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pastelalleycat · 9 months

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"It's-For-You!" Talking Telephone Toy

Ring... ring... ring... it's for you!

Transcripts below!

Eddie

[The phone rings once before it is picked up.]

Whether letter or parcel, whether rain, snow, or shine, we weather the weather and never decline! This is Eddie Dear of Eddie’s Post office speaking! How can I help you today?

[Silence.]

...Hello? Is anybody there? ...Should I say the jingle again? Okay-

[Eddie clears his throat.]

Whether letter or parcel, whether rain, snow, or shine, we weather the weather and never decline! This is Eddie Dear of Eddie’s Post office speaking! Do you need stamps? I got ‘em! Envelopes and paper? You bet! Markers, crayons, glue, glitter, tape, staples- [Takes a deep inhale to catch his breath.] I got that too!

[Silence.]

[Mumbling] ...I’m starting to think nobody’s there… Wait… I can’t remember if the phone was ringing… Maybe I was going to make a phone call... But who would I call? Well, if you’re there… Uh… Have a good day!

Barnaby

[The phone rings three times. Then it picks up.]

Hello? Hellooo?

[Silence.]

Is this a prank call, kid? Listen, I got a better joke for you- What did the bee say to the flower? I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there! What do I look like, a BEE’s-dropper?

[Rimshot and horn honk. Barnaby laughs. Silence follows.]

….Not even a chuckle? Boy, tough crowd! Hey, you can’t blame a guy for phoning it in! How about you call me back when you got something funny to say too, little buddy! Buh bye!

Howdy

[The phone is answered in the middle of the first ring.]

You’re calling Howdy’s Place! The home of everything you need and everything you don't! Howdy Pillar at your service!

[Silence.]

...Hello? Hello! Listen, pal, time is jokes and if I’m not laughing then I don’t have time! ...Actually, I do have plenty of time in stock, it’s in aisle two next to the bananas. But …I call ‘em cuckoo clocks!

[Howdy laughs at his own joke, but it becomes softer and more embarrassed as the silence follows.]

...Alright, alright! You’re giving me nothing to work with, buddy! I only deal in funny business and it looks like you’re runnin’ low, pal! So long! You get it? Like a caterpillar! Haha!

Poppy

[The phone rings twice before it is abruptly picked up.]

Hello, this is the Partridge nest- Or I mean, this is Poppy!

[Silence.]

…Hello? Dear? Are you there? I can’t hear you if you’re speaking! Maybe it is my connection- Oh my feathers, a telephone is so difficult to work with- So many buttons!

[The sounds of shuffling, squawks and noises of tutting can be heard.]

Oh my goodness! I- Oh no, I’ve dropped the telephone on the ground I- Gracious me, there’s birdseed everywhere! I- I will call you back, whoever this is! Oh- My feathers are full at the moment! Don’t worry about me! Have a pleasant day deary-

[A panicked squawk is heard followed by a loud thud. The phone call abruptly ends.]

Frank

[The phone rings once before it’s answered.]

Hello, this is Frank Frankly speaking.

[Silence.]

...Hello? … Are you there?

[Silence.]

...Is this Julie? This had better not be another game you’re playing! …Oh no, is this a prank call? Is this Barnaby!? Well, I have a prank for you too, you jokester! A lesson!

[Frank clears his throat.]

Did you know butterflies have their own way of sleeping? It’s not so much sleeping as it is having a rest ! It is always done with their eyes open, too! They also like to rest under leaves as a means of protection from dew or rain drops! Better yet, to hide from larger creatures with an appetite! A bit like you and those horrible hot dogs you love so much.

[Silence. Frank huffs loudly in annoyance.]

Well, whoever this is, I’ll have you know I have better things to do than wait for you to respond! Good bye!

Sally

[The phone barely has a chance to ring once before it is picked up.]

Hellooo! You’re talking to the brightest and most stupendous superstar this side of the neighborhood! Sally Starlet!

[A triumphant 'ta-da!' jingle, followed by silence. Sally whispers her next sentence.]

…I said ‘Hellooo!’ That’s your cue!

[Silence.]

…What’s wrong, do you have stage fright? I know, I know, having a star for a neighbor can be so intimidating! She’s so terrific, you’re probably thinking! Phenomenal, staggering, breathtaking- I’m taking the words right out of your mouth, I bet!

[Silence. Sally sighs softly.]

Well, parting is such sweet sorrows, but I must shine my brilliance elsewhere! Why don’t you call me back when you don’t have such cold feet, hm? Farewell!

Julie

[The phone rings once, but in the middle of its second ring the phone is answered.]

Hello? [LOUDER] Hello!!

[Silence.]

...Hey, are you playing some kind of game? Well- I want to play too! Okay, let’s go on the count of three! One… Two… Three!

[Silence.]

…I don’t know how to play this game. ...Oh, I know what to do! We’ll make a new game! [Frantically spoken] We’ll need a jump rope, some chalk, a dice, a sandwich- I’ll call it… quiet sandwich jump rope! I better get everything ready, Frank’s going to love this game! Okay, bye bye!

Wally

[A long period of silence follows before three rings are heard. A pause follows even as the phone is answered before the sound of a heart beat can be heard below the ambient noise. This audio track constantly raises and lowers as it proceeds.]

Hello? Hello? Helloooo? … Ha Ha Ha...I’m only kidding. I know you’re there.

Did you like my joke? ...I think you were going to say... Yes! …Ha Ha Ha… You know… It is hard to hear you think through this funny phone of mine. It is as though you aren’t speaking at all. Maybe it is just a little fuzzy… Like me. Speaking of…

[The heart beat and ambience stop abruptly.]

...Do you know who I am?

[The heart beat and ambience resume.]

[Gasp.] Oh no. Well that’s not neighborly at all. We’ve never met before. But don’t worry. Even though you and I haven’t spoken before, I’ve seen you... Every time you have looked into my eyes. I want to know… What did you see?

[Silence.]

I hope you saw a friend, but I’m not sure you saw a name... Stand still. Let’s start over. Ring ring ring. Click. Hi, I’m Wally. I’m so happy to finally meet you, I think you’re the absolute most.

[Silence.]

Uh oh, I have to go now. Everyone is probably thinking about that strange phone call. It is funny to think about. …Ha ha ha… Don’t worry though, neighbor, it will be a little joke between you and me. You have to go too. You have work to do. Remember, until you hear me again, keep your smile merry and always know that I love you very much.

Good bye.

#welcome home #welcome home puppet show #welcome home project #welcome home horror project #audio #wally darling #frank frankly #sally starlet #julie joyful #barnaby b beagle #eddie dear #howdy pillar #home welcome home #mint's posts 💛#mint's bangers #current top post

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 months

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Irresistible {7} || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader, Max Verstappen x fem!reader Summary: After everything, you get a happy healthy ending. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst, smut, fluff. WC: 4.5k F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven

Your Playlist:

Big Girls Don’t Cry - Fergie

Pretend - Secondhand Serenade

No Right To Love You - Rhys Lewis

You Broke Me First - Tate McRae

Lose You To Love Me - Selena Gomez

The Night We Met - Lord Huron

Wicked Game - Violet Orlandi

Charles’ Playlist:

Your Call - Secondhand Serenade

The Loneliest - Mäneskin

Roses And Butterflies - Making April

Amnesia - 5sos

Miserable At Best - Mayday Parade

Love Is Gone - Slander

The Man Who Can’t Be Moved - The Script

Charles was spiralling with every mile that grew between where he was and where you were. The only updates he had from you were in the form of photos on Instagram and his concentration went into waiting for your next post instead of the preparation for the final free practice of the day. He had sent you enough unanswered messages to know you were ignoring him and it hurt more than he dared let on.

“She’s not home yet,” he said as he caught up to Max in the paddock. It was half a question and half a statement, but he needed some sort of confirmation.

“I know.” Of course Max knew. You kept in touch with him, sending him sporadic messages when you stopped to take in the beautiful countryside on the quiet roads. It should have been a four hour drive but you were content to make it last the day so you didn’t have to think about what you had left behind.

Max looked like he was going to say something else but he closed his lips as an arm curled around Charles’ waist. Whatever information he was going to offer was replaced with a simple, “I’ll see you later.”

Charles turned to Charlotte and his eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “I thought you left.”

“Because we had one little fight?”

“I would hardly call it little.”

“Whatever,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway, now that Y/N’s gone things will be so much easier between us. We can get back to how we used to be. We are good for each other, Charles.”

Charles briefly entertained the idea of pushing her away but then he remembered how lonely it was sleeping by himself. It was completely stupid to even think the relationship could go back to how it was but he was selfish, if he couldn’t have you then settling for her was going to be the next best thing.

“How about we talk after practice?” His voice was full of defeat and Charlotte knew she had already won as she kissed his cheek and let him go.

“I’ll wait in your garage.”

He faked a smile and headed after Max.

The air was stale when you stepped into the apartment, not bothering to turn on the lights as you dragged yourself down the hall and into your room. Charles’ bedroom door was still half open, the bed unmade and clothes spilling out of his drawers, sending a pang of hurt to your chest before you pulled it shut. You collapsed face first on your bed and just managed to send a message to Max letting him know you arrived safely before you let your emotional exhaustion take you under. You didn't bother to text Charles, he was probably busy anyway.

Dawn came with all the same enthusiasm that you woke with. The skyline was a watery grey and even the birds failed to raise any sort of trill with their woeful calls down on the mariner. Dew clung in the air and on your cheeks as you opened the balcony door and chased away the stale air from being closed up for weeks since the last visit.

Your memory here before the lockdown began didn’t hold a lot of details but you did remember the aroma of coffee drifting up from the cafe below the building. Unfortunately there was only the tang of salt and storm on the air as you inhaled deeply before making the call that was long overdue.

As expected your father answered straight away, the confusion clear in his voice as he realised that his little night owl was up at dawn. “Hey kiddo, is everything okay?”

“Can we have a donut day?”

You could already hear him moving around the house and he must have covered the microphone as he said a muffled goodbye to a sleepy Pascale. “On my way.”

Donut day was created the day you got your first period. As a panicking solo dad he had rushed to the supermarket for supplies, but he left with mostly donuts and other treats. Thankfully Betty was better prepared and soon arrived with everything you needed, along with calm instructions on how to use them. After that, any day that was absolutely terrible was called a donut day. You and your father would sit on the couch and scoff down a box of donuts until the comfort food worked its magic.

You paced the living room until the doorbell rang and practically tore it off the hinges in your haste. You really hadn’t noticed just how lacklustre months of video calls were until you threw your arms around your dad and buried your face in his shirt. Video calls couldn’t capture the smell of his aftershave or the feel of his beard when he kissed your forehead like you were still a little kid.

“I missed you too, pumpkin.” He pulled back to look at your face and his brows pinched together. “Rough night?”

You snorted a laugh but it cracked in your chest and your head fell down. “The last time you asked me that was in Monaco too.”

“I remember. Is this about a boy?”

You nodded and took a seat on the couch while he pensively watched from where he stood. “Will you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

He huffed and went to the kitchen instead, grabbing a plate and emptying a bag of pastries onto it. “This is the closest to donuts I could find, sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s not about the donuts.” You picked at a pain au chocolat while he took a seat and grabbed a pain au raisin. “I…”

You didn’t know where to begin or what to say, you just knew you had to get the truth off your chest so you could try to move on. Maybe by admitting the mistake you made, it might somehow ease the guilt you were carrying.

“A boy, right?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “The same one actually.”

His eyebrows shot up his forehead.“From when we visited?”

“The very same.” You swallowed but the pastry seemed to coat your throat and you nearly choked before you abandoned it. “It was Charles.”

“Oh,” he said with a nod before it seemed to connect and his eyes widened. “Oh…well…shit..”

“I should have said something sooner but I didn’t want to make things awkward for you and Pascale but I…I really fucked up, dad.”

You could practically see his thoughts crossing his face as he remembered how you had called him the first day, asking to stay anywhere else. A heavy sigh fell and he seemed to deflate into the couch cushions. “I thought you were with Max?”

Your eyes narrowed but you didn’t deny it. “How do you know that?”

“Charlotte posted a picture of you and him the other night.”

“That bitch is a-”

“Uh-uh, no,” he tutted. “Correct me if I am wrong but I am going to assume you and Charles have been more than just friends…”

Your silence was damning.

“I don’t think you have the moral high ground to go around calling her a bitch then. I raised you better than that. Does Max know about Charles?”

“Max knows everything,” you admitted quietly, still feeling the sting of the reprimand. “He’s good for me.”

“Okay, so then what’s the problem?”

“I just really thought it was a chance - with Charles. We made plans, a future, I could see it.” Now all you saw was the note on the table and how he chased after Charlotte. “It was stupid and naive and I feel so embarrassed.”

“Love makes everyone stupid at some point.” Your father sighed again before wrapping his arm around you. “So Max huh? You know he’s got a bit of a reputation. Bit of a hot head.”

You wiped away the tears that had been building and scoffed. “Don’t believe everything you see in the media. They portray Charles as this wholesome boy next door and Max as an angry man child. Both are wrong.”

You grabbed the pastry and ate it, this time able to stomach the idea of food, before grabbing another. It wasn’t as sweet as a donut but the sugar from the chocolate was starting to hit your blood and perk you up.

“I can’t live here anymore. Not Monaco,” you corrected when you saw his eyes widen. “Just here, with Charles. I need somewhere away from him.”

You didn’t know the exact reason why your mother left but you thought maybe she felt like this, maybe it was healthier to leave than to stay.

“The house isn’t finished but the kitchen and your bathroom are done, so it’s livable. You’ll need some moving boxes. A lot by the looks,” your father said as he stood up and looked around the room to see your belongings strewn across the place. “I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re not going to give me a lecture?” you asked as he made his way to the door.

He scanned your features that reminded him so much of your mother. “You look like you’ve learned your lesson to me. Do you need one?”

You shook your head meekly and he nodded to himself. “I’ll be back with some boxes soon.”

“Hello, handsome,” you greeted Max as soon as the video connected. He had just returned to his hotel after qualifying and securing the 5th starting place on the grid. “I’ve found a new hobby, painting.”

His smile brightened at your mood that had dramatically lifted in the past 24 hours and you showed him around your new bedroom. Paint bottles lined a sheet-covered table and dirty brushes sat in a murky jar of water, but you panned across the wall to show him the artwork you had made.

“What is it?” he asked with a forehead crumpled in confusion. He tilted his head trying to see from a different angle but he still couldn’t process the splatterings - it reminded him of a Rorschach test, one he was doing badly at.

“I didn’t say I was good,” you clarified with a laugh as you also tried to interpret the design that was no longer just on the walls. It was a good thing the carpet hadn’t been laid yet. You had tried to push the hair out of your face and smeared paint across your cheek and it had ended up everywhere by the time you were finished. “It is a mess just like me.”

“You're not a mess, schat,” Max said as he sat at the end of his bed and fell back to watch the tour of the rest of the house. “Are you okay there on your own?”

