew's eyes light up like neon signs at his words, and the little ghoul nods eagerly. "Go shower, and I'll get it taken care of."

"Thank you, waterlily," Aether says, unable to stop himself from tucking a strand of silver hair behind Dew's finned ear, watching fascinated as that lavender blush spills over the ridge of his nose, the sharp lines of his cheeks.

Aether rushes through his shower, exhaustion bone-deep. He doesn't know how Omega did it for so long. His body aches to flop down into a nest, and he's honestly excited to not have to sleep alone.

He gets out of the shower, roughly toweling off and changing in his haste. Aether steps out of the bathroom, the mirror foggy with steam, and watches curiously as Dew weaves sheets and blankets and pillows together methodically. Eventually, Dew seems satisfied with his work, curling up in the pile of bedding, patting the mattress next to him.

"Come on, big guy, get in here," he demands, but his finned tail is wagging behind him, mussing up the blankets.

He chuckles, climbing into the nest next to Dew, who's quick to curl up against his side, purring like a storm. It's very comfortable, and Aether's happy to have an armful of ghoul, the two of them quickly succumbing to sleep.

The habit keeps, Dew worming his way into Aether's bunk on the bus, insisting they're roomed together for each hotel night.

Dew gets clingier after they start sharing a bed. Aether's not complaining, not by any means, but Dew's always been a little aloof, a stoic little thing. He's close physically, but Aether can feel the way his friend is beginning to drift away mentally, even as they sleep pressed together from torso to tailtip.

It takes a couple of weeks before Ifrit raises an eyebrow as he takes note of their sleeping arrangements, the way Dew's plastered to Aether's side for what feels like every waking moment, every unconscious one too.

He pulls Aether aside backstage one night, and Aether goes willingly. "What's up, big guy?" he asks.

Ifrit scratches at his undercut, his shoulder length hair tied back so he can shove it into the balaclava later tonight. "Aeth. Aether. What do you know about fire ghoul courting rituals?"

Aether's brow furrows hard, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's a little out of nowhere," he sputters. "I mean, nothing, really. I mean, are you asking?"

Ifrit throws his head back in a laugh. "No, I'm not asking for myself, if that's what you're putting down. Me and Zeph are good, not looking for a third quite yet," he chuckles, clapping Aether's shoulder before his expression turns serious, a rare occurrence for the fire ghoul. "Okay, how about this. What do you know about water ghoul courting?"

"Courting?" He can feel the blush spilling across his cheeks as a face flashes in his mind out of his control. Silver hair, teal fins, bright blue eyes. Aether swallows hard, meeting Ifrit's expectant gaze. "Nothing. I barely met any water ghouls in the Pit, wasn't really in a position to learn that part of their culture."

Ifrit nods to himself, taking a deep breath through his nose. He settles both of his hands on Aether's shoulders, leveling him with a look. "Aether, I'm gonna be blunt and I need you not to freak out on me. Dew thinks you're courting him, and he's trying to court you back."

Aether's heart stops, trying to form words but just sputtering. "I didn't- I'm not- How?"

"He's not just water. He's a fire hybrid. I don't know too much about the water courting, but I'd be willing to bet he's been giving you stones?"

Aether blinks dumbly at him. "Yeah, he has. They're all over my room in the den."

"Yep, that'll be it, I think. But the part I know more about are fire rituals. Did he offer to make you a hearth?"

"Dew's never mentioned anything about a hearth, Frit," Aether says, feeling the warmth of his palms as they hold his shoulders still. "I don't know what that is."

"It's a courting nest, Aeth," Ifrit sighs again. "Did Dew offer to make you a nest?"

He blinks up at Ifrit, realization beginning to dawn on him. "He did."

"And you offered your bedding in response, didn't you?"

"I- I did. I offered to strip the other hotel bed to make a nest with," he says, suddenly finding the skin around his glamoured nails incredibly interesting.

"Aether, listen to me," Ifrit says, tipping Aether's chin up to make him make eye contact. "You need to talk to Dew. Tonight. Clear this all up. He's upset because, to him, you reciprocated his intent and now you're giving him the cold shoulder."

Aether opens his mouth to reply, but then there's a call of a half an hour until places. They glance at each other, nowhere near ready, panic filling both of their eyes. "Talk to him," Ifrit stresses as they part, scrambling to the dressing room.

The Ritual, all things considered, goes fine. Aether knows that Dew knows he's looking at him, sees the glint of blue eyes behind the silver mask that obscures the rest of his features. He can't look away. Aether hits his marks, plays his part, but he's staring at Dew, with everything Ifrit told him swirling though his mind like his quintessence.

They step off stage, the ghouls all filing back to the dressing room, sweaty and exhausted. "Dew," Aether says, just loud enough to be heard. The water ghoul whips back, eyes shining through his mask.

"Aether?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to steel himself. It smells like metal, the mask humid with his breath even through the balaclava. "I need to talk to you. Could we find somewhere quiet?"

Dew blinks, the rest of his expression hidden, but Aether, in tune with these kinds of things, can almost smell the apprehension. "Sure. What about?"

"Just-" Aether stops himself. "Not here, come with me?" He holds out his hand, still so strange looking under human skin. Dew's chest heaves as he breathes, considering, before placing his hand in Aether's.

Aether finds an empty room, dark and quiet, herding Dew inside before shutting the door behind them. He finds the light switch, old fluorescents flickering to life. Aether reaches up, grabbing the chin of his mask and pulling it up and off of his head, shoving his balaclava down.

Dew's quick to follow, and once his face is revealed, Aether gets a good look at the almost nervous expression written there, on the most beautiful ghoul he's ever seen, even soaking wet and ruffled. Locks of silver hair stick to his forehead with sweat, and he aches to reach out to tuck them back in place. "Aether?"

His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath, stepping heavily into Dew's space, guiding him to stumble quickly backward until his back hits the wall. Dew's expression hardens, but Aether can taste the undercurrent of fear of being cornered by a much bigger ghoul, caged in by his big arms.

"Hey, Dewdrop," he whispers, voice as gentle as he can make it. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Dew's brow furrows, staring up at him. "You didn't know wh- umph!"

He gets cut off by Aether's mouth on his, the bigger ghoul lunging down to catch Dew's lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. The smaller ghoul squawks in surprise, before melting completely into it. His arms come up and wrap around his neck, clinging to him, human nails digging into his shoulders even through the cassock.

They part, vessels aching for air, eyes wide as they stare at each other. Dew starts laughing incredulously, narrow chest heaving. "You're fucking kidding, Aether, thought you were leading me on."

Aether leans in, pressing his forehead to Dew's. "I didn't know you were trying to court me. I didn't know I had accepted a hearth."

"I mean," Dew stammers, that lilac blush flooding his cheeks again. "If you didn't actually want me to court you, you can forget it happened, I can-"

"Dewdrop," Aether whispers, taking the point of his chin carefully in his fingers, making him meet his gaze. "What about the last five minutes says I don't want this?"

He shrugs, still pinned to the wall. Instead of answering, Dew tangles his spindly fingers in his mohawk, pulling him down into another kiss. And Aether is happy to indulge him.

#this one is like. double the length of the majority of my fics for this month #damn #anyways idk how i feel about how i wrote ifrit #it's time for me to write honeymoon phase dewther lmao #and if the tenses are all fucked up you didn’t see anything #mushy may 2024 #dot's writing #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #dewther

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ladykailitha · 4 months

Text

Icarus Part 1

Hello! I know there are a few minutes left of the poll, but there is nothing that could happen in the next 15 minutes that is going to change the outcome.

3 to 1 in favor of the main story first. The only reason I asked, was because that story has been finished a long time, but this one is just getting started. But the masses have spoken.

Original prompt here.

Summary: Eddie and the Corroded Coffin boys made it big right out of high school. So big that Metallica could open for them. Outselling the biggest bands and artists. They are huge. Then a small little indy metal band called The Fallen comes on the scene. They wear hoods and masks and go by aliases. Eddie (and most of the rest of the metal scene) are dismissive of them. More splash then talent.

Only fans don't thinks so. So when Dustin takes him to one of their concerts Eddie learns two things.

One that they are super talented.

And two, that he knows at least of one the members' of the band's real identity.

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @redfreckledwolf @emly03 @itsall-taken

****

Getting out of Hawkins had always been the dream. Being able to do it with three of the best people he had ever had the pleasure of knowing with their music? That was the cherry on top of the icing.

But Eddie never dreamed that Corroded would outsell one his favorite bands of all time. Never even crossed his mind to dream about.

But there it was in black and white. Corroded Coffin was the highest grossing band of the year. Metallica was seventh. Fuck they had outsold Taylor Swift for Christ’s sake.

Barely.

But it still counted damn it!

What was a surprise was the number nineteenth best selling band of the year. A band he’d never heard of before. The Fallen. It said the genre was metal in that little italic font.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Yeah, it was impossible to listen to every up and coming metal band. But if they had already hit this big with only their second album, surely Eddie would have heard them on the radio.