“It’s certainly quieter than the paddock, that will take a bit of getting used to, but I don’t mind it too much.” You did miss the other friends you had made at Ferrari, but felt it was best to give everyone in red a wide berth for a while. You had seen how poorly Charles qualified and knew he wasn’t at his best partly because of you. You still hadn’t been able to answer his calls or texts.

“Well, you could come back, if you want, you’ll always be welcome at Red Bull.”

“If you miss me, you can just say that,” you teased and he sat up.

He combed a hand through his damp hair and you bit your lip remembering how it felt to be the one doing that. “I do miss you,” he admitted seriously. “That’s why I’m coming back first thing Monday morning - I owe you breakfast.”

“You know there are no cafes open?”

Max smirked and the sight made your heart skip a beat. “Who said anything about a cafe?”

You wanted to know what his plans were but there was a knock at his door and Daniel’s voice reached you through the phone. Max was tempted to let Daniel continue pounding on the door but you both knew he wouldn’t leave quietly and Max groaned at that truth. “Go answer that, I’ll call you in the morning.”

Max dragged his feet as he padded across the room. “I would rather talk to you.”

“Me too.”

“Finish the phone sex already, you pervs,” Daniel shouted through the door before Max ripped it open.

“Oh, oh, yes, Max, don’t stop,” you called out, turning Max’s ears pink as he rushed to turn the phone around and show Daniel the screen and just how fully clothed you were. “Sorry to disappoint you, Danny, no phone sex - this time.”

It was only when Daniel bent over laughing that you saw he wasn’t alone. Charles was out in the hallway with Carlos and Lando, his eyes falling to the carpet when you noticed him.

“We’re getting dinner, you wanna come?” Daniel asked, and thankfully the phone rotated back to Max who looked a little torn at the offer.

“He does,” you answered for him before he could decline just to talk with you a little while longer.

“I’ll call you in the morning, schat.”

“Okay, have fun.”

Charles found nothing to celebrate when the race ended so he made his way home before the rest of the crew even realised it. He thought his weekend couldn’t get any worse after he DNF’d. The only silver lining was that despite his better qualifying, Max had also failed to finish the race. But he still won where it really mattered when it came to you.

Charles pulled into the apartment complex and saw a new sleek black Mercedes AMG parked in one of his many reserved spaces and hope fluttered in his chest. He grabbed his suitcase and darted up the stairwell to his apartment, nearly snapping the key in his haste to unlock the door. That hope turned to ash when he found it eerily silent and every inch of the place perfectly tidy. It was unlived.

The artwork you had purchased still hung on the walls and the shaggy rug he had made love to you on still covered the floor, but the spirit of it all was gone. The colours of the paintings were drained and the temperature controlled air was no longer comfortable. He didn’t even need to go to your room and check, he knew you were gone.

He knew you were gone the moment he saw you on the video call to Max. He had gone with his mother to her new house enough times to know what it looked like, even if it appeared that a rainbow vomited all over the walls. The truth just hadn’t really settled in until he stepped across the threshold and into the house that was once a home.

You had tidied the place as if you were cleaning a crime scene and needed to scrub away all evidence of being there except you couldn’t get it all. You still remained in the pantry cupboards where everything was labelled in your handwriting. You still remained in the linen closet where you folded the sheets and the towels into perfect rectangles. You still remained in the scented candles that sat on the centrepiece of the table.

Charles’ eyes stung as they lingered on the table where the keys to the apartment and the Mercedes sat, right next to his credit card and the picture you kept in your wallet.

Kicking the door closed, he abandoned his suitcase and rushed down the hall. His heart hammered knowing what he would find but he had to check as he pushed open your bedroom door. No, it wasn’t your bedroom anymore, it was a guest room.

The feminine floral duvet his mother had chosen was gone, replaced with a plain white coverlet, and the windows were latched slightly open so whatever scent of yours he may have been able to save had already been cast away to the breeze.

“Fuck!” he screamed as he punched his fist into the mattress. “Fuuuuucckk!!!”

Max must have left before Pierre had finished partying after his shock win. It wasn’t even morning really as the sun was still cresting over the hills, and it was far earlier than you were expecting him. You thought perhaps you were dreaming when you woke to a knock and opened the door to find Max on your front steps.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” you asked as you pulled him inside and inspected the bags under his eyes.

“I’m better now,” he said as he wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair. “I told you I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you murmured into his chest before pulling away so you could look into his eyes. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll be fine, I have plans first.”

“Your plans can wait.” You took his hand and led him through the house to your room that overlooked the mariner. Your blankets were still warm as you nestled under the covers and patted the empty space beside you. “You’re not going to be comfortable in jeans.”

“Five minutes and you’re already trying to get me naked,” he teased as he pulled his shirt over his head before he unbuttoned his jeans.

“I never said naked,” you pointed out. The air froze in your lungs as he pushed them down his muscular thighs and you swallowed at the sight before.

“I’m not wearing boxers.”

“No, you certainly are not.” Your tongue rolled across your lips as you drank in every inch of him, the idea of sleep quickly departing your mind. Almost everything departed your mind, except want. “I think I am overdressed.”

“You make a habit of that.”

“I do, don’t I. Maybe you should come help me fix that.”

Max didn’t need to be told twice, he had been waiting for this moment since he had the memory of how your body felt against his. He pulled the covers back and knelt between your legs, his hands roaming up your body and under the baggy shirt of a band he didn’t know. The morning air was cool on your skin as you lifted your arms and he discarded the shirt over the side of the bed.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured as he traced his lips over your racing pulse. A fiery trail of goosebumps remained where his kiss had been and he made his way to your lips before stealing the very breath from your lungs.

Your own hands went roaming, feeling his muscles tense beneath your touch until you reached his proud erection. He shuddered above you and moaned into your mouth before he pulled back. “I need you,” you begged, unabashedly. “Please, Max.”

His hands reached for your panties and the lace tickled as he dragged them down your legs. Even with your begging, he didn’t immediately bury himself in you. He took his time, settling back between your legs. He gently massaged your inner thighs with his strong hands, his thumbs dancing teasingly close to your core until a strangled whine escaped you.

“Relax, schat,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

He shifted onto his stomach and dipped his head to your core. You lost the ability to think as he gripped your hips and tugged you right onto his open mouth. A wordless cry filled the room and it took a second to understand it was coming from you as you lost yourself in the pleasure Max was giving you. You knew Max had an internal drive to succeed at everything he did and this was no different. He was determined to taste you completely and drive you into oblivion with his tongue and his fingers before he thoroughly fucked you.

Max looked wild and untamed as you came undone around his fingers and he savoured the taste of you on his tongue as he rose above you. His eyes were dark and his lips swollen, his chin was damp and his smile satisfied.

“Hi,” he chuckled with amusement. “Feeling alright?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, because correlating a conscious thought into words seemed impossible as your body still trembled with aftershocks.

“Would you like a break?”

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around his cock, guiding him closer to your entrance. “No, I want you, Max.”

“Completely sober, right?” he confirmed as the head pressed to your wet core.

“Not quite,” you teased, his brows pinching together at the words, “I’m drunk on you.”

The relief in his eyes was palpable and you cradled his face in your palm as you wrapped your legs around his hips. Your bodies united torturously slowly and your eyes fluttered at the fullness when every delicious inch was seated inside, your lips parting with a heady sigh.

“Open your eyes, schat.”

You obeyed in an instant, watching him watch you before his eyes drifted down your bodies. His lip was pinched between his teeth and he groaned at the sight of your pussy taking him so well, something he made sure to tell you.

“Fuck,” you choked as his words made your cunt clench in response, each thrust burying him deep in your cunt until stars dotted your vision and you were tipped over the edge into another orgasm. “Fuuuckk…”

Six months later. “Babe, have you seen my shoes?” Your voice carried throughout the large penthouse apartment you had moved into with Max when the season ended.

“Here, with your dress,” he called out from the living room.

You followed his voice and found the luggage being neatly stacked by the door. He pointed to the two garment bags hanging from the coat rack and at the bottom of the longer one were your heels, next to his polished dress shoes.

“I packed your coat too,” Max said, kissing your temple as he passed to get the car keys.

With the COVID restrictions being lifted Pascale hadn’t wanted to wait a minute longer for the wedding, so winter nuptials in February was the go. At least they were taking place in Sicily so it would be a little warmer, but of course Max would think to pack a coat for when the temperatures dropped at night. He was always thoughtful like that.

“Did you want a coffee?” you asked as you turned on the machine and put your travel mug under it. It was only a three hour flight on Max’s private jet, but you hadn’t slept well with the knowledge you would see Charles for the first time since Christmas.

Cordial is how you would describe that relationship. The familiarity and intimacy was gone, replaced with standoffish politeness. You were both trying to find where the line could be drawn on a platonic friendship that had the history of more and it was slow going. You didn’t want anything you said or did around him to be misconstrued.

Max made you happy, and just as importantly, Max was healthy for you. You did sometimes wonder if he tried harder to be better because he had witnessed toxic relationships growing up. He knew how that toxicity could poison and break someone so there was a conscious effort in the way he spoke and acted to everyone around him. Even Charles.

That was why he had offered his plane for everyone to use, including Charles and Charlotte. For better or for worse, Charles was going to be a part of your family in less than 24 hours and Max respected that. Like he said, he didn’t care about your past and your future was one with him.

“Schatje,” Max called, one hand on your waist, the other reaching past you to the overflowing mug in the coffee machine. “Everything alright?”

You came back to the present with a few blinks and turned in his arms, surprising him with a deep kiss as you fisted his shirt and pulled him closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He pulled back to see your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said with a shake of your head but he saw right through it. “Everything you’ve done for me…a simple ‘I love you’ just doesn’t seem enough. I can never say it enough.”

Max’s hands cradled your jaw and he dipped his head to indulge in a slow but thorough kiss that had your stomach clenching with a fresh wave of desire. When he pulled back this time he smiled as he found the clear want and need for him written on your face. “It’s enough for me.”

He turned the machine off and poured the ruined coffee down the sink. “I’ll get you a proper coffee on the way to the airport. We should get going, can’t have the best woman be late for the rehearsal.”

“I think dad settled on the term groomsmaid,” you corrected with a laugh. You had nearly cried when he asked you to be his best man, before accepting the honour. It was fitting considering the bridesmaids were Pascale’s sons. “It’s not too late if you want to be a flower girl?”

He grinned and his eyes flicked to the door where the dress you had paraded for him last night hung. “I’m quite happy to sit back and watch.”

“If I recall, you didn’t sit still for long. I hope you have more self restraint for the ceremony.”

“For the ceremony, yes. But as soon as we hit the hotel room you’re mine and that dress will be on the floor, I promise you.”

You bit your lip at the promise, knowing he would keep it just like every other one he had made.

“We should probably go before I do something that makes us very late,” Max groaned, stepping away from your tempting body.

“Ugh, fine.”

The ceremony was more than just a wedding and it represented the joining of the Leclerc’s and the Y/LN’s, something that had surprised you and also made you grateful for having waterproof mascara. You didn’t dare look at Charles when the celebrant spoke about the union of the two families, but Arthur grinned and Enzo winked, your father narrowed his eyes and you laughed.

The celebrant, thankfully, didn’t understand.

The cashmere coat Max had packed hung over the bag of your chair as night fell and you danced with him under the open stars. The only light came from the fairy lights strung around the stone pillars that had survived centuries on the island. His arms kept you warm as you swayed to the music and you spoke quietly to each other in a world of your own.

“Hey, can I, uh, can I cut in?” Charles asked hesitantly.

You took a deep breath as you debated the question, your eyes glancing around and quickly finding Charlotte at a table with Arthur and his girlfriend. You looked at Max to see if it was okay. He just smiled and kissed your cheek, whispering, “I’ll get us a drink.”

Charles waited until Max had made it off the dance floor before offering his hand, the other coming to rest on your waist. The first step was tentative, like he wasn’t sure you were actually going to follow his lead. “You look happy,” he said after a few more steps.

“I am.”

He nodded to himself, looking at Charlotte. “Good. That’s good.”

He looked miserable. “I hope you find real happiness one day.” You were being honest.

“I had it.” And he was being honest too. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever really apologised, not properly.”

“It’s fine, if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have met Max.”

“It was meant to be us, though, right?” His eyes were begging you to agree with him but you had spent sleepless nights poring over the very same question.

“I think our paths crossed to make sure our parents met,” you admitted, smiling at the newlyweds as they danced too. You had never seen your dad happier.

“You really believe that?”

The song came to an end and you found Max returning from the bar with two drinks in his hand. “I have to,” you said as you slipped out of Charles’ arms. You swallowed the lump in your throat and took a step away from him.

“Why?” He took a step closer, only stopping when you took another step back and held up your hand. “Why?”

You took a calming breath and steadied your voice. “Because the alternative would only break my heart again.”

#max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #max verstappen smut #f1 smut

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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 4 months

Text

Darling, Mind if I Enjoy Myself?

Astarion x fem!Tav/Reader || ao3 || Masterlist Rating: E Word Count: 2.8k Summary: Astarion walks in on you pleasuring yourself and takes it upon himself to be of utmost assistance to your endeavours. CW: 18+. Smut with fluff. Teasing. Masturbation. Vaginal fingering. Vaginal sex.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I, darling?”

As a matter of fact—he was, and Astarion knew that very well. He also knew that your pathetic little gasp wasn’t a sign of chased-after relief but surprise. So much surprise, in fact, that your hand had startled into a highly frustrating stillness between your legs; you’d been so close…

All thanks to Astarion’s masterfully quiet feet, you hadn’t heard him re-enter the chamber and his untimely intrusion had your body torn between wanting to freeze and jump out of your skin—and that, too, the bastard knew. The unveiled amusement dripping from his words clearly gave him away.

Embarrassed at the heat rising in your cheeks, you squeezed your eyes shut, at once thankful that you wouldn’t have to see the stupid smirk on his face as he sauntered over to your bed.

“Had you waited half an hour for me to finish my bath, I would’ve been more than happy to assist in your delightful endeavours, my sweet.”

Another matter of fact was that Astarion’s bathing routine did not take half an hour. You hadn’t at all expected to see him again until just before dawn.

Suppressing a scoff, you licked the overripe curse from your lips before replacing it with a lazy smile. You had to play this smart, otherwise Astarion would never let you live this down.

“Enjoying yourself, Astarion?” You purred, slowly opening your eyes in what you hoped was a casual if not playful manner.

His pale face was now close enough for you to touch. He crouched next to the bed, head supported on one hand while he grinned at you.

“Darling, with you? Always!”

Astarion’s hair was still wet, you noticed. Wayward drops of water glistered in the pale moonlight, making him look as if he’d been kissed by morning dew. A single water drop caught your attention by running from his temple down his cheekbone before it gathered in the valley of his sensuous cupid’s bow. All you had to do was lean forward and kiss it away, but—

You followed Astarion’s sharp gaze to where your hand vanished under the hem of your nightdress.

Your fingers still rested heavily against the damp heat of your inner thigh, aching to finish what they’d started in the pleasure of your own company.

Your smile turned into a grin of your own. Two could play this game.

“Like what you see?”

“Plenty,” Astarion confirmed without a moment’s hesitation, inching closer to rest his chin atop his hands on the mattress. “You don’t mind me watching, do you?”

Crimson eyes peered up at you through ridiculously long lashes—just like they were wont to do when Astarion put his mouth to very good use on you. By the way his grin widened knowingly, you understood that this particular look was by far no accident.

You cocked your head as if to ponder his question, even though you were already back to stroking your fingers over your slick folds.

Whatever the damn elf was doing, it surely was working—but he didn't need to know that, yet.

“Why, only if you don’t mind me thinking of you…?”

Astarion’s movement was too swift for you to follow.

He’d given a short laugh in one second and the next he was towering over you. The mattress shifted under his weight; a single water drop detached itself from the tip of one of his locks, falling right onto your half-exposed collarbone. In one swift motion, Astarion dove after it.

Agonisingly slow, his cold tongue gathered up the liquid, leaving a wet kiss in its place before he drew back again.

His bold attack was over the moment it had begun.

“I would feel rather insulted if you didn't, pet,” Astarion drawled, slowly settling down next to you.

His grin had turned impish as he laid on his side, lazily propped up on one elbow as he watched you try and fail to regain your composure.

You let out a shaky breath, which only earned you another laugh.

“Oh, go on, now, dear—I see you’re growing…impatient.”

And go on you did.

Astarion’s way of assisting you in your delightful endeavours could range from fucking you senseless to watching you cum on your own fingers and if he wanted a show today, he could have one. You had no idea where tonight might lead, but you were hells-bent on getting your release one way or the other.

You held Astarion’s gaze as you dipped a finger back into the feverish wetness spreading between your legs, another following suit right after.

A content sigh slipped past your lips as your fingers circled your swollen clit—which Astarion graced readily by draping your leg across his hip.

Your breath hitched again as the sudden change of position opened up more room for your endeavour, but it was his cold touch upon you that really stroked the fire underneath your skin.

Astarion’s lithe fingers traced along your ankle, your calf, your knee, hiking up your nightdress until it pooled around your waist—laying your desire bare to him.

You bit your lip in an effort to keep your eyes from fluttering shut.

“Enjoying yourself, sweet thing?”

Astarion pulled you closer, knowing very well the impact he had on you—he had a front-row seat, after all.

“With you? Always,” you panted, your movement growing increasingly erratic as your need soared under his teasing touch.

You couldn’t quite tell if you were more aroused by your own hand dragging you towards release or by Astarion’s thumbs drawing lazy circles across your skin—so at odds with the urgent pace in which you pleasured yourself.

You had your answer when his hand fanned out on the back of your thigh, only to inch up further to firmly squeeze your ass.

He let out yet another short laugh at the impetuous moan he elicited from you, though this time it was huskier, more reflex than amusement and he leaned over, his breath tickling your ear.

“You know,” Astarion whispered as if he were about to reveal a grand secret to you. “I've been thinking about that divine ass of yours all day long.”

Taking in a sharp breath, you wondered if he realised that his fingertips dug almost painfully deep into your flesh, pinning you in place while your hips tried to chase your hand.

“Only good things, I wager?”

“The very best,” Astarion breathed against the soft spot between your ear and jaw before his lips travelled across your cheek, only stopping when the tip of his nose grazed yours.

If he were to kiss you now, you wouldn’t last much longer.

But his lips didn’t meet yours. His eyes were far too busy darting to and fro between your flushed face and dripping wet cunt.

A slight frown settled between Astarion’s eyes—giving away that he was still considering how much of an assistance he wanted to be tonight.

There was no denying that you wanted Astarion buried deep inside you, to have him ease that insatiable, torturous desire only he could ignite in you.

But more than that you wanted—needed—him to want it, too.

Giving him time to sort out what he wanted tonight, your hand slowed into a gentler pace, but this only seemed to fully entrance Astarion.

The grin long gone, he wet his lips, his eyes darkening. You knew that look all too well; he’d beheld you the same way mere hours ago, right before he’d sunken his fangs into your neck. Want. Hunger. Need.

Lust.

It only took another moment for Astarion’s lips to finally brush against yours.

“Mind if I join?” He rasped. His hand wandered down your thigh, grabbing the back of your knee to pull you flush against him.

Through his loose pants, you could feel his hardening cock rub against your inner thigh as he re-adjusted your leg over his hip, riding up his shirt in the process.

You urged your leg even higher, hooking it around his waist, moaning at the sweet sensation of his cold skin pressed against your burning flesh.

“Please do,” you almost begged. Couldn’t he see how badly you needed him?

But your consent had barely left your lips that Astarion’s hand slid between your legs, his fingers interlacing with your own. He took up your earlier pace caressing your clit, sending shivers down your spine as he guided two of your joined fingers inside you—stroking that delicious spot that always made you see stars.

Tilting your head back, you let out a blissful little cry which Astarion rewarded with a groan of his own as he traced lingering kisses down your throat.

You arched your back shamelessly against Astarion’s half-exposed chest, getting rapidly close to your climax. As your hand grew useless from pleasure, animated only by the invisible strings Astarion pulled, all you could do was chase your relief. It would only take a few more strokes of Astarion’s finger, another sweet kiss tickling your skin to send you over the edge and—

You could barely suppress the indignant sound of protest rising in your throat when both hands between your legs came to an abrupt halt.

“Fuck,” Astarion grunted into the crook of your neck before he suddenly withdrew from you, pulling your own hand along—leaving you empty and trembling with scorching need.

You wanted to cry.

For a frustratingly long moment, you thought Astarion had changed his mind about your endeavours; that he would retreat to his mischievous voyeurism and leave you to your own devices once more.

But instead of untangling himself from you, he pushed you onto your back, nesting his hips right between your shaking legs.

His arm came down next to your head and from the corner of your eye, you could see his pale hand glister with your arousal.

Half-dried, dishevelled locks were plastered to his forehead as Astarion looked down at you, pupils blown with lust—no doubt a mirror of your own.

“Properly,” he said, his free hand tugging at your nightdress. “Let me fuck you properly. You don’t mind, do you?”

If you weren’t half delirious with pent-up need you might’ve laughed at him.

“Do whatever you want with me, Astarion,” you pressed through clenched teeth, eagerly helping him work the offending garment over your head. “Enjoy yourself.”

Astarion welcomed your breast with his mouth. By the way his tongue circled your oversensitive nipple, it rather seemed like your ass hadn’t been the only thing on his mind.

You arched into his kiss, hissing when his fangs grazed your tender flesh.

His shoulders trembled with a silent laugh before he abandoned your breast in favour of your collarbone and neck, your jaw and finally, again, your lips.

You raked your fingers through Astarion’s locks that were made soft and fragrant by the soap and oils he’d used earlier; pulling him closer, you deepened your kiss. Couldn’t he taste how starved you were for him?

You were desperate when you hooked your other leg around Astarion’s waist, tugging and sucking at his bottom lip. All you could feel was his still outrageously clothed erection rubbing against your stomach, driving you insane—that, and the cursed bastard smirk melting against your mouth.

Astarion was enjoying himself all right.

You bit down on his lip.

It only took a second before you could taste iron on your tongue. Astarion pulled away slowly, still smirking as he licked a blossoming bead of blood off his lips. The sight of him was so heady, so obscene, that your mouth hung agape.

“You vicious, impatient little thing, you,” he chuckled, cupping your hand clawing at his hair, slowly guiding it to his shoulders, his chest, down to the lacing of his trousers. This time, you bit back a moan.

“But you’ve been so good, always letting me have all this fun when I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He let out a low hum when he dragged your palm over his taut crotch, undoing the front lacing with the help of your greedy little fingers.

“But you’ve waited enough, now, haven’t you?”

Yes! You nodded fervently, his lust-strained voice music to your ears. Yes, you had!

Astarion let go of your hand to free himself of his trousers, urged on by the way you helped shove them down his thighs. Tears burned in your eyes when you finally caught a glimpse of his beautiful, erect cock.

For all his teasing, Astarion didn’t waste any time now.

Grabbing your hip, he aligned you with him, only to tease your throbbing clit with the wet tip of his cock.

“Astarion…” you whined, arching harder against him—and he was nothing if not a merciful lover. This once, at least.

By the time he slowly buried himself inside you inch by inch, you no longer cared for whatever noises escaped your mouth.

For a deliciously long moment, you simply savoured the sensation of your walls stretching around him; Astarion’s hand kneading your hip, his lips back on yours, moaning sweetly into your mouth.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt to feel your breasts squeeze up against his hard chest. Every inch between your bodies was too much to bear.

Astarion’s long eyelashes fluttered against your cheek as he began to roll his hips against yours.

He set a slow, if not lazy pace—which was unexpected considering all his teasing, but not at all unwelcome.

You met his rhythmic thrusts, smiling when he pressed his forehead to yours. It was something he’d only taken up after he’d become more comfortable having sex with you, and the gesture elated you every time.

“Enjoying yourself, my heart?” You breathed in the rare moment your lips parted from his.

There was no witty or snide remark rolling off Astarion’s tongue, now. Instead, he could only grunt in reply, his eyebrows knitted in concentration—evidence that it took him everything to focus on his self-imposed arduous pace.

Knowing that it was you who did this to him—that it was your body that had him speechless every time he fucked you—had you clench violently around his cock.

Groaning, Astarion brought his hand back down to your leg. He blindly untangled it from around his waist before pinning it against the mattress with his knee—opening you up even more for him.

Clearly unable to restrain himself any longer, his pace sped up.

With new vigour, Astarion pounded into you, hitting that perfect sweet, sweet spot over and over again; eliciting a whimper from you with every frantic thrust of his hips.

You knew he was close to his release when you felt his cock twitch in anticipation, spurring on your own ecstasy.

You eventually found yourself dissolving into your own pleasure as Astarion spent himself deep inside you.

Unwilling to miss a second of his undoing, though, you watched him squeeze his eyes shut, deepening his frown as his pace became gentler, but not less effective. The sight of his parted lips, the paper-thin skin of his eyelids made pink by your blood circulating underneath his skin—it was nearly enough to push you over the edge.

Nearly.

You bucked your hips against him, desperate for more friction, more of him. Once again, you wrapped your leg around his waist, pulling him deeper into you; you could never be close enough to him—never have enough of him.

As if reading your mind, Astarion’s lips found yours once more. He wound his hand between your bodies, cupping your breast, caressing your lower stomach before he slid his hand down between your legs to mingle with his cock.

Knowing you would never tire of this—of him—you let yourself fall, and Astarion’s perfect nimble fingers assisted you graciously through your climax before he collapsed on top of you.

Together, you waited out the aftershock of your orgasm, his cock slowly softening inside you.

“Darling, I take you enjoyed this… admittedly mediocre performance?”

Astarion’s voice was still raspy with pleasure and faint traces of unwarranted insecurity.

You gave him a short laugh. “Mediocre?”

Astarion only shrugged before he wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you to him.

“I’m enjoying whatever you’re willing to give me, Astarion,” you reminded him, pressing your lips to his forehead. “Always.”

Astarion’s telltale smirk tugged at his lips as he rested his head in the valley of your breasts. “Very good, my sweet, because I want to thoroughly enjoy myself with you again. And again. And again…”

You chuckled. “Very good, because I would not mind that at all.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!tav #astarion x you #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #baldurs gate 3 #astarion ancunin #emicha writes #wilteddreamsbg3

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sink-me-in-your-ocean · 7 months

Text

𝔊𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔥 ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰 II

How would the Ghouls & Copia manhandle you when you’re being naughty?

Prompt by the illustrious @endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus

NSFW/Suggestive below the cut.

Copia:

At first, he doesn’t realize why you’re doing what you’re doing

But then he puts the pieces together, and it makes his hands twitch

He makes you lay across his knees, never needing to ask more than once

He’s going to spank you with his gloved hands

He makes you count each one

“How many was that?”

“Five.”

“You’re not counting properly, either that or you’re lying intentionally. I have no idea why you’d do such a thing.”

“I’d never say less with the intention of you giving me more on purpose.”

“I’m beginning to think these punishments aren’t working on you anymore, amore. Let’s try something else...”

Swiss:

Won’t hesitate to put you on a leash when you step out of line

When a leash won’t work he’ll resort to other methods

Ties. You. Down.

He will step back to admire his handiwork on you, after a moment of staring he forgets your transgressions because of how good you look tied up

He’s lost in the sauce

“Sweet fucking hells, you’ve never looked better.”

The gag in your mouth keeps you from speaking.

“Remind me, what were you doing that was so bad earlier?”

“Hrmph - ” The sound was muffled.

“Shhh, don’t talk with your mouth full. Now just stay right there.”

Phantom:

When you act up, it flips a switch in his brain

Picks you up with ease from the side, lifting you bridal style into his arms

The tightness of his grip on you speaks volumes to his possessiveness

He scans for an unoccupied room, hells, even a dark corner to take you

He needs you immediately and he knows you need him just as badly

“Oh you’ve done it now, you’ve got my attention, so let’s go.”

“Phantom, slow down!”

“No. You fired me up now you can bring me back down.” He sets you down once you’re behind closed doors. “On your fucking knees.”

You kneel in front of him, eager to please him after misbehaving.

“Oh fuck, yes, such a good girl, just like that.”

Dewdrop/Sodo:

Misbehaving is a broad term to this ghoul, in fact, he likes when you’re naughty

Except when you give any attention to his brothers

Now that is a sure-fire way to pour gasoline on his flames

He comes up behind you when you least expect it (see where this is going?)

His long fingers wrap around your throat, pressing intentionally on your arteries, your head swooning in seconds

“Don’t go all limp on me yet.”

“But, Dew -” you whimper.

“Come on, you know exactly what you do to me. It was intentional, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now I’m going to be very intentional with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight the rest of the night.”

Rain:

He has infinite patience, at least until you vex him

And boy howdy, once you’ve crossed that bridge you’d better be prepared

There’s a determined look in his eye as he stalks towards you

He grabs your wrist, and even if you try to pull away, it’s impossible, his grip strength is too much

He drags you with him through the nearest corridor to a quiet space

“You’re going to be nice and quiet now for me.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“Then I’ll make you.”

His hand clamps over your lips shockingly fast, leaving you a thin line to breathe from your nose.

“I love seeing you get a taste of your own medicine. Don’t like it when I match your energy? Don’t misbehave.”

Mountain:

Sits and watches stoically as you make a fool out of yourself

Doesn’t need to say anything

Doesn’t need to do anything, but he does

He easily scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder

He could spank you from here, but he prefers his partner underneath him (If you know what I mean)

“You do have to do all of that to get my attention, you know.” He plops you on his bed, climbing on top of you.

“I know, but maybe I’m looking for bad attention.”

“Yeah?”

You whine and writhe underneath him as he smacks (not hard) the thickness of your outer thigh.

“That’s what you want? Just ask next time, little villainess.”

Just da bois this time, but if you’d like me to include the ghoulettes pls just comment, I’m happy to oblige a fellow ghoulette lover! ( *︾▽︾)

Ghoulette Version Here!