Only on their last tour Chrissy Cunningham, their beautiful and amazing manager had put an embargo on the radio because the riffs were finding their way into Eddie’s song writing. So he guessed it made sense that he hadn’t heard of them.

So he called the one person he knew who would have all the details on these guys.

“Dusty!” he greeted when the man picked up. Man. Shit, when did they all get so old?

“Eddie!” Dustin greeted back. “Finally back in town?”

Eddie grinned. “You know it. Dude, you know my tour schedule better than Chrissy does.”

“Maybe.”

He laughed. “Guess who hit the top of the most successful metal bands of the decade?”

“Oh my god!” Dustin screamed. “That’s so cool! Is the issue out on stands yet or did you get a sneaky peak for having made it to the top of their list?”

Eddie winced. “Sadly the later. But! I can bring it over to show you when I come to hang out.”

“That’s acceptable,” Dustin said. “Steve just got back in town, too. That label he works for sure does like dragging him all over the world.”

Eddie hummed. “Yeah? Where’d they send him this time?”

“Japan if you can believe it,” Dustin huffed. “He basically came home sometime around midnight and just crashed.”

Eddie didn’t know what Steve and Robin did for the studio, no one did. But the general consensus was that they were dogsbodies of some sort. Getting coffees for execs and stars, driving them places. Just stuff they didn’t want to hire out for, they made Robin and Steve do.

“I won’t be waking him up if I come over, will I?” Eddie asked, biting his lip. He had a crush on the other man. A large one. But fame and fortune kept getting in the way of something more.

“Nah,” Dustin assured him. “He woke up about an hour ago. He’s even showered and eaten. He’ll want to see you as much as I do.”

Eddie very much doubted that, but he was going to take it. “Great! This list is insane, man. I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“Come over for dinner,” Dustin suggested. “We’ll pour over the list over pizza and beer.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re old enough for beer now.”

“Yeah, yeah, old man,” Dustin said. Eddie could feel the eye roll from here.

****

Eddie was watching Steve in interest.

He was walking around like he was used to being in high heels or something, as he would catch himself on his toes and force his feet down on his heels.

He would jump at Dustin throwing open the door. He kept touching his face and rubbing at his throat.

Robin was constantly pushing tea into his hands to get them settle. When they weren’t cradling the tea mugs, they were all over the place. Not just his face. But his back and stomach, too. Rubbing his palms on the front of his jeans.

“Dude!” Dustin hissed. “What is wrong with you? Japan can’t have been that different from America.”

Steve winced from the sound. “Bud, you are seriously being too loud. I told you that I have a migraine.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Hey do you need me to go? Butthead here said you were fine.”

Steve looked up at Eddie and his expression softened. “I’m fine as long as you aren’t yelling like Dusty Buns, here.”

Eddie chuckled. “I hear that. So how was Japan? When me and the boys went a couple years ago it was so beautiful.”

Steve rubbed his forehead between his eyebrows. “I wish I could have seen more of it. It felt like we were running nonstop. At least we aren’t roadies. I don’t think I could do the work they do. They’re the true beating heart of the operation.”

Eddie nodded. “Our last tour we had twelve trucks of roadies and equipment. It was insane.”

Robin grabbed Steve’s cold tea mug and swapped it with a warm one. Steve murmured his thanks. “I’m still not sure if I’m on this time zone yet. And I worry that this fucking migraine may throw me off even further.”

“Is that why Robin is plying you with tea?” Eddie asked. “To keep you awake enough to go bed at the right time?”

Steve nodded, humming contently over the cup of tea. “Nothing caffeinated, not really. Peppermint for the most part, honey lemon, too. She thinks I might be coming down with travelers’ cough.”

Again Steve made an aborted movement toward his face.

“Stop doing that!” Dustin hissed again. “Why do you keep touching your face like that? Did the Tibetan monks curse you or something?”

Robin smacked the back of his head. “That’s China, doofus! And no, no one has been cursed. We had to wear face masks like the surgeons wear for a lot of the trip because there had been a flu outbreak.”

Eddie nodded. “Ooh, yeah. They recommended we wear them too in certain areas, it wouldn’t surprise me if I was that twitchy when we moved to the Australian leg of the tour.”

Dustin eyed Steve warily, like he wasn’t sure if he should believe him or not, but Eddie had backed him up, so Dustin decided to let it go.

For now.

“Where were you touring again?” Steve asked Eddie after taking a long sip from his mug. “South America, wasn’t it?”

“Right in one, big boy,” Eddie enthused. “It was our first time in some of those countries so it was super exciting meeting the people, learning the culture, eating the food. I swear by the end of the tour we had all gained at least ten pounds and that was with us sweating our asses off on stage almost every night.”

Steve winced. “I don’t know how you guys do it, the stage lights we had were merciless.”

“Years and years of practice, Stevie,” Eddie said, “years and years of practice.”

Dustin turned to Eddie. “All right I think I’ve been patient enough, I want to see the top twenty money makers of metal before I vibrate out of my skin.”

Steve laughed and smacked the back of his head. “You know who number one is, why do you care about the other nineteen?”

Eddie shook his head. “Not just metal bands, my weird little friend. But out of all the bands.”

He pulled out the magazine and Dustin snatched it out of his hands, careful not to rip it.

Dustin was furiously reading the list and it was clear that he was looking for someone specific.

“Eureka!” he cried. “I knew it! I knew they were outselling other new metal bands.”

Steve looked over his shoulder. “Yeah? Who’s that, bud?”

“The Fallen!” he cried. “They are so cool man. They have these on stage personas like Daft Punk and they kick ass on stage. I was so bummed when they didn’t come to Pasadena or anywhere near there when they were doing their US leg of their tour.”

Dustin was going to school at Caltech because as much as he wanted to go to MIT his mom was worried about him being by himself, so he moved out to California to move in with Steve.

He was on campus for housing most of the year, but he came home on the weekends and that put Claudia’s mind at rest.

Steve himself had moved out to California a couple of years before. Robin and him had gotten a job at record company and had to move out there to be closer to the headquarters.

Interestingly, or at least to Dustin, Steve’s friends all found jobs out here, too.

“I saw that one,” Eddie was saying. “But I’d never heard of them are they any good?”

Dustin scoffed. “Are they any good? Holy shit are they good.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “They’re a metal band, no offense to Eddie here, but there are only three metal bands on the whole list. Most of them are pop, rap, or country. How good can they be?”

Eddie scoffed and held his hands to his heart. “You wound me!” Then he flopped on the sofa, playing dead.

“That’s what does make them so good, Steve,” Dustin insisted. “Because there are only three metal bands on the list, it means they had to work their asses off twice as hard as the others.”

Eddie popped up. “Yeah, Stevie!” He stuck out his tongue and Steve laughed.

“You got any of the albums?” Steve asked, with a flippant wave of his hand. “If they’re so good, let’s hear them then.”

A shadow crossed over Robin’s face and she looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

****

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

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#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #corroded coffin #rockstar steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson #The Fallen

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iwouldkickahorse · 2 months

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hey, theres a music problem that I need a lot of people to solve

Theres a pretty underground artist named Jhariah, a black 24 year old solo musician with he/they pronouns who grew up in the bronx. He basically just finished touring and is about to release their second lp, trust ceremony.

With about 500 thousand monthly listeners and a few TikTok hits here and there, jhariah feels like one release away from hitting mainstream.

he sites their inspirations from Panic! Mcr, Paramore, and System of a Down and has music similar to will wood’s rock jazz, Jhariah even describes his music as genreless with all drama, here are just a few of his songs

All of these songs are from his next album Trust Ceremony, and this music could be music industry changing

but there is a problem

trust ceremony is being released on april 19th, which we all know a certain pop album will also drop by a certain white girl.

I think this music has the chance to be something big, but Jhariah needs the help to get this music out to the masses because of that album

so please give a bunch of attention to jhariah, and make sure his music gets big

#jhariah clare #jhariah #mcr #my chemical romance #panic! at the disco #paramore #black parade #death of a bachelor #system of a down #indie music #alt rock #dark cabaret #black music #black men #nonbinary #trans #we NEED this to get popular #Get his music out!!!#Spotify

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st-danger · 8 months

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This is not depraved at all (unless you take it there somehow 👀)—so I will completely understand if you ignore this as it is not very on brand. We stan the king of ghoul rimming in this house. I really adore your fic about Copia coming home from tour and big boy Aeth sucking his brain out through his dick. I would love to know when the ghouls decided finally show Copia their faces and how it went. Even as itty bitty headcanons. Really glad to hear your surgery went well btw ♡ and thank you for sharing your writing with us! xx, @ghuleh-recs

It isn't actually an expressly forbidden thing. There's no rule that states the ghouls need their faces covered all the time, around the abbey. On stage, of course, but off? Imperator has never made any such decree. (Nihil never did, either, but we all know who's actually in charge.)

They prefer to keep masked when they aren't around only each other. The door to the ghoul common room is near an annex of the building and is locked for a reason; they prefer privacy. It's a lot of work to keep the human glamour going, and there's something about being seen in their true form, in any level, that feels intimate beyond words.

So, when Aether approaches Copia and lays a hand on his shoulder, leans in and invites him back after mass one night, Copia understands the gravity of the situation when he realizes what it is they want to share with him. And standing by the fireplace once inside, with his dear band ghouls surrounding him...he sees their eyes through the metal, knows how keenly he is being watched. Can feel nervousness that is not entirely his. It feels just as much that he's under a spotlight here, now, as it does when he's on stage for a ritual.

"Will you look human at all?" Copia asks softly, peering up at Aether.

"Some of us do," Aether murmurs. "More than Alpha and Omega. Any of the older ghouls."

He once heard Terzo describe looking at Omega's true face as "confusing". He never asked any follow up questions to clarify that statement, but he's always wondered if confusing meant strange to look at, or strange to look at because his human brain couldn't figure out exactly what it was looking at, in an Eldritch horror kind of way. If hellspawn are naturally just beyond what mortal minds can know.

"Are you sure?" Copia asks, though his hands are already reaching towards Aether's face. "You want me to see you?"

"We want you to know us," Aether replies simply, and carefully, so carefully, Copia slides off Aether's mask, like the metal might turn out to be sugar and splinter and break if he isn't gentle.

It's more human than he expects, but still so unnatural it makes him shiver. He sucks in a breath and takes in Aether's features; the deep grey skin, the fangs poking through black lips. His nose looks crooked, the skin pinched in the angles like it had been broken and stretched. There's texture in the skin that makes it look so distinctly inhuman. Copia looks into lavender eyes and gawks.

"Aether," he says, "you're lovely."

A smiling demon is a sight. Aether looks so pleased, and immediately sighs, shoulders slumping as he relaxes. To his right, Swiss laughs.

"He was so worried," he tells Copia, "you were gonna think he was ugly."

"I wasn't worried," Aether mutters, trying to shrug it off. Copia can tell by the petulant tone Swiss is telling the truth.

"Oh yes you were," Swiss says, and then Copia watches his face revealed, the mismatched eyes, the brilliant white of fangs against skin that looks less like skin and more like a void.

And one by one, they make themselves that much more known to Copia. Rain is the last, and the most hesitant. Dew keeps a hand on the small of Rain's back, a soothing little gesture.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Copia reminds him.

"He wants to," Dew says, answering for Rain. "He's just shy." The pale blue of Rain's eyes flash at Dew, and Copia just knows if he could see the expression right now, it would be a withering thing.

Rain lifts the mask away.

There's a weird iridescent quality to the skin. Copia's brain tells him it's wet, but when he reaches out with an ungloved hand and lays it gently against the angle of a cheekbone, it feels dry and warm. His nose is thin. Flat. Stripes under his jaw reveal gills. And where a mouth would be, Copia finds lips that look half melted together. Distinct in one corner, and like ruined wax on the other side. A feature that tried to form, and melted in the fire during his summoning.

"Is this why you're so quiet?" Copia asks carefully.

Rain nods and lets his eyes close, pressing his cheek into the warmth of Copia's palm.

#st-speaks #ghost #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #aether ghoul #copia #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #papa/aether #copia/aether #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #dew ghoul #sodo ghoul #rain ghoul #ghost fanfiction #ghost headcanons #ghost fic

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dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice · 4 months

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The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Prologue

I'm not super happy with this prologue but I've done my best with it :'). Also I gave God He/They pronouns. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 1227

Warnings: Uhhhh idk unless you count God as one.

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

Prologue // Chapter 1 >

Prologue

Before time began, there was her.

Cælitis (Definition): The divinities who dwell within the celestial planes. (Noun)

The Universe – The Beginning

Perhaps it was a coincidence, or a mistake, or there was something far greater beyond the confines of the ever-expanding walls of the universe. They had accepted solitary, thinking they were the only one, the first, when they awoke to a dark abyss, with the veins of creation pulsating at his fingertips. This was what God thought when they reached out for the first time, light bursting from within, shooting out and collecting into a colossal sphere. A star, he had named it, and he had much fun for who knows how long, floating through the endless vacuum, using these fiery balls of fire and gas to light his way. He would make them every colour he could think of, clumping some together to form the nebulas, or shooting some off into the middle of nowhere, just for the sake of it. Sometimes, he would press atoms so close together they would form rocks of all shapes and sizes, letting them wander and float around until they began clumping together into similar spherical shapes. He even swirled some clusters of stars and rocks around, watching as they turned into disks that would spin forever – galaxies, he decided to label them as. Before long, the universe was scattered with clusters of stars, planets, and whatever else they felt like creating, some so big their size was incomprehensible, others microscopic in comparison, and the rest varying in between.

When God had decided to rest their powers for a short while, he hadn’t expected to awake to the feeling that something was off when he observed his work. A small ripple, something he wouldn’t have picked up on if he knew they were the only being currently in existence. It passed through them, and he quickly shot towards the nebula that sat in the centre of his universal domain, their birthplace, so to speak. And what he came across was something very wrong. And he finally came to the realisation that he wasn’t alone.

It looked like a cloud at first. A dark mass that swirled and flared it tendrils around frantically as it contorted in and out of itself. He wouldn’t have been able to see it if it weren’t for the carnage it had left behind, it’s pitch black silhouette a stark contrast against the flickering specks of light behind it – the broken remains of his precious stars and planets.

Though he did not fear it. They knew that if this being had come into existence, it was here for a reason.

The Goddess was a being not many creatures knew about, and God wanted to keep it that way. He didn’t want anyone to know he had an equal, someone, if aware of everything they could do, could rival him and his authority.

He was Creation, and she was Destruction. Not solely there to destroy everything, no. She was brought into existence to ensure there was change, to make sure God didn’t slow down, always keeping him on his metaphorical feet. He had welcomed change when they had first come across her, but not too much. See, he wanted things to progress, but on his terms, so when the flailing tendrils of the Goddess had parted to reveal a mass of black wings and hundreds of very curious eyes peering up at them, he immediately took them under his own wings, teaching them the timeline of the universe around them. Her naivety hadn’t flown past him, she had just come into existence after all, and at this realisation he was delighted.

Billions of years passed by under the tutelage of God, telling the Goddess that she was his creation, what was divine and what was sacrilege. She absorbed it all, enchanted by the ways of what she believed to be her ‘creator’.

At one point, Destruction was overseeing a supernova just outside the Andromeda galaxy when God had approached her, eager to show her something. Reluctant but curious, she agreed, allowing them take her to another celestial plane, gesturing his arms out wide and welcoming her to Heaven.

He introduced her to his creations, his hierarchy of the divine. From the Seraphims, all the way down to the angels. For a time the Goddess resided with them, telling them about her ways of existence, though it wasn’t always received positively. In fact, there was only one creation that was intrigued by her path of dismantlement, a chirpy seraphim named Lucifer, who would spend most of his free time following her around with wide eager eyes, asking questions a mile a minute. The Goddess would always answer truthfully, and soon enough God began to grow weary of the friendly exchange between the two.

It wasn’t long before he was dragging her back through the planes, until they came across a very colourful planet. Entering through the atmosphere, the two floated down until they arrived on top of wall that encased a very interesting sight.

For as far as the eye could see, there was desert, but within the confines of this wall was a lush paradise, filled to the brim with every possible plant. The Garden of Eden.

God revealed two creatures that he had brought into existence, their names Adam, and Lilith, and they were to create the human race. Though his idea didn’t last very long – Lucifer had trailed after the Goddess into Eden one day, going off on another one of his excitable tangents on whatever was flying through his head at the time, when he had come face to face with the cunning and evaluating eyes of Lilith.

Obviously most know what happened after that, and God had quickly created Eve, but when she and Adam both failed his expectations after Lucifer and Lilith tempted them with the apple from the tree, he soon made changes.

The Seraphim and his new wife were cast down into a new celestial plane called Hell, and God then turned to the Goddess, seething, accusing her – that she had planted those thoughts and questions into his creation’s mind. They wouldn’t hear any excuse, leaving her until near the end of Adam and Eve’s once immortal life on Earth.

When he approached her again, they said he had a new job for her, and she followed, hopeful for their friendship to be restored, though doubts began to creep into her mind when she saw what was before her.

Purgatory, he had revealed it to be, was where she would take mortal souls after their physical body expired and sort them between Heaven and Hell. Next was the Underworld, where, if a soul was displaced in either of the two afterlives, it would go there to remain for eternity, or if she decided to send it back to Earth to be reincarnated. It was her new domain, where she would reside when she wasn’t on Earth collecting new souls.

Distressed, the Goddess asked why she was to do this, but God said nothing, only explaining further on what her new purpose entailed, and she grew more and more distraught at the new path he had laid out in front of her. She was no longer to be regarded as Destruction, but instead would spend the rest of eternity to be called a new, more fitting name, one he thought described her purpose of being perfectly:

Death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Prologue // Chapter 1 >

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blouisparadise · 11 days

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Here are some amazing bottom Louis fics that were posted or completed during the month of May. We really hope you enjoy this list. Happy reading!