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nyrandrea · 7 months

Note

hiii I’d like to request (again if that’s ok, it’s me the one who asked for the injured ) but if so then may I ask for this time so what if everyone’s at camp all asleep when a few people sneak in and kidnap reader but Astarion wakes up hearing something wasn’t right seein what’s going on watches as reader disappears then ofc hunting them down to see them being used in an ritual all tied up and weak dndeueududid ( sorry it’s like 1:18am I’m laid awake thinking about random things 💀 )

Helloooo again! I enjoyed your last request and certainly had fun with this one too so thanks again! (1:18am is the best time for random thoughts :D )

Warnings for canon typical violence, kidnapping, rituals (kinda), blood and swears

Word Count - 2.9k

Enjoy!

xxx

Under the silvery embrace of the crescent moon, nestled within the heart of a tranquil forest, you and your companions had surrendered to the gentle clutches of slumber, a collective of soft snoring weaving its way through the rustling leaves and whispering trees.

A clearing in the woods served as your base for the night after a long, grueling day of travelling. The grass beneath you was like a plush carpet, and a delicate blanket of dew kissed the blades, glistening like diamonds. The air was crisp, yet tender, cradling you in its nocturnal embrace.

Your team had all gathered in a sort of semi-circle, heads pillowed upon hands or nestled into makeshift cushions fashioned from backpacks and rolled-up cloaks. You weren’t sure how or when, but throughout your sleep you had unconsciously rolled over and inched yourself closer to where Astarion lay, his delicious scent drawing you in.

One could observe the group and note the serene expressions etched upon their faces. They appeared as though they were sculpted by dreams, their features softened by the embrace of rest. Your eyes fluttered beneath closed lids as you chased the remnants of recent adventures.

Unfortunately for you, you were being observed.

You flinched as the corner of your vision registered a goblin kneeling beside you, the tip of his dagger against your throat before you could even scramble for your own weapon.

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you," he purrs, smiling smugly down at you. “Not if you want your friends to keep their innards intact.”

Your eyes widen and dart over to where the rest of the group lay, completely oblivious to the goblins that threatened their very lives. You were even surprised to see Astarion still in a deep trance of meditation; he was usually so much more alert at night.

“What do you want?” you whisper.

“For you to come with us, true soul,” the goblin answered. “We are in desperate need of your... assistance.”

‘Great,’ you thought. ‘Just what I need, more Absolute nutjobs.’

“Look, I don’t think I can help you.”

“Oh, but you are the only one who can,” he retorts, slowly pulling the knife away from your throat. “It’s our leader, you see. She is gravely ill and only a true soul like yourself can cure her.”

Your face scrunches up in disbelief. “If she’s ill, then it’s a healer you need, not me.”

The goblin frowns. “It’s you she needs, she said so herself.” His blade edges closer to you once again, signaling for you to get up. “Now, if you’ll be so kind as to come with us. Or am I going to have to resort to a bit of… persuasion?”

He exchanges a glance with one of his men, who seemed all too giddy to slash Astarion’s neck.

“No…!” You almost shout but restrain yourself so as to not alert the others and incur a massacre. “I-I’ll come with you, just... leave them be.”

The goblin grinned up at you, and you had to force down the bile that was rising in your throat.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he crooned, gesturing for you to follow.

You hesitate for a moment, your gaze darting between your weapon and the goblin, his eyes are trained on you, almost as if he was daring you to try. Ultimately, you were outnumbered, and they held the element of surprise over your companions. No matter which way you tried to cut it, there were going to be casualties if you didn’t do what you were told.

So, you begrudgingly allowed yourself to be led into whatever hellish fate this cult of the Absolute had in store for you. A plan of escape would have to come later, when you were far enough away from your friends.

Unbeknownst to you, one of them was already on your trail.

xxx

Amidst the shroud of night, when the moon hid its luminous face behind a thick blanket of heavy clouds, you and your merry little band of kidnappers ventured into a meadow cloaked in long, swaying grass. The air had an eerie stillness about it, broken only by the distant whispers of nocturnal creatures.

As you traversed the meadow, moving with cautious steps, your feet sinking into the cool earth with each stride, you silently weighed up your options. The grass was like a sea of shadows, their whispers brushing against your legs like ghostly fingers; it would be so easy just to blend in and disappear.

You would have considered it, if it were not for the worgs.

The air was imbued with the scent of dew-drenched grass, but those beasts would still be able to track you down within seconds. Only... there were most certainly four of them the last time you checked. But looking around now, you only noticed two.

It appeared the goblins had noticed too; their hushed conversations were like faint echoes in the vast expanse, mixing with the symphony of crickets and the occasional haunting call of a night owl. You couldn’t make out a damn word they were saying, but they looked nervous.

“It would seem that we have a stalker in our midst,” the leader of the group growled, holding up a hand for everyone to come to a halt before he grabbed your wrist, forcing you down to his level. “Sod it, change of plan. You’re with me,” he commanded one of his men before turning to the rest. “You lot deal with the bastard while we take our friend here back to base.”

“Hey!” You grabbed his wrist and tried to wrench yourself free. “Let go!”

“With pleasure,” he grinned as he simultaneously released his grip and struck the back of your head with a blunt weapon, rendering you unconscious just as the ambusher seized the opportune moment. With lightning speed and calculated precision, he pounced from the grass, launching himself like a shadowy wraith. Long grass bent and swirled in his wake, mimicking the dance of phantoms.

In that fleeting moment, you caught the glint of a blade unsheathed, reflecting a cold, silver streak in the night. Chaos ensued, and the long grass became a battleground, hiding the combatants in its tangled embrace.

The clash of steel rang through the night, intermingling with the desperate cries of your name as you slipped away into darkness.

The ambusher moved with ruthless determination; his scarlet eyes ablaze with a wild, unholy fervor. In the end, silence fell upon the meadow, broken only by the ragged breaths of the victorious, standing amidst the long grass, a solitary figure bathed in the haunting glow of the moon, his cloak billowing like a specter as he followed the trail of broken grass the other goblins had made as they carried your prone form away.

xxx

The first thing you could feel was a pounding in your head. You try to sit up, to pull your knees up so you can curl up and settle the turning in your stomach. Slowly, your eyes opened as your breath sped up.

You were lying on the dirty floor in the middle of some sort of temple, hardly able to move due to your wrists and ankles being bound by chains. You struggle to draw in shallow gasps as you blinked through the blurriness of tears that clung to your eyelashes.

“What?” you whisper to yourself, wiggling to try and find an opening in the chains, trying not to hyperventilate as the bindings dug painfully into your skin the more you tried to move.

You bite your lip as your mind races with ideas to escape, to get away from this place, to kill these people for having the audacity to kidnap you, to threaten your friends.

Different scenarios play out repeatedly in your head, but the reality was that you were powerless to do anything.

“Comfortable, are we?”

A goblin slinked her way over to you from the shadows, she was unlike the crude and menacing stereotypes that often plagued her kind. She possessed an eerie, captivating beauty and moved with an uncanny grace; as sinuous as a serpent. Her skin, the color of moss, bore intricate tattoos that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

Your skin tingled, hairs on the back of your neck prickling up as the goblin prowled behind your back to watch over your shoulder, her warm breath brushing behind your ear.

“I do hope so - it is truly an unimaginable honor to have a true soul like yourself amongst us, especially one with such... soft, tender flesh.”

A soft whimper pressed from your throat as warm hands slithered over your shoulders, kneading gently into tensed muscles. It sent a shudder down your spine, pressing your entire body in on itself.

“No need to be so coy, dear,” she said. “We’ll be getting to know one another, after all. For what is to come.”

Your lips pressed tight together as you swallowed down a knot in your throat, but your chin was forced up so that your eyes locked with hers. The symbol of the Absolute flashed on her face like a dazzling light, but no matter how much the tadpole wriggled and pulsed inside your head, nothing was happening.

You held no authority here.

“Those little mind tricks won’t work with me,” she sneered, pointing a clawed finger to her temple. “For I too, am a true soul. In fact, I am the one and only true soul!”

“W-w-what do you mea-?”

You were silenced with a hard slap.

“You may not speak in my presence, worm,” the goblin growled. “Speaking of, I’ve got so many of the little buggers up there, I may as well be as powerful as the Absolute themselves!” She barked a laugh and grinned maniacally down at you. “And your parasite will make a fine addition to my collection.”

‘Gods, this bitch is fucking crazy,’ you thought, but your mind immediately seized up and burned as she pried her way into it, and she was not too happy with your choice of words.

“You haven’t even seen crazy yet,” she growled as she traced a claw down the side of your face, drawing a thin line of blood. “I think I’ll pry your worm out myself with my bare hands and make you watch as I consume it before we gut you and roast you on the spit with the rest of the pigs.”

Strong hands took hold of your arms and legs and dragged you onto a slab of stone that had markings etched along the edges. You could just make out they were in Infernal—akin to the ones on Astarion’s back—but like his, you couldn’t decipher their meaning.

You kicked, flailed and screamed in desperation, but you were soon silenced by the goblin as she wrapped her hands around your throat while the others formed a circle around you and started muttering some sort of ritualistic prayer.

Your senses were dulling further by the second and a part of you wanted to give in to the pain, to just let yourself black out and fade away, but something within you pulsated with the will to live. To fight to your very last breath. Was this the parasite’s doing? Or was it something else?

“Just give in to the Absolute, dear, "the goblin said, her tone almost sickeningly gentle. “You’ll be all the better for it.”

“F...f...”

“Aw, your last, dying words,” she purrs, leaning in closer to listen. “I will permit it.”

“...Fuck you,” you spat.

The goblin’s smug expression warps into one of pure fury, and she bares her teeth at you as she grabs a hold of your face with one hand, using the other to slowly inch her claws towards your left eye. Her hiss garbles into a shrill wheeze as a dagger is plunged into her back and through her chest several times, relentlessly. A stray drop of blood trails down her mouth as she screams silently before she is rolled away from you, her body plopping onto the ground with an unceremonious thump.

You try to catch your breath, thanking whatever Gods were out there that they decided to spare you today.

“Don’t thank them, darling, thank me,” a familiar voice teased, though his shaking voice betrayed his light tone. “They would have done bugger all, anyway.”

A tiny, joyful laugh escapes from your raw throat as your eyes fall onto the welcome sight of Astarion, who seems just as relieved to see you.

“Are you alright?” he asks, quickly approaching with what appeared to be a pair of bolt cutters.

You nodded desperately, holding out your wrists.

Astarion took a moment to get the teeth of the bolt cutters properly in place where they wouldn’t bite through the skin but snapped them together fairly easily.

You shuddered a soft sob, relief dripping from your eyes as you rubbed at your wrists. Astarion didn’t wait for further instructions, you needed to move.

He knelt by your feet, slotting one link of the chain between the thick metal teeth, then braced one handle against his thigh. It bruised and dug into the flesh of his leg, but he didn’t stop.

The metal didn’t relent, but neither would he.

“Astarion-”

“Just... hold on, darling!” he says, pausing only briefly to give you a reassuring smile. “I’m no Lae’zel or Karlach; strength isn’t exactly my forte but I’ve... almost got it...!”

Teeth grit, fueled by fear and desperation, Astarion pulled harder and harder, feeling the bruise work against the bone and listening to his back crackle at the strain. He shifted, readjusting – maybe one half of the link would be enough? It was dented – that was a good sign.

You rested both hands on Astarion’s shoulders, steadying you both as he groaned under the effort. He jerked the handle to and fro, desperately trying to force the iron link to submit to iron teeth.

With one final effort, the metal finally crunched, and you were free.

Astarion’s arms encircled you with a strength that made you feel safe and cherished, while you nestled your head against his chest.

“You... how did you...?”

“I knew from the moment they took you,” Astarion said, smoothing down your arms, the motion was slow and helped calm you down a little. “I was, let’s say, aware of their presence in camp. But like you, I wanted to avoid a messy fight and so I tracked you down myself and... thank the gods I did.”

“Guess they helped out a little, after all,” you weakly joked.

“Oh shush,” he softly retorted. “It was fairly easy, what with that awful stench those creatures' reek of.”

“So, it was you... in the meadow.”

“It was,” he smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. “I almost had you, if only I’d been quicker, or less sloppy, you wouldn’t have...”

His eyes, pools of worry and tenderness, never left your face. He reached out with a hand that trembled, his fingers brushing away strands of your disheveled hair. His touch was feather-light, as if he feared causing you any more discomfort.

With a voice softer than a whisper, he asked, “Did… did they…?” The words carried the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions.

“It’s okay,” you said, reaching out to caress his cheek. “I’m okay.”

He nodded, his lips curling into a tender smile as he leaned into your touch. Gently, he began to inspect your injuries. His fingers traced the contours of your throat, seeking out any sign of any permanent damage. With each touch, he was meticulous, ensuring that he didn’t aggravate the forming bruise.

"Does it hurt much?" he inquires softly, his expression unreadable, almost dazed.

You wince slightly but shake your head. "It's bearable.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're so, so strong, my dear," he whispers, his words a soothing balm to your wounded soul.

His soft gaze hardens as he glares down at the goblins' bodies that littered the room. “Death is too good for them. I’m almost tempted to have them revived so I can make them suffer just a little longer.”

“How did you even manage to kill so many?” you ask, you knew he was a dab hand at killing but even he couldn’t take on a whole horde by himself.

“They were all so engrossed in their little ritual, they didn’t even see me coming,” Astarion said with a shrug. “That’s what you get for blind faith, I suppose.”

You wanted to laugh, but your throat hurt too much.

“Come on, darling,” Astarion gently looped your arm around his shoulder and guided you, going as slow as your aching legs would allow. “Let’s get you home.”

Your eyes met his in a gaze that transcended words, a silent conversation of empathy and understanding. In that moment, the world ceased to exist beyond the contours of your bodies, and the only reality was the sensation of skin against skin, the intoxicating scent of each other's presence, and the unspoken promise that he would never allow this to happen to you again.

xxx

Links to my other Astarion works

Everything's Fine

Restless

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

#bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #my writing #fanfiction #tw kidnapping #request

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sameschmidtdiffname · 1 month

Note

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

•▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

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inoreuct · 3 months

Text

been thinking about asura zoro lately.

possibly a prince sanji au where sora’s kicked her shitstain of an ex-husband out of the kingdom and his siblings are going through behavioural therapy,,,

at any rate, sanji’s wandering across the grounds one afternoon and he sees someone sitting beneath his favourite apple tree in the middle of the field. he thinks it’s yonji at first, but no— the hair’s too short and the wrong shade of green. less neon than his brother’s electric lime and more like… moss.

the man has one leg propped up with his arm resting on his knee, an apple clutched loosely in his hand. he turns as the grass rustles with sanji’s steps and sanji notes the vertical scar over his left eye that cuts through his brow and down his cheek. “you’re in my spot.”

“hm,” the man says, completely unbothered. he lifts the apple to take a bite and his open robe shifts with the wind, the hilts of the three swords tucked into his sash knocking gently against each other.

sanji narrows his eyes. “move.”

a slow, lazy grin. “no.”

“you—!” the prince is just about ready to boot this guy in the ass. “you do realise who i am, don’t you?”

“no,” the man repeats, shrugging a shoulder and peering down at his apple before taking another bite.

that gives sanji pause. everybody knows who he is. it’s inescapable— queen sora’s kindest son, with the golden hair and a heart to match. ocean eyes and the hands of a chef and legs steadier than any sailor’s. he has a duty to fulfil and an image to uphold, and it’s—

well. it’s just that sometimes, he thinks that he wasn’t made for this life at all— that he was meant to be out there, on the ocean, skipping over the waves with the wind in his hair and the sun on his brow, feeling the grit of sand between his teeth. he has satisfied himself with the comforts of royal life, with the orchards and the kitchens, but something pulls at him still. it tugs his heart towards the coast and whispers for him to shed the courtly graces he wears as tangibly as the cloak over his shoulders.

sanji is quiet as he reaches up, swallowing over the soft click of the clasp before red velvet falls into his hand. he drops it to the grass and lets it pool, puts one palm on the ground before settling against worn, rough bark and letting the pattern press into the skin of his spine.

“it’s peaceful here.” the man’s voice is low, slipping beneath the soft sigh of wind. “quiet.”

“it hadn’t always been,” sanji says, before he can stop himself. he has no reason to be doing this— to be saying anything at all, much less sitting down. he should be yelling for the guards and then taking this guy out himself. he’s a stranger who’d somehow made it onto royal grounds, through the extensive defences they had; one with three swords and scars, sanji reminds himself as he eyes the gnarly line of pearly tissue running diagonally down the man’s chest. he’s, by all definitions, a threat.

and yet, sanji hasn’t felt anything at all. no hostility, no fear— just… stillness, if he had to put a word to it. a sort of calm.

“the king… he was cruel,” he continues softly. “he treated my siblings and i like lab rats to be used. my mother was nothing more than a pretty thing to fill a space beside him. this palace, this kingdom used to be filled with war and pain and noise.” sanji chances a glance up to find the man already looking at him, and he quickly looks away. “sometimes, he’d come back from war stinking of blood and death. even worse was when he’d bring my siblings with him. he forced them to fight, see— didn’t even give them a choice, because of his experiments.”

the words are bitter as he spits them out, and sanji feels his hair bunch when he tilts his head back against the tree and blows out a breath. “i was always the failure.” the grass is damp with dew as he rubs a few blades between his fingers. “the weak one. the useless one. and i was the one who dragged him outside the city gates and told him that if i ever saw him again i’d take his head.”

he’s no longer as angry about it, he thinks. sanji has spent enough of his life being angry. the thought just carries a muted tone now, satisfied and a little victorious but also resigned— sometimes he looks at fathers in the squares and the markets, carrying their children on their shoulders and indulging them in the smallest of things, overpriced candy and tag on the dusty cobblestones, and his eyes burn. he should have had that. he never did, and he never will.

sanji lets his eyebrows flash up, swallowing against the tightness in his chest. “i don’t know why i’m telling you all this, anyway,” he says with a light, forced laugh. “i don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“nobody important,” the man hums. “not yet. but one day i’ll be the greatest swordsman in the world.”

the prince believes it. he feels something now, at least— a presence of sorts, like pressure from all sides, present but not pushing. just there. “i think… i want to get out of here.”

again, he doesn’t know why he says it. he has the urge to slap a hand over his mouth as soon as he does, in fact. because everything’s fine now, everything’s finally going well; judge is gone, his siblings are safe, his mother is safe, and he should be happy. he is happy. he gets to cook all he wants and he’s—

he’s not. he’s not happy. he wants to go, wants to— to grab a boat and disappear, sail to the edge of the horizon and then beyond. it aches in his chest like someone’s squeezing his heart, fingertips digging into tough muscle, and he rubs the heel of his hand through the fine weave of his shirt.

the man bites into his apple again, and the crisp crunch cuts through the still air. sanji lets his eyes slip shut.

“where do you want to go?” the man asks.

sanji laughs, a soundless exhale. “the all blue. it’s an ocean with every kind of fish you could imagine and then some. i want to open a restaurant. a place of my own where nobody will ever go hungry.”

a pause, and then the man turns to look at him. “do you know why i’m here?”

“no.” sanji cracks an eye open, sighing impatiently. “why?”

“the change. all this place has known for years was turmoil and war and chaos. and then suddenly… it all went silent.” he eyes sanji unreadably. “somebody took notice.”

somebody, huh? if sanji’s dealing with a religious nutcase, he might just burst into laughter. or knock this guy out. maybe both. “you believe in god, then?”

“no,” the man says flatly. “and even if one did exist, they didn’t help you then. they won’t help you now.”

the blonds’s eyes narrow as he sits up straight and slowly raises an eyebrow. “if that’s supposed to be a threat, mosshead, i’m not scared of you.”

“mosshead?!” the other splutters, the first sign of real human emotion sanji’s seen on him, and sanji laughs.

“it fits!”

“it’s—”

“blasphemous? disrespectful?” sanji teases, somehow more at ease than he’s felt in ages. he doesn’t know who this man is, and who he is doesn’t matter— he’s free to run his mouth, and he damn well will.

“you should be scared of me, you know,” the man says, voice gritty, and sanji smirks.

“why so?”

and— oh.

that presence from before increases exponentially, until he feels sweat bead beneath his collar. dirt gathers beneath his fingernails as he scrabbles backwards, instinctive, throat bobbing as he counts three, four, six arms, and three heads, and three grey eyes glinting like watered steel. wind whips through the clearing, shaking the branches of the tree— sanji reminds himself to close his mouth as he sits beneath the rustling, as black tendrils of shadow snake through the air, swelling around the man’s silhouette, silky and molten. it’s not just that overwhelming, omnipresent aura; he’s got to be two heads taller than a normal man at least.

sanji’s breath is stuck in his throat. and then he looks down; that half-eaten apple is still there, shiny and red. the man’s swords — nine of them, now — clatter gently by his hips, and his earrings jingle with something that almost sounds like gentle laughter, and his hair is still impossibly green.

“…is this supposed to be intimidating?” he offers, climbing to his feet with a bored cock of his hip. “i mean, it’s impressive and all, mossy, don’t get me wrong, but—”

the man’s form snaps back to normal in an instant, leaving him with an almost comical look of disbelief on his face. “you’re fuckin’ crazy.”

“i’m traumatised,” sanji corrects, cackling. “after my bastard of a sperm donor, i doubt i could be scared of much else. besides, you haven’t done anything but talk to me. that’s a lot more kindness than most people can say they’ve shown.”

he watches the emotions flash across the man’s face like a play-by-play until his strong features finally settle on something not dissimilar to determination. “we’re going.”

“huh?” the sudden subject change throws him. “where?”

“the all blue,” is the impatient answer as the stranger crosses his arms. “didn’t you say you wanted to go?”

“yes, but—” sanji makes a series of exasperated noises as he tries to find his words. “i can’t just— go! i have responsibilities, i need to—”

“you need to be free,” the man grunts, and sanji stops short. “can’t keep a bird caged and expect it to be happy.”

the prince bites his lip, heart pounding. this is crazy. this is insane, it’s how kidnappings happen, he shouldn’t even he considering this. “…if, even if we were to go— how would we get there? how would we even find it?”

“we’ll figure it out?” the man pins him with a look that says duh, like it’s no big deal. “i know a witch who’s a navigator, she owes me a favour. and a guy who works in a shipyard. it’ll work.” he looks like he’s about to start tapping his foot, but then his expression softens. “one day,” he says, eyes skating across sanji’s face. “we go for one day, sunrise to sundown, and if you don’t like it i’ll bring you right back.”

sanji’s chest aches. his breath trembles against his teeth. “why?”

his stranger swallows, gaze tilting down as his fingers drift to the hilt of the white sword by his side, like it’s a comfort. “you aren’t scared of me.” his eye is a flash of silver as he looks up again, bottled starlight and iron. “maybe that’s more kindness than i’m usually shown, too.”

maybe sanji’s losing his mind. maybe he’d lost it a long time ago. because he finds himself nodding slowly and breathing, “okay.”

a sharp, sure nod. “we leave tomorrow. settle your affairs and meet me down by the beach at dawn.”

“alright.”

sanji watches the man turn and amble away, in no apparent, rush, before a thought strikes him. “wait!”

green hair shifts in the sunlight as he twists back around, one scarred palm by his ear. “hah?”

“what’s your name?” sanji yells across the clearing, and the smile that’s sent his way is blinding.

“meet me and i’ll tell you, curls!” the man yells back, and then he’s gone. just— disappears, like he’d been a figment of imagination.

an apple core tips against sanji’s ankle, pale and clean.

(sora takes one look at his face when he asks and lets him go.

“you’d always been restless,” she tells him gently, as she helps him pack his things into a burlap satchel and sets his spice tins carefully into their case. she says he’d been loud even as a baby, wailing right out of the womb with eyes the blue of cornflowers and summer skies and the water, riotous and gentle and vast like his heart.

she sends him off with a kiss to his forehead, hands cupping his face as she smiles against his skin, and this time sanji welcomes the burn in his eyes.

he finds zoro by the beach like something out of a fairytale, skin bronzed in the light of a new day, glowing with the orange dancing off the waves. he has a boat waiting, barely big enough for two, wrist draped over his sword hilts as he yawns and scratches at his head, and sanji grins so hard his face hurts.

his palms on the lip of sealed wood have his heart pounding hard enough to feel it against his ribs, his shoes sinking into the sand as they push the dinghy out to sea and jump on, and he shoves his hand in the water just because he can.

“zoro,” the man says abruptly, two extra shadows framing him in the sunrise like a mirage, and sanji’s lips curl up at the edge. “that’s my name.”

“okay, mossy,” he sing-songs, and bites down a laughing scream when zoro rocks the boat so hard he nearly falls out.

he does tell zoro his name, when he decides that he’ll stay. they’re still on their little boat; it’s sunset now, and the green-haired man is taking up all the space in his other form, stretched out with his hands folded behind his head. “i’m sanji, by the way,” he offers, offhand, and watches zoro crack an eye open to grunt in acknowledgment.

he pretends not to see the soft smile that the other man flips over to hide. zoro hardly ends up using it anyway, the brute.

sanji really doesn’t mind.)

#don’t know WHERE i was going with this #like feeling around a wall in a dark room with paint on my hand #call that ABSTRACT ART 😏👍🏼#one piece #zosan #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #zoro x sanji #sanji #one piece sanji #one piece zosan #one piece zoro #zoro #ino writes #this is an au where sanji meets zeff out there i guess… as of now the poor babygirl still thinks he’ll never get Fathered™#JUST YOU WAIT SANJI JUST YOU WAIT #mmkay goodnight yall #and happy 初二 to those who celebrate cny muakss

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guav · 2 years

Text

ᥫ᭡ for rindou, manjiro, chifuyu, and souya,

KISS ME WITH YOUR EYES CLOSED!

tokyo revengers characters + types of kisses

𔘓 only warning is they're probably very out of character but who cares!! i had a blast writing them anyway

⠀◉⠀HAITANI RINDOU

the kisses that chase after you

“you’re taking me through roppongi for a date?”

rindou gave no reply, bike soaring past car after car seamlessly. of course he would, just to show off.

the district wasn’t a mystery to you. it’s hard not knowing every nook and cranny, every street and shop, when you’ve been dancing around the youngest haitani for months. endless weeks with your arm looped around his—he’s not yours. every other day with his fingers idly playing with your belt loops—you’re not his.

and yet you wake at every call of his. phone chimes at the midst of witching hours quickly become your cue to sneak out your window. it’s routine without a label.

“i didn’t think tonight would be the night you confess you’re a table dancer.” no judgment from your end, though an annoyed sigh does leave your companion’s very own soul.

rindou couldn’t be bothered to turn off the engine just yet, slightly considering driving you both off the pier he parked at. “how do you even come up with all that?”

“i’m a psychic.”

he scoffed in response, turning the key to let the engine die. psychic is a stretch, you’re a bother, if anything. “s’that the reason you haven’t turned around yet?”

his words are commands, and you whip your head around. the thought of getting pushed and falling to your death seemed plausible—considering it was rindou who asked you to face the other way. however, such a beautiful landscape would have never crossed your mind. rindou had taken you on a drive to witness the beauty of night.

roppongi sang glowing notes of life below, more alive during the dead of night than when morning dew arises. the district was breathing, and it was alluring by itself.

you barely take note of rindou sneaking behind you, neither do you care when he eggs you forward, trapping you between the railings and his own frame. at this point you wouldn’t care if he actually shoved you, the tall buildings would make for a hell of view as you fell.

“you’ve mentioned you like the place better when it shines,” rindou mused. “thought we could come here together.”

we. although you know he meant it in a literal sense, you linger on the word.

what are we?

you’ve avoided the subject for an eternity. at this point, even ran has given up on trying to steal you from his little brother. it’s been that long.

maybe it’s best left unspoken. maybe you’d rather turn around to face him.

“did i?” he’s impossibly close to you, yet you wrap your arms around his shoulders. c’mere. “since when do you listen to anything i say?”

rindou doesn’t answer, it’s a little concerning. the silence isn’t heavy because there’s no such thing—there’s cars driving past, music blaring, and distant chattering. it’s not awkward because there’s an unspoken agreement. it’s only awkward if you make it awkward.

there’s little space between your bodies, and it lessens as he starts leaning in. his eyes are distant, they’re stuck on your lips. rindou is so close to finally picking the forbidden fruit.

until you turn your head. “maybe i’ll be your bouncer if i get this view every time you have a dancing session.”

for the record, he’s fucking embarrassed. rindou backs away quickly (his arms don’t care for the humiliation, they stay put and keep you in the same spot), the slightest trace of a blush disappearing with the lack of light. “joke’s dead.”

so is his mood, and it’s hilarious. “is it?” you face him once again, taking note of the blonde’s agitation. poor youngest brother, always taking the torment, no matter the context. “i think you could pull it off.”

rindou is sure the window of opportunity is long-gone. he’s certain there’s no way the mood will come back. pulling away and brushing it off would be a good move, but your arms don’t allow him to budge, and in the blink of an eye you’re brushing noses with him again.

the window opens again, it’s so free. he leans in again, tilting to the right. but you tilt a little too much to the left, and your face rests on one of his shoulders instead.

great, for a split second he made out with air.

it’s hard to contain your laughter, you can feel his hands grip your hips with anger. “you got the moves, so i’ve heard—ran says you make funny poses when you’re in a fight.”

after two failed attempts, he comes to a conclusion.

you’re messing with him. you’re playing with rindou haitani, man who’s gone to jail before for murder.

rindou is about done with your antics. he grips your chin, and though the initial force is harsh, it softens. it always does with you, especially when you’re trying to stifle that stupid giggling.

“you think you’re funny.” yeah, yeah you do. “actin’ all dumb, pulling away—is that why your arms are clinging to me?”

“i don’t know what you're talking about,” you lie.

“you a comedian now?” rindou is pressing you impossibly tighter against the railing. “am i laughing?”

you are. “sorry rin, just—you’re too easy to rile up.” he wants nothing more than to wipe that smug grin from your face, you’ve picked up on his facial expressions too well.