1) My Heart's In Overdrive, And You're Behind The Steering Wheel | Explicit | 1,649 words

Being late to class means Harry and Louis have to pose together for figure drawings. That being said, the hate each other, but maybe they don't?

2) It's A Question Of Lust, It's A Question Of Trust | Explicit | 2,258 words

Louis is shaken up after being assaulted at the barricade in Panama City and feels guilty, he can't get it out of his head. Harry knows what he needs to escape the worry. Harry steps over, speaking quietly into his ear. "Good boy, doing as I asked." He looks beautiful, his skin golden, dark nipples puckered, his cock starting to get hard. His breath already ragged. "Not that you always do, eh?" "Sir?" His blue eyes stare at Harry, nervous, uncertain. "Letting those tarts fondle and grope you after each show. When you know you belong to me."

3) If Walls Could Talk | Explicit | 2,394 words

Louis is waiting backstage for Harry after his second show in Coventry. It's their last night together before Louis leaves for his own tour. Harry's mission for the evening is to worship Louis' body and make him see himself through Harry's eyes.

4) In An Octopus's Garden With You | General Audiances | 4,682 words

Autistic alpha Harry, a teacher, spends an overwhelming day on a field trip to the aquarium. Luckily, his omega, Louis, knows just what he needs.

5) I Didn't Have To Search Cuz I Still Know Your Number| Explicit | 5,161 words

As Louis approaches the front of the old flat he sees a light on upstairs in what used to be their master bedroom. A memory flicks through Louis’ mind of Louis spread open on the duvet with Harry between his legs nipping and sucking on his hole while Louis whimpered and writhed, clutching the sheets and moaning out Harry’s name. Louis looks down to see his dick at half mass and sighs. Louis flicks the butt of the cigarette to the ground and pulls his phone back out of his pocket. He exits the Uber app and pulls up his contacts, scrolling down to the H’s until he lands upon Harry’s name in his phone. He pulls up their messages and sees the last time they talked was right after the break up all those years ago. Louis begins to type out a message to Harry, hoping he hasn't changed his number. Louis: U up? (sent at 1:14am)

6) You Have Me | Not Rated | 5,529 words

Louis is escaping his mundane reality, avoiding his fiancée, and going to an anonymous hook up party in the woods. When the mysterious stranger who has been eyeing him all night asks him to come back to his tent, Louis is game for anything. He doesn’t know that he’s going to get an offer he can’t refuse.

7) All My Life | Not Rated | 5,553 words

The four times Harry tries to propose and the one time he gets it right (or does he?)

8) Limping In The Limelight | Explicit | 5,832 words

Harry breaks his accessory navicular during a concert in Birmingham in 2015.

9) I Like to Watch | Explicit | 9,287 words

If there’s one thing Harry loves, it’s watching his husband Louis get fucked by other men. After picking up a lad called Zayn who is baffled by this concept, the three men are in for a wild night.

10) House Husband | Mature | 11,853 words

Louis and Harry are happily married with two beautiful kids. Harry is a lawyer who provides for his family and Louis is his sassy house husband. This is a week in their life.

11) For A Sushi Restaurant | Explicit | 13,345 words

And yet, in the depth of the sea, where water started to go from that sky blue to the dark petrol blue, almost black, of the unknown, creatures moved, ready to attack at a moment’s notice, sleek tails and pale, blueish skin helping them with mimesis. Or, cecaelia Harry and human Louis.

12) Peaches And Soft Myth | Explicit | 36,192 words

“Greta kissed me,” he said at last. It wasn’t the main issue, but it was a start. Louis’ smile was radiant. Eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. Harry’s stomach felt a little funny, wishing he could feel as happy as the cheerleader. "Oh, my god? We did it! I’m a genius ! Was it long? Slow and sensual, full of lust and passion, tongues intertwined—" he gasped. “Did she tremble in your arms?” He hugged himself. “That’s not—” “No one believes me when I say I am a good matchmaker. They are always like, ‘Oh Louis, you have the worst eye for couples and men. You always miss the real connections.’ Who missed now? Not me. Nuh-hu, I saw the potential. Your grumpy attitude did not deter me. I'm probably the greatest matchmaker on campus. Don’t you think?” Louis’ smile faltered. “Wait… why do you look as if you were about to throw up?” “She told me her roommate leaves for a few days after spring break. She invited me to her dorm room.” “Okay?” Louis said slowly. “Am I missing something? Is it about clothes? Because I can totally find something—” Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not about that.” “Then what?” “I…” Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m a virgin.”

13) The Maddest Obsession | Explicit | 100,974 words

One fears the dark. One rules it. Harry Styles, the dangerous mob enforcer, finds himself entangled with Louis, the strong-willed mafia-princess. As they navigate the treacherous underworld of New York, their forbidden love sparks a deadly game of loyalty, betrayal, and passion. Will their devotion to each other overcome the chaos surrounding them, or will their love be their downfall?

14) At Our Seams | Explicit | 185,290 words

Newly mated and happily engaged Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson, are moving into a new phase of their lives. Together, their world felt complete. However, the world beyond their bubble has been strung into chaos. Political strife is raiding the streets and oppressive policies are being enacted everyday. Louis is desperate for something to change, to finally set the record straight for omegas and non-soulmate children everywhere. Harry is determined to keep his mate safe, even if it goes against Louis’ wishes. Unfortunately, he can’t control everything, and things quickly fall out of his hands. Who’s this new alpha who’s entered the beloved couple’s life, giving Louis another purpose Harry hadn’t been expecting? What happens when the soulmates don’t exactly see eye to eye? Will the protective alpha get his wishes, or will he concede to his cherished but oh, so stubborn omega? How strong are the seams that bind? Only time will tell.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

You can find other monthly roundup fic rec lists here.

#bottom louis #top harry #larry #larry fics recs #monthly fic recs #blp

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forlorn-crows · 4 months

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And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

146 notes · View notes

cowpokeomens · 6 months

Text

Dress

Pairing: Will Ramos x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: 18+ this is straight up self-serving porn!!!!!!! Minors go away!!!! Anyways this has got everything: Biting, p-in-v, blowjobs, fingering (female receiving), breeding kink, big ole praise kink, me projecting how badly I want to swallow William's load, I think that's it but by all means DM me or reply if you think I should add something!

Literally no one hmu unless it's to talk about this photo. It has nothing to do with the story but I wanna fuck him so bad so I'm putting it here. It's my blog I do what I want.

Yes I was listening to Dress by Taylor Swift as I wrote this!!!! Yes it's one of the horniest songs in her discography!!!! Leave me alone!!!!

Anyways.

This is straight up porn, no plot in sight, no beta because I'm insane, no fucks given because I'm a whore! Enjoy.

____________________________________________

Will was about to vibrate out of his fucking skin.

He’s irritable, too- a far cry from his usual “Sunshine and Rainbows” disposition. People kept trying to make conversation, ask him about the tour, compliment the new album. It would end with a curt, “Yeah, it was a lot of fun,” as his eyes would be dragged from whoever he was talking to back to you.

The dress was unfair. It was diabolical, even. He searched his memory, trying to come up with a reason you’d put him under such physical and emotional duress. He did the dishes last night, made breakfast this morning- he even folded the laundry! In terms of “deserving of death by nefarious garments,” his conscience was clear.

Yet there you were, clad in the slinkiest little black dress that he never knew you owned. You had spent hours in front of the mirror, perfecting your makeup, carefully styling your hair. It had been fun for him to watch; Fun to listen to your “Ultimate Emo” playlist and jam out while you painstakingly applied a swipe of lipstick, a striking mark of eyeliner. It was fun.

He stopped having fun the moment you stepped out in the goddamned thing.

“Zip me up?” You had asked, batting mascara-ed lashes at him sweetly. His brain had short circuited for a second, rebooting completely when it started overheating. Zip you up? He wanted to eat you up, toss you over his shoulder like a caveman and keep you in bed for hours.

“Where are you going in that?” He asked incredulously. Your breasts were about to fall out, fabric clinging to the small of your waist. There were other details- lace and ribbons and shit he didn’t have the vocabulary for when his head was running on all cylinders, much less now. You turned around so he could reach the zipper better, and he genuinely wondered if the anime nosebleeds were onto something with how quickly the blood rushed to his cock at the sight of your ass stretching the fabric.

“Um, to the jamboree your label is hosting?” You retort with a giggle. “C’mon, we’re going to be late to this shindig if we don’t leave soon.”

He had complied, after some whining, zipping you up and kissing you softly on your shoulder, willing his cock to miraculously soften.

Then you had arrived, and he was swept away by record executives, you saw a group of gal-pals, and he had to keep his hands to himself.

For hours.

Will’s hands itched with the urge to reach out and touch you, twitching at his sides. Someone said something that must have been fucking hilarious, because you were laughing, head thrown back, chest heaving-

I can’t do this. He thinks to himself. This is a task for men stronger than me.

Quickly downing the last dregs of his cocktail, he impolitely excuses himself from the group he was speaking with, maneuvering through the mass of people to where you stood.

“Hi baby!” You call when he enters your line of sight, smiling brightly. You’re in a small group of people who also greet Will upon his arrival, immediately asking about the tour.

“It was a lot of fun, thanks for asking.” Will mumbles distractedly, eyes never leaving you. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand, love bug?”

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “Oh, sure.” You quickly excuse yourself from the group, leaving with warm goodbyes and tight hugs. Will thinks he’ll catch on fire before the two of you make it out of the building, but then you’re walking over to join him, the two of you quickly working through the crowd.

“Is everything okay, Will?” You ask when you’re both out of earshot. Concern is evident in your tone, and Will fights the urge to smooth the crease between your eyebrows with a kiss.

“Yeah, just itchy is all.” He murmurs to you, placing a kiss on the top of your head as you both exit the building. Itchy was a good word; He was practically crawling out of his skin with the urge to get you undressed, underneath him.

Guilt overtook your pretty features. “Oh baby, was the party too much? If you felt overstimulated, we could have left earlier-”

“No, I’m fine, pretty girl, really. It’s just-” He sighs, stopping in the parking lot to dig his keys out of his pocket.

“Did I do something?” You sound so sad, eyes widening. Will could practically see your mind sifting through the evening, trying to find some misstep.

“No, no baby- stop. I can see you overthinking, you didn’t do anything wrong, I just-” He sighs again, pausing by the car now. He glance around the two of you, making sure you were alone, before guiding your hand to his groin.

Your eyes went dark at what you found there. “Holy shit, you’re- how long?” You stammer, sounding hoarse.

“Ever since you put on that fucking dress.” He admits sheepishly.

“C’mon.” You nod towards the car, motioning for him to get inside.

You made quick work of shutting your door, Will about to start the car when you stop him.

“Leave it off.” You command, making his eyebrows shoot up in question. “Less conspicuous.”

“Less conspicuous for wha-” Will’s question was cut off as your lips locked with his in a searing kiss. You gripped his shirt in your hands, dragging him closer to you.

“All hard for me, huh?” You whisper against his lips.

He’s nodding before he realizes it. “So hard, baby, all fucking night, all for you.”

You’re nodding with him, already drunk off of the power you have over him. “Let’s get you taken care of then, yeah?”

You tear your lips away from his to better unbutton and unzip his pants, tugging the fabric down the best you could in the cramped space. He hisses as you pull his briefs down so that his cock can spring free.

“Holy shit.” You breathed, taking him in.

He’s always been big- you were familiar with that part- but you’d never seen him after being hard for hours. The veins on his cock were bulging angrily, the tip shiny with precum and deliciously red.

“Poor thing,” you say in a saccharine voice, leaning in to kiss the cherry-red tip.

He outright keens at that, hips barely jerking up, like it was taking everything to hold himself down. “Don’t be mean, pretty girl.”

You give him one last grin before you’re swallowing him down, stopping three-quarters of the way down to soothe your gag reflex.

“Fuck-“ Will gasps into the air, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair. His grip tightens, and you feel your control over the situation slipping away. “Fucking tease tonight, huh? Not enough to wear your slutty little dress, couldn’t wait to get my cock in your mouth either, could you?”

You whimper almost silently at his words, but he feels the vibrations of it on his cock. “Little slut likes that? Does she want me to use her pretty mouth?” He continues, pulling you up by your hair just enough for you to be able to speak.

You relinquish any semblance of control you had when you manage a small, “Please.”

He grins at you, so far from his regular, cheerful smile, and pulls you in for one last kiss. It’s sloppy and wet and wonderful, and you’re almost sad when he yanks you away by your hair again to guide you down to his cock.

“Open.” He commands, the gruffness of his voice making you quickly do as you were told. His cock is in your throat immediately, but before you can gag, he’s pulling you back up roughly. You manage half a gasp of air before you’re being shoved back down, swallowing him again. He continues fucking your face at a brutal pace; Soon spit is covering your chin, and you can feel you mascara running down your cheeks in the form of tears.

“So fucking good for me.” Will grunts, hips thrusting up to meet your face. “Such a good girl, taking what she’s given.”

The praise makes you moan- or at least, as much as you could with him fucking your mouth so thoroughly. You’re lost in the sensation of him so deep in your mouth, breathing deeply through your nose as he uses you. His thrusts start becoming irregular, a chant of your name and “fuck” falling from his lips as his movements grew shorter and shorter.

Oh, you think. He’s so close, you can see it in the tension of his body, in the drawn-up expression on his face. You want nothing more than for him to finish in your mouth, to make you swallow it down, but he pulls out abruptly, chest heaving with labored breaths.

“Is something wrong?” You’re pouting, you can feel yourself pouting.

He sees your face and huffs a laugh, still panting. “Pretty girl wants my cum that bad?”

His words- the vulgarity of them- color your cheeks pink. Although… Yeah. That was exactly what you wanted. You nod, the smallest movement.

You think you hear him stop breathing, but then he speaks again. “C’mere, honey, I’ll give you what you need.” He motions to his lap, where his cock is beckoning you like a siren at sea. You hastily go to unzip your dress, but he stops you. “Leave it on.” His gaze drags down your form, back up to your throat, where his eyes linger for a moment before he’s looking into your eyes again. “Leave all of it on.”

His words make you shiver, but you obey, crawling over to straddle his lap. He yanks your panties to the side in record time, immediately thrusting two fingers into you. You mewl at the sensation, eyes squeezing shut as your hand comes up to slap over your mouth to muffle the sound.

“Nuh uh, let me hear.” His voice is in your ear, nose rubbing against the lobe of it. “Let me hear your pretty sounds- God, you’re so fucking wet.”

You could hear him moving his fingers inside you, even over your own noises. You grind down into his hand without consciously realizing you’re doing so, chasing the pleasure his fingers brought you. You open your eyes blearily, wanting to see him, only to find that he’s studying that same spot again, right at the base of your neck. Jutting your chin up so that your throat is completely vulnerable, you give him a meaningful look.

He accepts the offer, teeth coming down to bite at your pulse point. The moan that escapes you is profane, dwindling to the pathetic whimper of an injured animal as he sucks at the skin where he bit, soothing it with his tongue. Your chest is next, ample cleavage on display for his lips to lock onto, sucking a hickey into the sensitive skin with ease. The hand that’s not fucking into you grips onto your waist to leave another bruise, pulling you impossibly closer.

You know what he’s doing- Marking what’s his, letting everyone know who you belong to. And you couldn’t care less about the perception of it, lost in the pleasure of his lips and the sensation of being owned. Arching into his mouth, your hands tangle in his hair as your legs start to quiver with unadulterated want.

“‘M close, Will I’m-” You pant, tugging at his hair desperately.

“I know, pretty girl, be good and come for me so I can fuck you properly.” He whispers into your neck, and that’s all it takes to hurtle you over the edge, shaking with your orgasm even as he replaces his fingers with his cock.

It’s so much more- more girth, more length. It stretches you, fills you up to the brim. You’re still in the aftershocks of coming as he starts fucking you in earnest, yanking you into his chest until you feel like you can’t get a breath in. You’re practically wailing, the sensitivity of getting fucked so quickly after orgasming overwhelming, but it’s perfect.

“You’re my girl, right?” He’s grunting, holding you stationary while his hips rock up into you at break-neck speed. “My pretty girl, all mine.”

You nod, incoherently babbling, “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours-”

“Want my cum?” He pulls back just enough to look in your eyes. It’s all love there- an all-consuming love that illuminates his gaze like a flame. “Want me to fill you up? Put a baby in you- Keep a baby in you?”

You’re nodding again, unintelligible sounds falling from your lips in response. “Please.” You finally manage to stammer out.

He’s almost smiling, a joyous kind of pleasure overtaking his features as his thrusts grow erratic for the second time that evening. Your grip on him tightens as you feel yourself get closer and closer, tears springing in your eyes from the overstimulation.

It hits you like a fucking train, face curled into his neck in a silent scream, legs spasming in every direction. He fucks you through it, coming in hot spurts inside you, thrusts growing sloppier until he finally nestles himself deep within you, setting you down gently in his lap again.

You’re panting and trembling, completely collapsed against his chest. The both of you sit like that a few long minutes, his hand rubbing at the exposed part of your back soothingly. When you feel an iota of strength return to your body, you’re craning your neck up to kiss his cheek.

He’s grinning, turning to look down at you. “Well shucks, thanks for the kiss, honey.”

You’re giggling with him, pushing yourself up so that your back is straight. You hiss as the movement moves him inside your sore hole, a shudder passing through your body.

“You better cut that out, I’ll fuck you again if you’re not careful.” He warns teasingly, hands gripping your hips lightly.

You flash him a grin, and then ready yourself for the chore of him pulling out. You know it’s going to be tender, but you still yelp as he slips out of you. Flopping into your seat, you give yourself another minute to collect your breath. He tucks his cock away, zipping up his pants carefully and starting the car.

You zone out for a moment, only recognizing the long silence that has stretched between the two of you after a few minutes more have passed. You look over at him, a question on your lips, when the look on his face makes you pause.

He’s staring in between your legs, a small pout on his face. “It’s leaking out.”