“lemme fuckin’ kiss you, damnit.” he muttering mostly to himself, stuck trying to hold your face in place.

but you’re having the time of your life running from him. it’s hilarious hearing the curses slip past the same lips desperately chasing after yours. (he’s not sure he wants to kiss you at all anymore! his patience has long since run out!)

whatever good is left in your soul takes pity on the delinquent. he comes crashing when you finally meet him halfway. it’s messy, and he’s angry. so he doesn’t stop at one kiss, he’s selfish like that. rindou finally got a taste, and the built-up tension demands a thousand more samples.

“was that,” he can only keep away from your lips for a split second. “so fuckin’,” it’s addicting. “hard?”

maybe it wasn’t, maybe you shut him up with another kiss.

⠀◉⠀SANO MANJIRO

the kisses that taste sweet... literally

clearly, you should've known better. in the entire lifetime you've known mikey for, never had the man caved at sharing the tiniest piece of dorayaki in his possession.

you should've known better than to buy two of the cakes and store them in the same bag. the same bag which was now within his greedy claws, leaving you to negotiate (beg would be more fitting) for your rightful share of treats. "you got them for me, though."

a sigh, "i got you one, the other one in the bag is mine."

mikey, mouth full of the treat, tilted his head—a pseudo show of confusion. "nuh-uh, there was only one in the bag." his lips pursed like the liar he is.

"fine, just let me have one bite, you can eat the rest." bargaining is futile, maybe it's time to reconsider your criteria for a boyfriend.

"i'm serious, there's no more dorayaki in the bag."

a pause, followed by manjiro getting tackled to the grass. blonde strands of hair merged with the green under them, shoulders shaking in what could only be described as evil laughter. mad, cruel giggling. the paper bag, forcefully snatched from mikey’s grasp, was indeed empty. only a few crumbs remained as evidence of his crimes.

"how did you even manage to eat it so quickly?" shock elevated your tone into a shriek, heart shattering over the missing dorayaki. "you're like, the worst of the worst!" being a gang leader does not even come close to this level of violation.

mikey's laughter did nothing to mend your loss. careless laughter, teenage glee. under any other circumstances you would’ve loved to capture his happiness in a bottle, to cherish forever. however, the figurative knife he had just plunged in your back made for a hell of a fresh wound.

manjiro sano was now being judged by your fists, feebly striking his chest, shoulder, and chest again. "i'm sorry—ouch—okay, i'm sorry!

he could’ve well struggled against your barrage of punches, but he didn’t. did they hurt? not in the slightest, perhaps you needed this more than he did.

all the profanities leaving your mouth served to fuel mikey's fit of giggles even further. oh, just how would he, filthy criminal, ever make it up to you?

an idea popped into his head. "i can call kenchin and tell him to buy you some on the way."

"i don't want ken's money, i want my dorayaki!"

he rubbed his chin, awaiting another genius idea. "do you want the crumbs, then?"

your jaw dropped at the audacity, "you are a dead man."

before you could further spiral and throw a thousand more insults his way, mikey dove forward, pressing his lips against yours.

foreheads bumped together, and while it hurt for a split second, the sensation was overtaken by the god-sent gift that is chocolate; tiny specks of bread, and the sweetness that is mikey’s embrace made your anger dissipate for a moment.

"see?" he pulled back, sporting a stupid, proud grin. "tastes even better than the actual thing."

"no, no it doesn't," you leaned in for another kiss, anyway.

⠀◉⠀MATSUNO CHIFUYU

the kisses that missed their cue

“it’s foolproof—i start with you as an opening gift,” it’s worth mentioning chifuyu is talking to a stuffed animal on his bed. “then we have dinner, followed by a walk in the park, and then the bridge is the perfect place for a kiss.”

anyone walking into this would likely mark chifuyu down as insane. talking to a heart-patterned bear doesn’t classify as sane people activities. yet, when peke j pops his head from behind the toy, the circumstances change. talking to your cat is a little more excusable.

a meow puts his previous ramble to a stop, though it opens the door to a new one. “you think the button up is too much?”

no, the cat doesn’t have much thought outside of craving treats. “maybe i should just settle on my sweater, but if they get cold, giving them my sweater would be too much of a hassle.”

peke j could not care less. “i’ll take the risk with the button up and a jacket.”

another meow—though this time chifuyu doesn’t bother interpreting it.

his plan was foolproof, it was meant to be.

but no one told him how uncomfortable it would be to ride his bike with such get-up, or how awkward it would be when you went in to hug him and he stuffed the bear in your face by accident. nor did anyone remind him to turn his phone off while having dinner (he was sure to choke takemichi for spamming his messages, crying over a rip on his stupid red and white shirt).

however, the worst comes when a drop of rain falls on your forehead, midway through your stroll.

chifuyu is quick to slide his jacket over your shoulders. the rain isn’t kind enough to spare you another minute before it pours down, and you’re left making a run for shelter.

you know he’s trying his best to keep his composure, but the silent curses slipping past his lips aren’t discrete enough for the rain to mask. it’s evident in the way he clicks his tongue, and furrows his eyebrows.

chifuyu planned the entire evening meticulously, afternoons spent kicking his feet back and forth at all his ideas. all his plans, slowly washing down the drain.

“chifuyu, wait,” he’s damn close to slipping when you come to a sudden halt, arm tugging back to your spot. “look.”

mercy, at last. the drizzle filters through the tree leaves, only allowing a drop or two to slip past the cover. it’s better than nothing, and he’s too drenched to care.

his breathing is erratic. you can already hear the endless apologies that are dying to jump out of his throat. “it’s okay, see?”

take a deep breath is what he hears, maybe his secret gift is reading between the lines of both human and feline speech. chifuyu follows your unspoken demand down to a t.

he breathes in. at least you enjoyed the food, all the stories he had dug out for you proved to be most effective. your laughter quickly became one of his favorite noises, if that’s even a thing sane people have.

he breathes out. he was right to follow his gut and take his jacket. if only he had listened to peke j’s complaints, you would be swimming in damp wool. two wins against four losses wasn’t the best of proportions, but you weren’t frowning or chewing him out for being a bad date, so chifuyu decides to take the small victories.

he wants to break the silence. it’s not uncomfortable, but the prospect of hearing you chuckle again is too tempting. maybe this time he’ll tell you of the time baji accidentally bought a women’s shirt (and absolutely killed the v-neck look). or maybe you’d get a better kick out of the time peke j was called excalibur, his own embarrassment be damned if it meant your eyes would flicker with glee.

too many options revolved in his mind. it quickly became more and more difficult to choose one when you stared at him expectantly, adoringly. the squeeze on his hand wasn’t helping either.

… huh?

“doesn’t this seem like a scene straight out from one of your books?” your voice was muffled by the panicked screaming within his thoughts. he was slowly processing that he had grabbed your hand and practically dragged you through the rain. chifuyu’s plan was foolproof, he was meant to make that move at the end of the walk. give him a minute, please.

or don’t. “stranded under the rain, both soaked to the bone.” wait, you knew about his mangas? everything you spoke went through his ears with delay.

carefully, you peeled off his jacket, giving it a shake before snaking it around him. it was getting a little painful seeing him try to hold back from shivering. “i’d say your lovey-dovey date worked out just fine.”

screw the long-awaited scene by the bridge, where he was meant to cup your chin and lean in to steal your breath. with roses floating around the two of you, for good measure.

screw his foolproof plan.

another win is tallied in chifuyu’s favor when he met you halfway, closing the gap between your faces with a soft kiss. maybe a second one as well when you tugged him down for another.

(“i think it’s cute, chifuyu! you really spent a lot of time planning this.”

he rubbed his neck, mustering a chuckle. “it still went sideways, though.”

“michi even mentioned you had him sit through two romance movies to brainstorm—that’s dedication.”

as if he needed a second reason to murder hanagaki.)

⠀◉⠀KAWATA SOUYA

the kisses that make you believe in romance

it was an afternoon meant to blend in as any other day in the week. nothing new to watch on tv, no special meal to indulge in, and gray skies overhead. just a normal afternoon meant to be forgotten the next day.

until your doorbell announced a visitor, and you opened the door to a ridiculously huge bouquet of flowers hiding a blue poof of hair behind them.

you were the most despicable human to walk this earth. were you meant to go on a date? was today your anniversary? had you forgotten your own birthday?

"special occasion?" you prepared for the worst

souya stood awkwardly outside, half expecting you to maybe let him inside your home. "no, i just wanted to surprise you."

bless his heart.

his words snapped you out of the trance. door now wide open, you let him inside, taking the flowers from his arms. bless his beautiful soul, souya blushed when your hands grazed against his.

"i'll go put these in a vase, you can take off your shoes and wait on the couch." you tried to sound calm, you really did, but these flowers were heavy. what were they even feeding plants nowadays?

shoes carelessly thrown to the ground and hurried steps were your saving grace, the weight finally lessening as souya dashed in to help you carry them.

the arrangement looked beautiful when it wasn't making your arms cry for help. "sou, you didn't have to."

his eyes locked on the floor, "do you not like them? big bro said it'd be a nice detail.” he figured so too, yet he couldn’t help but fumble with his fingers.

truly, bless his mother for birthing him and his devil spawn of a twin.

"yes! of course i love them, i just," one hand sought to grasp his own, gently unclenching the fist he always curls his hand in. "i feel a little bad that i don't have anything for you."

a warm hue of blush painted his cheeks once again. "you don't have to give anything back, it wouldn't be a gift otherwise."

your free hand came to cup his face, gently lifting it. his eyes, wide as ever, were nothing short of nervous. "thank you, souya."

a soft peck on his cheek would have to suffice as payback for now. roses and snapdragons for a kiss. lips softly landed on his skin, lingering for just a minute longer. a muted smile ghosted on your face as his shoulders loosened up. flowers reciprocated as a honey-laced embrace.

and when his arms wrapped carefully around your waist, you could've sworn the sun came out for the first time that day.

⠀⠀⠀⠀navi.⠀＆⠀m.list.⠀＆⠀send me an ask!

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forlorn-crows · 3 months

Text

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 ♡

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

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

“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?”

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.

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

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midnight-moth · 8 months

Note

Need some fluffy RainDrop maybe with Phantom? Of them just needing to cuddle and sleep after a few rough shows in a row like they've been doing. Maybe Phantoms absolutely exhausted and really craving affection and cuddled but doesn't think he's allowed to join in with any of the pack (especially Rain and Dew) but they bring him in for cuddles and give him all the affection he needs (they all need tbh, especially Rain after that video you posted earlier) <3

Sometimes it’s better not to ask. What’s wrong? What do you need? How can I help? Those questions are better suited to someone who might be able to answer them. And maybe he could, with time and perspective. Maybe not.

Phantom doesn’t know what’s wrong after all. It was all so much fun. A loud disarray of sound and light and applause. Which he enjoyed. So why does he feel like a pumpkin left on the steps after Halloween? All the guts scraped out but for a short while you were filled with warmth, a soft glow that lit up everyone around you.

But now he feels hollow, discarded. He’s fingers drift across one of the plush bats tossed to him on stage. It has a red ribbon tied around its neck. He’s so happy everyone knows how much he loves bats. He isn’t sure how they knew. But he doesn’t know them, what they love, he can’t give them anything back. Just a few hours of his time, a piece of paper with song names on it, a small triangular piece of plastic.

And he realizes that no, they don’t know him at all. Not really. But that isn’t what really gets to him, makes him toss and turn at night, leaves him staring at the ceiling all night. Listening to the muffled sounds of sleep, or the occasional moan or hiss disrupts the near silence.

It’s that he’s surrounded by the same ghouls day in, day out, and they must understand how he feels. And he can see how they all lean harder and harder on one another, ritual after ritual after ritual.

But he doesn’t know that he’s supposed to assume. That he’s allowed to lean too. Rest his weary head on Mountain’s shoulder. Ask for Dew’s burning fingers to dig into his sore muscles. Let Swiss absolutely smother him in a never-ending bear hug. Dissolve into the tattered sofa while Aurora rakes her claws across his scalp. Just be close, let them dry his eyes, a respite for his tear-stained pillowcase.

And the others, they don’t realize that they should offer. Aurora, the self proclaimed pack princess, from day 0 she had no issue asking any of them to piggy back her 4’10” frame when her feet hurt, to wrap their bodies around her like blankets at night when she was cold.

He wonders how loneliness can simultaneously feel like a gaping void, and yet have such presence. Taking up so much room in his body, when he wraps his arms around his ribs and squeezes he can feel it butting up against his insides. He wonders how there’s any room left for his heart and his lungs but they keep beating and inflating anyway.

Perhaps there was something written on his face that day, those particular lines carving a new expression on his face that they’d never seen before. Perhaps that energy they felt when he was summoned, the kind that they were sure caused the ground to shake, felt dull.

Rain noticed first, and Dew merely had to follow his line of sight throughout the day to see for himself. The way Phantom’s body sagged when he wasn’t on stage anymore. That he was barely lifting his feet off the ground as he moved about the venue.

The thud his body made when he collapsed into his bunk that night was like the exclamation at the end of the thought Rain and Dew had both been finding words for that day.

A long run on sentence that contained why didn’t we notice sooner and why didn’t he say anything and have we made him feel unwelcome, unwanted? That last thought, it had teeth, and they dug right into the most tender scar Dew possessed.

At first Phantom thought the depressions in the mattress around him were an illusion. He jumped when fingers connected with his shoulder, nearly smacking his head against the low ceiling.

But soon hands we’re guiding him back down, arms worming their way underneath his ribs and wrapping him up back to front. Rain’s cool hand soothing the ache in his head. Dew’s body heat softening the rigid form his contracted muscles forced him in to.

He tries to speak but the only thing that comes out is a ragged little croak. So Rain presses a kiss to his lips to silence him. It says tell us later, rest now.

“Sorry we made you wait so long, bug.” Dew murmurs in his ear. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard that gentle lilt in his voice before. “But we’re here now. All of us are here, for you.”

#media nocte asks #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #phantom ghoul #I hope this is okay #I am trying to just not care if it isn’t the best because it’s all I can do #and maybe I can still enjoy it even if I know I can do better #because maybe this is just how it is now #midnight moth writes #cw depression #cw hurt comfort

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lou-struck · 5 months

Text

Honesty

Solomon x reader

WC: 2.8k+

~ This is why you aren't supposed to bring food or drink into Solomon’s lab. (or maybe why you should)

Warnings: Potion consumption, reader having a few insecurities, suggestiveness , Solomon overworking himself, food and drink.

A/n: I feel like I'm getting out of this little writing slump. Things have been rough these past few months but I am excited to get back into writing and hopefully making things that you guys enjoy.

Sometimes, when you look at Solomon, you wonder how you and him can both be considered humans.

He radiates this sort of otherworldly power that you just can’t seem to tear your gaze away from.

While the Devildom contains many mysteries, you have a feeling King Solomon the Wise has just a few more. He teases you with these little mysteries when you are working with him in his workshop.

They come out as calculated little mutterings that leave you wanting to know more, but he never gives you the whole story…

“I didn’t mean to burn down the Library of Alexandria.”

“You would’ve loved Atlantis.”