You throw your head back, barking a laugh at his distress. “I have an IUD as well, my love, I don’t think it’ll work no matter how hard you try.”

His eyes go dark at your words. “Then I’ll just try harder next time.”

Before you can respond, the car is in drive, and you’re headed home. You quickly buckle your seat belt, pulling down the passenger mirror to clean yourself up, stopping when you catch the first glimpse of your reflection.

Your makeup has smeared everywhere. Black streaks run down your cheeks in rivulets, your lipstick smudged around your mouth. Your tits are littered with bruises, lovebites of various colors decorating your skin. You look like a slutty fucking mess, You think to yourself. You’re searching for a napkin to wipe your face when Will speaks up again.

“Leave it.” He flips on his turn signal, pulling onto your street. His jaw is tight, and you swear you can see a bulge in his trousers. He turns to look at you as he puts the car in park in front of your house, eyes already glossed over again. “Leave all of it.”

#will ramos x reader #will ramos smut #will ramos fanfiction #will ramos fanfic #cowpokeomens

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ramblingoak · 6 months

Text

Happy Lasagna Day

For @madisyn-grace 💙 Happy (belated) Birthday!

Papa Emeritus IV x Female Reader ~ Today is your birthday but as the hours pass without Copia saying anything you get more and more upset...

Warnings: a smidge of angst, Copia being a sweet dork, body worship, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v sex, nsfw, 18+ only mdni, 3200 words

~~ thank you @foxybouquet for the Italian help and @gothdaddyissues for the dividers ~~

You couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.

Granted he had been very busy preparing for the tour. Budget meetings, costume fittings, practicing with the ghouls…it all was very time consuming. You tried your best to keep him on schedule, that was your job after all, but it was easy for little things to slip through the cracks. A missed lunch with Imperator here, a missed phone call with Saltarian there. It happens and those were easy to reschedule. But today was different, today was supposed to be for you and despite writing it on his calendar and setting an alert on his phone Copia still hadn’t told you the words you’ve been waiting for.

He still hadn’t wished you a happy birthday.

You hadn’t been upset when he was already gone from bed that morning, there was an early budget meeting he needed to get to and he hated waking you up if you weren’t needed as well. Even when your paths had crossed mid-morning without anything more than a kiss on your cheek you were ok. He had been running late and after leaving a smear of black lipstick on you he’d taken off down the hallway, his robes swishing around his ankles. Copia and the ghouls had a dress rehearsal from lunch time through most of the afternoon and while you normally would watch today you had your own budget meeting you weren’t able to skip out on.

So after all of that you had tracked him down, finding him with his nose buried in paperwork at his desk. He was mumbling something in Italian so fiercely under his breath he didn’t even notice when you sat down in one of the chairs across from him. The growing irritation you had felt through the day was threatening to boil over as you watched him. You knew he was busy but today was supposed to be special! Copia was always the best at birthdays! He always picked out the most thoughtful gifts for you and would spend the day pampering you. At this point in the day you knew you were going to sound pissy but you couldn’t help it.

“Copia, do you know what today is?”

“Today?” He didn’t even pause in his writing as he answered. “I think today is the day I finally murder Terzo so I don’t have to suffer through reading his shit handwriting ever again.”

Normally him insulting his brother would make you laugh but instead you just gritted your teeth before you tried again.

“No, that is not what today is.”

“No?” He leaned back in his chair, rolling his neck to ease the ache he always got by the end of the day. “There’s not a Black Mass tonight is there? I swear Sister will find any excuse under the su–”

“No, Copia. There’s not a Black Mass.”

“Ah, bene. Well then I’m not sure wh–oh no. Dolcezza!” Copia shoved his chair back and walked quickly around his desk, his hands reaching out for yours. With an exaggerated groan he dropped to his knees in front of you. “Mi dispiace. I can’t believe I forgot what day it is.”

He looked so disappointed in himself you squeezed his hands, your irritation already melting away.

“Copia, It’s ok. You’ve been so busy, I underst–”

“I know how much you enjoy lasagna day in the cafeteria.”

“What?”

He grinned and dropped a few sloppy kisses into your palms before jumping up and going over to the phone on his desk.

“Lasagna day! I will call over to them and have some brought to us. That sounds perfect, no?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” It took you a moment before you realized you had said that outloud but at this point you didn’t even care. “That’s what you think today is?!”

“I thought you liked lasagna day!”

“Copia, if you say lasagna day one more time I will burn the abbey to the ground.”

“Ai, ok ok.” He placed the phone receiver back in its cradle and fidgeted for a moment, seemingly glancing around the room for ideas. “Can I have a clue?”

With a growl you jumped up from the chair and started stalking towards the door. Copia called your name and asked you to wait but you ignored him, ripping the door open and practically fleeing towards you and Copia’s quarters. Papa Emeritus or not, you’d barricade the door so he couldn’t get in. You’d have a nice, quiet birthday evening with yourself and no one else. Well, just you and Copia’s rats. Copia could sleep on the floor of his office for all you cared.

Your irritation waned as you got closer to home. You felt bad being so angry at him, especially with everything he had going on, but it stung to have him forget. To have him be so absorbed in so many different things and lose track of something important to you. When you got to the door you took a moment after slipping the key in and rested your head against the cool wood. Maybe you wouldn’t make him sleep in his office tonight, but he definitely needed to make it up to you. With a sigh you opened the door but after just a few steps inside you froze, your mouth dropping open at the sight before you.

“Oh.”

The main room was awash in the soft glow of dozens of candles. There was one practically on every available surface. Any other free space was taken over by flowers, bouquets of every shape and size scattered around the room. They were your favorite kinds, all delicately tied together with ribbon. A trail of loose petals led from the door to the coffee table in front of the couch and you slowly made your way over. In the middle of the table was a small card, your name written on the front in Copia’s delicate handwriting. With shaking fingers you picked it up, tears already forming in your eyes as you read what he had written down.

“Will you forgive me?” The sound of his voice startled you and you dropped the note as you spun around. “Can you forgive an old man like me?”

“You’re not old Copia.” When he reached a hand out for one of yours you sighed and let him have it, smiling softly when he brought it up to his lips to kiss the back. “It’s ok.”

“Ach, no. No, it’s not ok.” He was shaking his head vigorously, his salt and pepper hair bouncing out of its neat style. “I remembered while we were practicing ‘Rats’, right in the middle of Dewdrop’s solo. Made everyone stop while I panicked about it.”

You took a step closer, reaching up to brush some of the hair off his forehead.

“You could’ve called me or sent me a text when you realized.”

“I know I should have but I started thinking of how I could make it up to you and well,” He waved a hand around the room. “We ended practice early and the ghouls set all this up. I thought it would be a nice surprise but I shouldn’t have waited until the end of the day to show you.”

“It is a nice surprise, Copia. It’s beautiful.” You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. “Grazie, Papa.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Oh, I suppose so.” You stepped closer again so you were pressed against his chest, your fingers fiddling with the buttons of his robes. “You’ll have to make it up to me though.”

“Will I? What will it take?” He shrugged off his robe and let it fall to the ground. You made sure to kick it further away from the nearest candles. Despite your threat earlier you didn’t actually want to burn the abbey down. Copia was left in his favorite pants with just his frilly sleeved shirt and vest on. “How can I make it up to you?”

“A kiss. To start with.”

“Un bacio?” He slipped his arms around your waist and leaned in to brush his lips against yours. It was so soft and sweet you just wanted to melt against him. He hummed as he pulled away, reaching up to sweep a thumb across your bottom lip. “That’s a small price to pay.”

“I said to start with, Copia.”

“Ah, silly me. Should have known you’d demand more.”

He leaned in again and you met him half way, the kiss this time far less sweet. His mouth was demanding, his tongue soon pressing between your lips and flicking against your own. A deep groan echoed in his chest when you nipped at his tongue and he quickly pushed one of his hands into your hair to angle your head better. His other hand slid down your back and grabbed your ass, his fingers flexing against you through your habit. It wasn’t long before you had to break away, gasping for air and trembling against him.

“Copia. Copia, please.”

"Sì, dolcezza? What does my birthday girl want?”

“You. I want you. I need you, Copia. Please.”

Your only answer was another fierce kiss, but it was all the answer you needed. He started to walk you back towards the bedroom, his hands steady on your hips to keep you from tripping. When the back of your knees hit the bed you sat down, your breath shuddering out of you when he dropped to his knees before you.

“You deserve to be worshiped, dolcezza. Not just on this day, but every day for the rest of your life.” He gently slipped your shoes off, setting them to the side before gripping one of your stocking covered feet and beginning to massage the bottom with his thumbs. His eyes trailed up your body, from your toes to your face and he gave you one of his dirty grins before speaking again. “Will you let me worship you?”

“Whatever you want, Copia.”

“I want you. Always.” He slid his hands from your feet up your legs, only stopping when he reached the top of your stockings. Copia ran his fingers along the sensitive skin there before tugging them down. He dropped kisses along your skin as it was exposed, leaving black lipstick marks on your thighs, your knees and all the way down to the top of your feet. When he set the stockings aside he caught your eyes again, the grin coming back when he noticed how heavily you were breathing. “Beautiful, you are so beautiful covered in my kisses.”

Copia stood up then, his hands going to his vest to work on getting it off. When he was finished and it was on the floor you reached up to help him with his shirt. Desire making both of your hands a little shaky but when it was finally undone it joined everything else on the floor and your hands were on Copia’s chest, your fingers tangling in his chest hair and your mouth leaving your own kiss marks on his belly and sides. You kept going until his hand tangled in your hair and he tilted your head up to meet his gaze.

“Is this ok?”

He smiled, nodding softly before leaning down to capture your lips with his for a moment.

“It is more than ok, dolcezza. But I think tonight should be about you, eh?”

Well, you weren’t going to argue with him. You smirked and grabbed the hem of your habit, yanking it up and over your head in one quick movement. It had barely hit the floor before he had you scooting back on the bed so he could crawl on after you. He planted his knees between your legs and dropped down to kiss along the inside of one of your thighs. Copia held your other thigh, massaging your flesh as his kisses got closer and closer to your cunt.

Your panties were already soaked and Copia groaned when he was close enough to smell how aroused you were. He ran a finger up and down the wet fabric, applying more and more pressure on each pass. When his finger pressed against your entrance you cried out, hooking a leg around his waist to try to get him closer.

“Copia! Please.”

“Easy now, your Papa will take care of you.”

You let your leg fall away and he scooted down so his face hovered over your cunt. His hot breath fanned across your damp skin and you began to tremble even more than you had been. He placed a hand back on your thigh, his eyes watching as he ran it up and down your skin. His fingers digging into your flesh periodically. When his hand finally got close to your cunt again he pushed your panties out of the way and pressed his thumb between your lips, rubbing it right over your wet entrance.

“Fuck.”

“Not yet, dolcezza, but soon.”

His eyes didn’t leave your cunt as he continued to rub his thumb back and forth. Your entrance started to spasm, your body desperate for him to be inside of you. He groaned at the sight, hooking his thumb right at the rim and then pressing his mouth in. As his tongue flicked and swirled over you it felt like stars were bursting in your vision. Copia pressed closer, his tongue going as far as it could inside of you while his nose rubbed against your clit.

When your legs began to shake he moved his mouth away and ran his tongue up to your clit. He sucked it between his lips while two of his fingers pushed inside of you. They pumped back and forth, keeping a steady pace while he teased your clit with his tongue and teeth. It was starting to feel like something was going to explode inside of you, the pleasure building up to such a great height you didn’t have the strength to keep your eyes open. It wasn’t until he growled your name out that you were able to look down again, your eyes meeting his over your trembling body.

“Watch me, dolcezza.”

You obeyed, your mouth falling open as he lowered his to your flesh again. The noises he was making as he tasted you were loud in the room. Deep moans as he continued to fuck you with his fingers and lick up the moisure you were creating. As his fingers stroked across your inner walls you felt your peak hit you and with a wail you fell over the edge, gasping as wave after wave of pleasure ran over you. You had no idea how much time had passed when you finally came back to yourself, your eyes slowly blinking open to find Copia watching you, his mouth pressed against your belly.

He gave you a quick smile before pressing more kisses across your skin. His lipstick was mostly gone, but you could feel the moisture from your cunt being rubbed across your stomach. Copia moved to the side, teasing his teeth across whatever skin he could reach. You couldn’t help but let out a giggle when he was over your rib cage, the sensitive skin there jumping under his attention. The days worth of stubble wasn’t helping either and you hissed when he deliberately rubbed his cheek against your skin.

“Hey, quit that.”

Copia snorted, sitting up a bit and letting his eyes drag over your body.

“Bellissima. My beautiful birthday girl.”

You smirked, sitting up a bit yourself and placing your hands on the ties of his pants.

“That’s right Papa, I'm the birthday girl and I think I’m ready for my gift now.”

“The candles and flowers weren’t enough?”

He groaned, his head falling back when you freed his cock. It was hard and leaking at the tip, jumping in your hand when you began to stroke it.

“I think I deserve a little something extra.”

Copia laughed and quickly moved to sit on the side of the bed so he could maneuver his pants off. He was back over you in an instant when he was finally free and he went to work on your bra, his hands eagerly cupping your breasts when they were uncovered. You bit your lip when his thumbs rubbed across your nipples, the pleasure starting to build up in your body again.

“Is this enough, dolcezza?”

You couldn’t keep your moan in but you shook your head, covering his hands with your own.

“Fuck me.”

“Oh, you need my cock, do you?” You nodded frantically, gasping when he let go of your breasts and sat up between your legs. He took his cock in hand and ran it up and down your cunt, smiling each time it caught at your entrance. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes, please Copia.”

You both groaned when he pressed inside, your body stretching around his thick flesh. He hooked an arm under one of your thighs and pressed it up so he could get as deep as he could. Copia ground his hips against yours and you began to pant, desperate for him to start fucking you. He seemed to sense your desperation because he began to slowly pull out before quickly thrusting back in, a quick movement that punched the air out of your lungs.

“That’s it, dolcezza. Take it, take me.”

It wasn’t long before his movements became frantic, his thrusts becoming rough and jarring. You would definitely be feeling it in the morning but it was worth it to watch your Papa lose control. To watch him lose control because of you. It was always good, so good to be with him like this. For him to have all his attention on you, for him to kiss and touch every part of you he could reach. You used to be so self conscious but after hearing the things he’d whisper into your skin you began to believe him, you started to feel as beautiful as he claimed you to be.

“Oh, Copia! I’m close, I’m so close.”

“Bene, I want you to come for me. I want to feel you come apart on my cock.”

It didn’t take much longer before you reached your peak again and you felt his cock kick inside of you, filling you with his release. With a groan he collapsed over you, careful as always not to jar you too much. He adjusted both of your bodies enough so that he could cradle you against him, his cock still inside of you. You laid your head over his chest, listening as his racing heart slowed down just like yours was.

The room was quiet without the moans or heavy breathing and you soon heard him humming something softly against your hair. It took you a moment before you realized what it was and you lifted your head to smile at him.

“Buon compleanno, dolcezza.”

You leaned in and kissed him, savoring the taste of yourself on his lips. When you pulled away he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye and you couldn’t help but narrow your own, suspicious as to what was causing it.

“What is it?”

“Happy birthday and,” Copia leaned in and gave you another sweet kiss. “Happy lasagna day.”

My Masterlist ~ My Archive of our Own ~ My Ko-Fi Tip Jar

#my fics #my writing #papa emeritus iv x female reader #copia x female reader #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost band fanfiction #copia fanfiction #papa emeritus iv fanfiction #ghost band fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #papa emeritus x reader

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herlondonboy · 1 year

Text

I Miss You, I’m Sorry

pairings: Taylor Swift x gn!reader (platonic)

Summary: in which you’ve been at everyone of Taylor’s opening shows in the pit since the Fearless tour, but you’re not at the opening of the eras tour

warnings: angst, unspecified chronic illness, reader death, this was supposed to be happy, spelling mistakes, sad Tay.

word count: 1.5k

You had been to everyone of Taylor Swift’s tours. It was a known fact between the Swifties. So much so that people went go up to you at the beginning of the Reputation Stadium Tour and asked for your autograph.

You and Taylor weren’t necessarily friends, but she was well acquainted with you and how your wear obscure outfits to each show. She often found herself scouring the front rows of each show for a familiar, comforting face.

Many videos had showed how Taylor’s eyes would light up when she saw you and vice versa. How she’d wave giddily, and hold back a laugh at your costume and how you’d bounce up and down, screaming the lyrics louder than anyone else.

You weren’t the first Swiftie, but you had been crowned the biggest Swiftie.

At the end of the Glendale show, you had stayed behind to take a mass amount of photos in your costume. That was the first time you were taken backstage. Part of you thought that you were being kidnapped (three men in all black, looking all emotionless and brooding leading you somewhere dark was suspicious to say the least), but then Taylor was stood in front of you with a wide smile.

Your eyes were wide and your mouth was agape, not to mention that you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “H-Hi?” You squeaked out, afraid that if you spoke too quickly you’d wake from this dream.

“Hi! Y/N, I’m-“

“Taylor-fucking-Swift,” you cut her off with a gasp.

Tears welled up in your eyes. You were supposed to meet her at the Reputation Secret Sessions in New York, but something had come up, so you didn’t get to. Part of you wished this had happened three years ago when you weren’t so weak, but it was happening nonetheless.

“Can i hug you?” Taylor asked.

You nodded rapidly and Taylor leaned forward to wrap her arms around you. You melted into the hug, sniffling softly, “I can die happily now.”

Taylor chuckled, “I missed you at the Secret Sessions,” there was a frown in her voice that made you feel guilty.

“I caught the flu,” You lied, “I didn’t want to make you or anyone else sick. I really wanted to go, though.”

The blonde smiled, still hugging you, “Well, when my next album comes out, I’ll have a super secret session just for you. Since you’re my biggest fan,” She said and there was some truth behind her words.