“The Illuminati started out as a book club.”

Sometimes, you do wonder if the cunning Sorcerer is just teasing you, but you don’t mind it all that much. His vast history and little mutterings are what makes him so endearing. Truly a creature all his own.

Solomon is always quick to brush off your questions and praises, directing your attention to one of his most recent experiments. And as you assist him in whatever trouble he is creating, you can’t help but feel as if you are not worthy enough to be at his side as an apprentice or as his love. It’s a small feeling, one that you are able to choke down easier than a bit of his abysmal cooking.

But your heart locks away what it believes to be the truth…

Solomon is amazing, and you’re just you.

Your boots leave little imprints in the dew-covered grass as you cut across the lush lawn of Purgatory Hall; if you weren’t familiar with its inhabitants, you might’ve felt bad about disregarding the well-tended cobblestone pathway just meters away, but due to an unfortunate incident involving Satan and an enchanted flamethrower, you were late for your apprenticeship with Solomon.

It also didn’t help that Luke, the sweet little angel, sent you a text sharing his concerns about the Sorcerer who hasn’t left his laboratory since last night and skipped breakfast and lunch to perform his experiments or whatever it is he does in there.

Your bag is filled to the brim with all sorts of little snacks and a few bottled juices, the glass bottles clinking suspiciously as you climb the steps of the enormous porch and let yourself in through the front door.

You don’t even have to think, you’ve been here so many times before you find yourself outside the door of the lab. Save for the sound of shuffling feet and clinking glassware, all is quiet.

You open the door as quietly as you can and see that Solomon is already hard at work. The Sorcerer is so entranced in his work, grinding some sort of luminous herb into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. He hasn’t even noticed your presence yet.

But boy, do you notice his…

The sleeves of his white lab coat are rolled up to his forearms as he works diligently. Although he has been working non-stop for hours, he doesn’t look tired in the least. His snow-white hair is ruffled, and his skin seems to glow in the light of the bunsen burners. He is truly in his element, and it’s captivating to watch.

“Were you planning on just watching from the doorway, mc?”

The playfulness in his tone pulls you from your ogling as you step further into the room, inhaling the citrus aroma that wafts through the air.

“Sorry about that.” you grin half-heartedly. “It’s been a long day, and I guess I zoned out there for a minute.”

It’s a lie, but one that you deemed necessary for the situation. It’s too embarrassing to be honest all the time.

“Oh, I see.” His response is short, and your poor ears must still be off in wonderland because they seem to pick up a hint of disappointment in his tone. He tosses his ground herbs into a bubbling mixture that seems to glow a neon orange color. You’re sure there is a better term for it, but It honestly just looks like Sunny D.

“What have you been working on?” you ask, setting your bag down to the right of a crate of glass soda bottles, each full of something different.

He smiles and gestures around the room. “A bit of everything, I’m afraid. I found this old potion guide at a secondhand bookstore and wanted to see if I could improve the outdated recipes.”

“All of those?” you ask, realizing that he must’ve made at least fifty or so potions since last night.

He gives you a proud smile and nods. “I may have gone overboard. At about four in the morning, I realized that I ran out of normal vials, so I had to improvise and use some empty bottles from the kitchen.”

“And did you eat anything while you were down there?” you ask, shooting him a knowing smile.

“It may have escaped my mind.” he sighs. “Once I start working, there are very few things that can distract me from the task at hand.

“Then you are lucky I came prepared,” you smile, looking down at your bag of snacks. “Wanna take a break and tell me about some of them?”

“You know me too well,” he sighs, teasingly approaching you and wrapping his arm around you. “So, what’s on the menu today?”

Your skin heats up under his touch, but you remain composed. You hide the shake in your hand as you reach into your bag and pull out two glass bottles of cheap Demonus. You like this particular variety because it looks like bright grape juice, and it may just be a placebo, but you think it tastes a bit like it, too.

“Oh, drinking in the lab, are we?” he teases, twisting off the cap to his bottle as the liquid fizzles. “I suppose that’s alright for today since I didn’t make anything lethal.”

Your eyes land back on the crate of similar-looking bottles next to you. “What about these? Are you sure they are safe?”

“Boringly so,” he frowns, removing the first glass bottle from the crate and removing the cap for you to smell its contents.

The Mint colored liquid smells oddly enough like Black licorice when you inhale it. “It smells good; what does it do?”

“This one here was originally designed to turn your fingertips silver; I tweaked the recipe to only target the drinker’s nail beds.” He explains, a smile tugging at his features when he sees the natural curiosity and wonder on your features. “It’s not permanent, but I thought it would be interesting to see it used cosmetically.”

You’ve only been in the Devildom for a short time, but you are sure there aren’t many individuals who are able to grasp magic as easily as Solomon can. His brown-blue eyes look ethereal as they shine from his passion.

He’s Amazing

Brilliant

and far too handsome for his own good.

As much as you wish to compliment him on each and every one of these things until your voice becomes hoarse, that little bit of insecurity masked as self-preservation holds your tongue. Opting instead to take a sip of your Demonus, the sweet taste distracts you from the wonder that is Solomon enough so you can think of a less embarrassing response. The sugar seems to help, and you set the bottle back on the table.

“That’s so cool,” you say at last with true enthusiasm. You are unable to hide your curiosity as your eyes dart back to the crate of potions.

“Still curious?” he asks as you nod eagerly; he sets the fist bottle back into its slot and grabs another; he removes the cap and swirls the purple liquid around just as he did to the other one.

“Here, smell this one,” he says, gently holding the bottle out to you. Just as you were about to smell the potion, your attention was stolen by a fizzling sound. Both of your heads jolt towards the source and see that the cauldron he had been working with earlier fizzles out of control as a fluffy of electrically charged multicolored bubbles pop in the air.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he states, setting the uncorked potion down and rushing over to lower the cauldron's heat and stop the potion overflow. “I hope the heat doesn’t alter the potion’s effects too drastically.”

“What kind of potion was that?” you call over as he carefully stirs the mixture.

“Nothing special,” he murmurs, “it just turns body hair into miniature porcupine quills; I’m planning on using this later, so it would be a shame if it were to be ruined.”

His response sends you into an ugly fit of laughter that has you choking on air. You reach for your juice on the table and take a deep swig to soothe your throat and save yourself from further embarrassment, but as the liquid reaches your lips, you notice that something tastes off.

Instead of the sweet fruity taste of demonus your tastebuds are assulted with this dry sourness with just a hint of bubblegum.

“This tastes like shit,” you find yourself saying. Your brows furrow from your little slip of the tongue, and you hope Solomon is too focused on stirring the cauldron to notice your little slip-up.

But his eyes are on you, a twinkle of amusement on his features as he takes in every inch of you. The attention is nice, but it makes you feel a bit flustered.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Your tone is much firmer than you anticipated. It’s almost as if you are scolding the Sorcerer.

He raises his eyebrows, that signature smirk never leaving his face. “Take a look at your hand. It appears you made a mistake.”

You look down and see that he is right. Instead of your Demonus, it seems you had mistakenly gulped down a large portion of whatever purple potion Solomon was about to show you.

Your heart drops into your already unsettled stomach. “Oh my god, am I gonna die?” you mutter aloud, breaking your mental dam and flooding the room with worried word vomit. “Solomon, why on earth would you make a potion in such a normal-looking bottle? Did you do this on purpose? I’m such an idiot around you, and I hate that you have to see me as such a screw-up.” “Am I going to die?”

“If I die, I’m going to ruin the exchange program, and Diavolo will be upset with me. And do you know how bad it is to piss off the prince of hell?”

“I don’t, but I’ll certainly find out soon.”

Solomon processes your frantic word vomit quickly and comes to your aid. He places both his hands on your shoulders to prevent you from pacing across the room. “Mc, listen to me. The potion is harmless, I promise.”

“What?” you pause and look at him carefully. He looks calm, but in his eyes, his pretty, pretty eyes are a look of concern for you.

“Heh, your eyes are pretty, did you know that?” you ask him, only to panic about your lack of a filter.

“What?”

“Wait?”

“Why am I saying such embarrassing things out loud?” your face feels hot in shame as Solomon’s cheeks turn pink at your words, and he averts his gaze briefly before collecting himself.

“So, have you figured out what the potion does yet?” he chuckles, hands still holding your shoulders.

“Is it a potion that makes me embarrass myself to death?” you quip

“Not quite.” he chuckles, “What you just drank is a special kind of truth potion.”

“How is it special?” you ask, allowing him to guide you to one of the chairs in his lab.

He beams, and you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

“This little potion just makes you say what’s on your mind; it removes one’s filter, making for quite a chaotic conversation.” he hums, somehow still keeping the innocence on his face. “It’s not really useful for interrogations or anything like that, but I had planned on slipping it in at our next dinner together at the House of Lamination for a bit of entertainment.”

“That would be funny,” you say unabashedly, already dreaming up the chaos that would ensue if each of the brothers just spouted off whatever came to their mind. “But how long am I stuck like this?”

He checks his pocket watch, “Don’t worry,” the results should wear off in a few hours or so, so hang tight. It may be best for you to stay with me tonight so I can observe these effects up close.”

“That’s a cute way of saying you just want to use me as your guinea pig.” you huff, shifting in your chair. “But if it means I get to spend some more time with you, that is a good thing.”

Despite the blush on his cheeks, Solomon remains composed. “Is that so?” he teases. “Do you really enjoy my company that much?”

Your loose tongue only makes you feel more emboldened as you answer that flirty little question of his. “I do.”

“Then may I tell you a secret, Mc?” He smiles as you nod without hesitation. The potion affecting more than just your speech. “I think I enjoy your company far more than you enjoy mine.”

Your eyes find that all too interesting ground at his sweet words. “That’s impossible, you’re incredible, Solomon. Compared to you, I feel like such a disappointment down here.”

The Sorcerer’s snowy brow furrows in disbelief as you spill another troubling confession.

“If that’s what it takes to convince you just how much I love you, then I suppose you leave me with no other choice.” he sighs, grabbing the half-empty potion bottle and downing it in one greedy gulp.

Your eyes widen, and you reach for his wrist, but you’re too slow to stop him. “Sol, what are you doing?”

“Just telling you what you need to hear.” he grimaces as the foul taste of the potion dances on his tongue. “Wow, this really does taste foul, doesn’t it? I’ll have to tweak this recipe for sure if I’m going to use it later.”

He sets the now-empty bottle back onto the countertop and looks at you with sincerity. “It hurts to hear you talk about yourself like you mean nothing.” he pauses and places his hands on your shoulders, and you wonder when they started trembling. “You are the most incredible individual I have ever met. You’re kind, sweet, caring, and and strong. You make me feel human.”

His word vomit differs from yours. Yours was panic, shame, and insecurity. His is honest-to-goodness love. You aren’t going to acknowledge the tears that spill from your glassy eyes. But you do know that he is right. You’re too cruel to yourself.

“I love you, Sol. Thank you for being honest with me.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice on the matter.” he smiles, leaning over you and brushing away a tear track from your warm cheek with the pad of his thumb. “But whenever you want me to tell you how I feel, all you have to do is ask.”

A smile tugs at your lips, and you lean forward in your seat. Your gaze never leaving his soft pink lips that hover temptingly above you. “Then will you show me?”

He smiles, his pearly whites shining like the moon, before crouching down to your eye level. His hands on either one of the arms rest as he leans in. “A million times over.”

He leans in and steals your breath away in the most honest exchange between the two of you all day. Your eyes flutter shut as your mind begins to swirl from the presence of the man who loves you. You can’t help but think about how honest this silence between the two of you is.

You stay locked in this passionate embrace until the lack of air burning your lungs reminds the two of you of the limits of your humanity.

It’s comfortable silence again, and Solomon looks at you as if he had just witnessed you paint all the constellations in the forever dark devildom sky.

It’s endearing, but thanks to this wonderful little accident, you have been presented with quite an interesting opportunity.

“Hey, Sol?”

“Yes, Mc?”

“Since you drank the potion too, I guess you have to tell me the whole Atlantis thing now.” you giggle playfully, ruffling his hair.

His laughter is pleasant as he removes your hand from his head and kisses the back of it softly.

“That’s not how this potion works, my dear,” he grins, watching your lip just out in a pout as you remember his words from earlier.

He’ll tell you everything one day, but for now, all Solomon wants to do while waiting for this little truth potion to wear off is to voice his plans for the future with you, not think about his past life without you.

Tagging: @enchantedforest-network

#obey me x reader #obey me #obey me shall we date fluff #obey me shall we date #solomon x reader #solomon x mc #obey me solomon #x reader #obey me nightbringer

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blooming-violets · 2 days

Note

Lucky number 13 for Nature please :)

Apple Of My Eye || TASM Smut

Nature - 13: beneath the shade of trees in the middle of an orchard

[TASM Peter Parker x Fem!Reader]

WC: 1k (look at me being short and sweet for once in my damn life)

A/N: Two weeks later and I'm finally start to write for these prompts! I'm a slow bitch, I can not help it.

“It’s colder than I thought it would be out here.” She wrapped her arms around her sweater to try and hug out the chill in her bones. “I don’t think a skirt and tights was the right choice.”

Peter’s eyes roved over her body, taking in her legs in the sheer tights, “I think they were the perfect choice.”

That was easy for him to say. He had pants on.

She rolled her eyes and dropped the wooden basket full of apples she was carrying at the base of the closest tree trunk.

“Your opinions don’t count when you just like how my legs look in tights.”

They had been wandering through this apple orchard for almost two hours. At this point in their trek, they had yet to come across any other pickers for over forty minutes. They were deep into the orchard.

Probably lost.

Though Peter would never admit that.

With two full baskets of apples, they had more than enough for her mother, May, and themselves.

She sighed and leaned against the knotted tree, kicking at a rotten apple with the toe of her leather boot.

She was tired and hungry and cold and sick of picking apples.

“Are you going to give me your jacket or are you just going to stare at my legs some more?”

Peter tore his eyes away from watching the way the light breeze made her skirt dance around her thighs.

“What?”

She threw up her hands in exasperation, “Oh my god!”

He laughed, tackling her off the tree and wrapping his arms around her, dragging her straight to the dew covered grass.

“I was kidding, baby, kidding!” He pinned her to the ground, keeping her shoulders locked down with his palms and sliding his knees around her hips.

She couldn’t remember the last time she laid on the grass without a blanket between her and the ground.

“Peter!” She cried. “It’s wet down here. Cold and wet. Probably bugs. Worms. Little beetles. Oh god, spiders!”

“Shut up,” he laughed. He shoved his lips against hers to keep her quiet with a kiss. “It’s not cold. You’re just tired and cranky because we’ve been walking for approximately ten full business days while carrying all these apples.”

She nodded, huffing, “This is true. You got us lost. And now you’ve forced me to lay in Spider’s Ville. I bet they're crawling in my hair right now and laying their eggs.”

“The only spider down here is me and I’m already on top of you so you have nothing more to worry about.”

That got her to drop a bit of her attitude, turning her head to the side, the wet grass tickling her cheek, as she tried to hide her smile.

“Don’t you turn away from me when I’m being cute,” he chastised.