You had been invited to Taylor’s house to listen to the songs on Lover a few days before the first Lover Secret Session. To say you adored each song (Death By A Thousand Cuts being your favourite) was an understatement.

Taylor didn’t notice how jittery you got when Soon You’ll Get Better was playing. It seemed like you had related especially to that song, whether you were the best friend of the person in the hospital room or you were the person in the hospital room.

Your sister, who was also a big fan of Taylor and had been accompanying you to each tour, had always skipped that song whenever playing the Lover album in order, it hurt.

When Midnights came out, you were practically promised a world tour since the Lover Fest was cancelled due to the global pandemic. That was a hard time Your you and your older sister. As if you weren’t sick enough as it was, you had caught the coronavirus and had been forced into a hospital where your family couldn’t visit you for months.

But it got better. The rerelease of Fearless and the release of Folklore came and some people had spammed your instagram account with the news of finding out that you had helped Taylor write the bonus song. Then not long after, you had been allowed visitors and your sister never left your side again.

Though you were bedridden, you kept a smile on your face. Most people weren’t bothered by your sudden disappearance, it had happened a few times in the past whenever you had gotten sick, because you always came back with a brighter smile.

Then Midnights came out and Taylor announced her Eras tour and TikTok was going wild. Some fans were complaining about the price, some were wondering if you had gotten tickets. That led to people beginning to worry. You had never been gone for two years, and worse, your sister was gone, too.

So, when March 17th rolled up, and Taylor opened the tour with Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince, Taylor and her fans searched for you in the crowd. You weren’t there. And the second night in Glendale, you weren’t there either, but your sister was.

And that gave Taylor a little bit of hope. She waved at your sister, who waved back, fiddling with bottom of the top that you wore to the opening of the Fearless tour back in 2009.

At the end of the show, your sister had been led backstage where Taylor had changed and attacked her with a hug. The blonde broke away with a grin, “Hi! How are you? It’s been ages!”

“I’m good, yeah, it has.” Your sister responded, “Life’s been cruel, you know?”

The blonde nodded and looked down, “Where’s?-“

“Y/N told me to give you this,” Your sister held out a diary, making Taylor falter.

“What’s this?” She asked, frowning at the title of it.

Your sister sniffled, “They said- They said that they’re sorry that they couldn’t make it this year, that something came up. They really wanted to be here, Tay.”

The blonde felt her cheeks begin to dampen as your sister continued talking.

“They wrote this when they realised that they wouldn’t-“ A sob tried to claw its way out of your sister’s throat. “M-make it.”

The blonde shook her head.

Whilst the two of you weren’t necessarily friends, you knew each other well enough to know that you didn’t need to label whatever it was going on between the two of you. Your sister’s shoulder’s shook slightly as Taylor took the diary and hugged the woman.

“I’m so sorry,” She apologised profusely. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A few days later, It was the Las Vegas shows. And, though Taylor hadn’t quite recovered from the news, she couldn’t just not go and perform. So, swallowing down her tears, she made her way onto the stage and sang like she wasn’t feeling all of these negative emotions.

And when it came to her surprise songs, she was sat at the piano, blinking away her tears. She cleared her throat and looked at her fans with a small smile, “So, uh, How is everybody?”

They began screaming on top of each other, making her chuckle slightly.

“Um, I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, but my good friend, Y/N Y/L/N past away last year. Their- their sister told me after the second show in Glendale and they wrote down a diary, wording every thought that had ever crossed their mind about me. They said- they said if they ever died and we became friends they wouldn’t want me to cry for them because they’re ’no one special,’ but they were probably one of the best people that I have ever met.

“Y/N drew a sketch of what their next outfit to one of my tours would be,” The image went up on the screen, before a series of photos of you at tours, smiling at Taylor and the camera. “I just- I wanted to say that even though we didn’t do labels, you were probably my best friend, Y/N,” She sniffled, “And I love you.”

The chords to your favourite song began and as Taylor tried to keep the lump in her throat down and her tears at bay, and a slideshow that your sister had composed began playing in the background.

Your life played out in front of everyone from beginning to finish, from 1994 to 2022. All twenty eight years. The people in the audience watched as you lost your parents and then yourself.

And then in the end, a photo of you grinning tiredly flashed onto the screen as the song faded out. And just as it ended, your voice sounded through the speakers.

Is this recording? Yeah? I’m going to assume it is. Okay, um, it’s February 21st— Happy Birthday, Joe. Uh, i don’t know what I want to say. I mean, thank you to everyone that has made my life worth living. I mean, at fifteen I wore a stupid outfit to a Taylor Swift concert and now I’m friends with her? It’s kind of sad knowing that I’ll never get to hear Speak Now Taylor’s Version, but oh well.

I’m going to be honest, I’m so scared to die. Every night for the past six months I’ve been scared to fall asleep, knowing that there will be a chance that I don’t wake up. I don’t want to die, I’m terrified. I don’t want to leave my sister alone and I know that she doesn’t want me to know, but she’s been crying herself to sleep since we got the news.

I just want to know if you’ll look after her for me? I’m all she’s got. Thank- thank you. I love you.

There was silence followed by Taylor’s small, ‘I love you, too.’ And then cheers from the crowd. Some people were announcing their admiration for you and some were crying.

“I miss you, Y/N.” Taylor whispered. “I’m sorry for not being there with you.”

—

What’s your favourite Taylor Swift song?

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carionto · 9 months

Text

It'll be "awesome", the Human said

(Continuation/conclusion to this)

____________________________

After the Coalition delegates had been mindblown enough, it was time for them to finally leave and have a nap. But Captain Knoslark had one more thing he desperately wanted to show them.

"So, like, we're a science vessel and we have three of the biggest reactors, right? Right. So, I wanna show you what we recently figured out we can do. C'mon, it'll be awesome."

Awesome - a word the rest of the Galaxy will soon learn to both admire and run for cover whenever a Human uses it.

With trepidation in their steps, and worry in their breaths, they followed the all too eager Captain, who was almost skipping and humming down the halls, dramatically pointing the way. His crew continued to not give him the satisfaction of ever acknowledging his theatrics.

"Once the reactors are in good enough sync, we'll reconfigure the Radiant Dusk to a circular shape and begin!"

Oh. Yeah. Of course their ships can also transform. Why not. The delegates have given up thinking there are things Human engineering can't accomplish. Also, good enough?

"Eh, don't worry about it, we overbuild everything, so a 1 or 2 percent margin of error is fine, most of the time."

They could not imagine themselves to be more worried. At least not until a few minutes from now.

"Captain, she's ready," Chief Engineer Tameki's tone changed to a total blank deadpan for the next words, "to transform. and. roll. out."

With childlike glee, Captain Knoslark tapped the big red button, specifically designed for his pad only, to begin the sequence.

Distant creaking of metal, anguish at the prospect of bending in ways nature never intended, and the unmistakable jolt of mechanical movement, despite the artificial gravity maintaining the same down throughout, once more instilled primal anxiety for the delegates.

The reactors wound up, turning the almost-buzz like feeling beneath their feet to a true all encompassing sense of absolute power. Three small stars at equidistant points along the now 4km in diameter vessel created a singular feeling of something imminent that should never have been possible. The Universe itself wanted to reject this possibility.

"We tried copying your mass field generators from way back when you did the barrier thing. Wanted to see if we could get close to Black Hole levels, there were some theories that time travels was possible with that kinda pull."

I don't think anyone would be surprised if they had succeeded, but, for once during their entire visit, the Humans said they couldn't get time travel to work. Celebration! Then the Captain kept talking.

"So what happened instead is we accidentally tore a hole in time-space, creating a sort of warp gate." He said with both joy and disappointment.

Then the Universe shrieked. A massive distortion in reality now struggled and failed to restore normality between the ring-shaped ship. Swirling coils of matter flickered in and out, ghostly visages of detonations on a solar scale. A sight never intended to be witnessed.

"Still gotta figure out how to set a destination to anywhere. Right now the only stable connection we can get is with massive gravity wells, so any celestial body with enough mass, smallest one is a red dwarf. Problem is the connection steers towards the center, so not really practical right now."

"If we try to point at empty space the gate just kinda wiggles and you end up getting spaghetti-fied on the other end. Still, once we get enough ships like this one around the galaxy, we'll solve that whole trips taking more than a few hours thing we got with the hyper drives."

At this point the delegates decided to be escorted away, as most had became a crying mess. One stumbled onto a automated cleaning unit and at this the Captain, whose mood had soured a bit now that his time as tour guide was over, rose back to heights unseen before. With his most official sounding, yet at the same time most joy filled tone ever, he declared:

"Sergeant Ying Zhao, issue an official notice. Today at 20:30 ship time there will be a grand ceremony for the promotion of Captain Stabicus to Special Envoy of the Galactic Coalition. Ready all relevant paperwork, and his new badge, and inform the chef to prepare a feast. We have done much today for the sake of Human-Coalition relationships, and so much more for the Radiant Dusk at Everest and her crew and staff. Tonight, we celebrate!"

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space oddities #humans are space australians #humans are space orcs #humanity fuck yeah #carionto #story #stabby the roomba

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