His hand slipped around her chin to gently turn her face back to him. He leaned down to kiss her again.

Taking his time.

Adoring her lips.

He slid down her body and forced himself to a kneel between her legs.

“You don’t need my jacket. I have other ways of warming you up,” he whispered, throwing a wink at her.

Her eyes widened in surprise, “Not here! We’re in public!”

Peter lifted his head and looked around, “Baby, please, all I see is you, me, and a shit ton of apples.”

“Well they could come!”

A suggestive smirk grew across his lips, “You’ll be the only cumming, don’t worry.”

Before she could even protest, his hand was slipping up her shirt and covering her breast over her bra, while he attacked her mouth with fiery kisses.

“Omph, Peter,” she tried to breathe through his kiss. “This is…is…oh.”

He had tugged down the strap of her bra, loosening the cup, so he could access her nipple. As she spoke, he flicked a finger against it, causing her to forget her words.

Her quiet moans in response were all he needed to keep going.

His tongue slipped past her lips, tangling with hers, enticing her to play along.

Her body relaxed, hands slowly moving up to run through his hair, as she submitted to his will.

The moment he felt her give in, he was ready to go.

Peter broke from the kiss to slide down her stomach. He trailed kisses over her sweater until he reached her skirt.

“You said you didn’t like these tights, right?” He panted, eyes wide with mischief. “They weren’t keeping you warm enough?”

She silently nodded, still trying to catch her breath from his dizzying kiss.

His hand disappeared under her skirt and a loud RIP followed.

She gasped in shock, “Peter!” She felt the massive hole he had torn open in her crotch. “That’s your solution to me being cold? Ripping my clothes off me? Counter productive.”

He chuckled under his breath, already settling himself in the grass between her legs, laying on his stomach and smirking up at her.

“Are you really that averse to my methods?”

She went quiet, hiding her need to smile. She wasn’t averse to it. She actually found it to be incredibly sexy. They were just a pair of cheap tights.

But she refused to tell him that.

He winked, reading her facial expressions anyway, “That’s what I thought. Now shut up and let me eat you like one of these apples.”

Chilly hands gently hooked behind her knees, raising her legs and spreading them wider, so he could scoot his shoulders closer. Peter pushed aside her underwear and let out a happy sigh at the sight awaiting him.

“I love this pussy,” he whispered to it.

His head ducked under her skirt and descended to her inner thighs. He brought his lips to her soft, rolling flesh. He traveled with kisses over her stretch marks and blemishes that he would never allow her to even think about calling imperfections.

There wasn’t a single inch of her skin that Peter didn’t adore.

Whatever reservations she might have had moments ago fly away the moment his breath hit her where she needed it most. The anticipation of what was to come had stoked a spark of her desire into a roaring lame. She didn’t care where he took her just as long as his tongue was buried in her pussy.

A whimper escaped her as they made contact.

She felt him give a breathy, hot laugh against her, knowing just as well as she did that she was enjoying this more than she wanted to let on.

He mumbled against her dewy lips, “You’re the cutest.”

He always loved hearing her whimper and moan despite all the fight she would put up.

She would give in.

Every time.

Peter delved back in, licking a steady stripe over her soft folds, dipping into her for a taste before dragging his tongue back up to her clit.

Tight, slow circles toyed with her sweet bud.

His mintrations were reserved. Lazy. Like he was purposely taking his time to savor every stretching second.

Languid and precise.

But it wasn’t long until he had her mewling and writhing over him.

The sounds urged him to hasten his work.

He wrapped his arms around her legs, pushing them up, locking his arms over her stomach so he could hold her closer. His face buried into her. Head hidden under her skirt. Lapping his tongue over her soaked, sensitive folds. Tending to her clit, worshiping it between his lips, before sinking his tongue back into her for another taste.

Heat rose over her body, warming her skin, pushing away the chill.

At least he was correct in delivering on that front. She was no longer cold.

Steaming hot.

Panting.

Her thighs trembled in Peter’s hold as pleasure seemed to pulse out from between them.

She let out a long, gasping moan. Trying to be silent should anyone be nearby but unable to keep it in.

Peter was too good with his tongue.

He responded with a guttural moan of his own from under her skirt, eating her out like a starving man unabashedly enjoying his first meal in days.

The vibrations of such a low, growling moan spread across her clit and sent shivers up her arching spine.

Her fists clenched at clumps of wet grass.

Feeling it give way in her hands. Ripping up. Dirt sinking under her nails.

She should be embarrassed how quickly Peter could take her from complaining about the cold to forcing her to orgasm but she couldn’t focus on anything besides that building pleasure.

His tongue pulled breathy whimpers from her lips.

Easing her closer and closer to that beautiful release.

“P-Peter!’ She gasped, letting out a desperate, needy whine. “Feels…so good!”

He was mumbling something against her lips but his words were muffled out by her cunt.

His grip around her belly tightened.

He knew she was almost there.

Hanging on by a quivering thread.

Peter turned all his attention to making love to her clit.

Her hips canted, arching off the ground.

Peter anticipated the move, shifting to follow her, knowing her well enough to predict where her body will go. Never letting the latch his mouth had on her pussy slip for even a second.

Her calves shook under her weight, holding her up, following her trembling thighs as her body gave in.

Her hand slammed across her mouth to stifle the shriek she desperately wanted to let rip. Letting it fall against her heavy, clamped hand instead.

Smelling the earthy dirt mixed with juicy apples against her fingers.

The faint smell of sex lingering in the wind.

Wet grass clinging to her skin.

Her clothes, damp.

Her body, on fire.

Peter stayed dutifully to her spasming pussy, letting her ride it out, sucking out every last drop she had to give, until she came crashing back to earth.

He lapped through her folds with moaning growls of delight as he cleaned her with his tongue.

It was only when she couldn’t take it anymore, far too sensitive post orgasm, that she shoved him out from under her skirt with her hand.

He emerged with a lopsided, glistening grin that screamed a silent “I told you so”.

It was only them and the apples.

Not a single person wandered on to the erotic feast he had devoured.

She threw a sweatered arm over her eyes to block out the sight of red apples against the deep blue sky.

Breathing heavily.

Feeling uncomfortable wet down below.

She felt him crawling over her. The weight of his stomach pressed against her.

His salty lips urged her out of hiding with his tongue gliding into her mouth.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him deeply.

Peter’s eyes were shining, proud of the work he had done this lazy afternoon.

He didn’t care for her ripped tights or soaked underwear or the fact that they were both covered in wet grass stains.

All he cared about was her and making sure her mood had shifted.

She shook her head up at him, still not fully believing he had suckered her into this.

“I love you to my core,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re the apple of my eye. You’re so a-peel-ing to me, baby. Let’s go home and live apple-y ever after.”

“I literally hate you so much right now.”

His laughter was enough to prove her statement false.

She loved him.

Even if he was a dork.

#andrew garfield #peter parker #tasm #the amazing spiderman #tasm peter #tasm peter parker #tasm x reader #tasm peter x reader #tasm peter parker x reader #tasm fic #peter parker x reader #apple of my eye #blooming violets fic #blooming violets

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mintea-in-space · 2 months

Text

For @wrathofrats I’m sorry I blacked out and made this, Dew being a little creep

Dewdrop doesn’t know how it came to this. Another deep breath in through his nose tears a high pitched moan from his throat.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how it started. But he can’t be blamed for it! No, this is Cirrus’ fault, not his! She just had to drop herself down on his face, grind against his nose and tongue before he could even reach to tug her panties off. All he could do was hang on for the ride, those lacy black panties getting soaked with slick and spit. She’d grabbed his horns and purred about what a good boy he was, getting her all nice and wet. His eyes had rolled back, moaning against the fabric as her taste and smell consumed his senses.

So yeah, totally her fault. Absolutely her fault that he had to sneak into her room when she was out and rummage around in her laundry bin like some kind of raccoon in a dumpster, and the moment he got his little claws on his prize he bolted. It was just one pair after all. Just one. And really, how could he hold himself back when he felt how soft they were, silky smooth and still covered in Cirrus’ scent? How could he stop himself from wrapping the pretty little thing around his cock and stroking until he saw stars, until the fabric was ruined?

So of course he had to steal another pair. He had to. The pair he had smelled like him now, and that wasn’t Dewdrop’s goal, not what he craved. The new pair was a lovely teal, with a row of ties on the hips holding the front and the back together. Dewdrop pressed them to his nose, eyes fluttering shut as Cirrus filled his head. He could get dizzy on it, she smelled so sweet, and almost minty, and Satan below he couldn’t help himself. A shaking hand reaching down to squeeze himself through his pants, a shaky moan spilling from his mouth. He ended up cumming in his pants, chest heaving.

And then it just…spiraled from there. It became a habit he just couldn’t seem to stop, no matter how hard he tried. So here he is, kneeling on his bed with another pair held against his face. His hips jerk into his hand, quick and a bit uncoordinated, pre dribbling over his fingers as his tail lashes. These panties were ruined before he got them, they still smell like slick from whatever Cirrus had been doing in them. Before he can even think to stop himself his tongue darts out to lick the inside of the crotch, and oh.

They still taste like her.

Dewdrop’s voice echoes around his room, hands shaking as his eyes roll back. It’s easy to imagine Cirrus here, easy to imagine her tangling those dangerous claws into his hair and yanking his mouth against her. That purring voice talking about how good he drinks her up and how cute he gets when he’s pussy drunk. He’s so close, shoving the soaked panties into his mouth so he can tangle a hand in his own hair and tug hard. His cock twitches in his hand, flushed and leaking and it’ll only take one, two, three more thrusts-

“Well, what do we have here?~”

Dewdrop’s eyes snap open, freezing in place. Cirrus leans against his doorway, a knowing little smirk on her face that makes his stomach clench.

“So this is where my panties have been disappearing off to.” The ghoulette casually saunters into the room, arms folded across her chest. She must’ve just gotten back from work, vest already shed and the top several buttons of her shirt undone. Dewdrop shudders, wide eyes darting around her face. He pants through his nose, trying to even out his breathing as if he wasn’t just seconds from cumming before she walked in. Cirrus stops at the end of his bed, head tilted and tail lazily swishing behind her.

“Don’t stop on my account, go on.”

Dewdrop shivers, hand falling from his hair to grip his thigh. His face burns, the desperate need to defend himself bubbling in his throat. And yet…opening his mouth would force him to drop the panties, and he just can’t make himself do it.

“Aw, did you need me to tell you how? So caught up in a pair of fucking panties you’ve gone all dumb?” Cirrus’ voice is smooth as honey, but he knows that tone. That tone means he’s royally fucked. A whine spills from his throat and Cirrus laughs. “Go on, Dew. Stroke yourself, and go nice and slow for me~”

And really, it isn’t his fault, head dipping down and cheeks flushing. It’s not his fault he can’t say no.

#the band ghost #mintea writes #cirrus ghoulette #cirrus ghost #dewdrop ghoul #dewdrop ghost #oops?#I’m not better than dew I couldn’t help myself

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notknickers · 8 months

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this fic took too long to commit to digital paper than it should have, but it's done, so let's focus on that. i have incorporated a few of the headcanons i listed in another dedicated post. or, at least, i tried. synopsis: a strange routine has settled between you and colonel könig, your direct superior. one unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, after you got over the shock elicited by the reserved, dreadful giant seeking you out for comfort you did not imagine him needing… and the fact that he seems to need it from you more often than you from him. but an unspoken agreement is still an agreement.

warnings: unethical power imbalance, ptsd, dub con to full con, muffdiving for comfort, maledom to malesub, crying, heavy petting, orgasm control and denial, könig is a pet, slight degradation, praising, humping, cum eating, dispassionate fingering, second-person narration in present tense, no gender mention, but reader assumed to be afab, military-related inaccuracies, probably.

word count: 3887

A/N: if you're unsure whether to read this fic or not, here's something about me that might help you decide:

i like my porn grotesque and sentimental;

i like my men dangerous, submissive, pathetic (affectionate) and in tears.

a less blurry tentakönig than his previous appearance is once again here to kindly remind us that the following is aimed at an adult audience. please, respect this.

you are walking with a couple of new recruits along one of the corridors of the base’s building. from out the windows, the light hardly makes a difference, too weak at this early hour to lighten the interiors. chill still blankets you like dew on the grass outside: it hasn’t abandoned you since you woke up for drills.

this isn’t the fastest route to report for training, but there is still time, so you don’t fret. you chat lightly, nodding here and there in spite of the little interest you have for the banality of the noobies’ small talk, when the sound of heavy footfalls echoes ahead.

you hear him before you can see, the sight of colonel könig’s imposing frame following close behind the sound of his stomping gait. your comrades hesitate only a moment, going quiet and halting to salute the higher-ranking official. you don’t.

you are too busy taking in könig’s haunted eyes locking on you, a shiver running down your spine as soon as you notice how crazed they look. two dark pits in the holes of his mask, staring ahead through heavy eyelids smudged in black. your body has stopped moving before your brain could take stock of it; his pace has only increased.

there is not a doubt left: you are his target.

the colonel ignores the recruits and, without even slowing, seizes you by the waist with an arm, lifting you bodily and dragging you along with him. you do not fight it. instead, you gesture towards the hesitant others to go on without you and, after an awkward glance exchanged with one another, they are swift to follow your unspoken advice.

if something unethical is going on between an official and a private, neither of them wishes to witness it. the less they know, the safer their positions within their employer’s company.

you watch their shadows disappear on the wall, behind a sharp corner, and the bitter stench of tobacco mixed with acrid breath hits your nostrils, even through the fabric of the colonel’s mask. it makes you think how many hours he has been up, how long he has been storming the base looking for you, how many times he has choked the desire to drag you from your cot in the middle of the night with yet another cigarette for that smell to linger so thickly…

until the distraction of smoking stopped being enough to help him hold back.

he drops you to your feet, unceremonious, back against wall and falls to his knees, masked head reaching above your waist as he hastily unbuckles your belt. it jingles sharply in the gloom of early morning quiet, the padding of his thick gloves hindering the deftness of his movements, but not his will.

«colonel…», you hazard, voice small. but all you receive in response is more of his frenzied panting and a jolt as your belt is finally torn from your trouser’s loops.

one of his hands disappears under the trail of his mask, teeth pulling at glove, before brash fingers are back to tug at your button and zipper. you relent, disliking the idea of having to request another standard-issue uniform so soon and manage to get your hand under his, removing every obstacle along his way.

könig barely glances up at you in approval. he swipes down trousers and underwear in one pull with a groan. you barely see the pale, scarred skin of his lower face flash in the dim light as he lifts the dangling ends of his mask just enough, that his head already dives between your legs.

his thick fingers hold the softer flesh on your inner-thighs apart with such urge you sense with certainty you will find them bruised, as the colonel easily covers the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, uses it to spread your lips, so his can attach to your soft, delicate folds and suck enough to make you ache in both discomfort and desire.

«colonel…», you try again to little avail, the wet, smacking sound of his mouth on yours getting louder as he presses his lips, his chin, hard against you, his panting soon turning to satisfied groaning.

«make me…», he rasps hot against your skin while snatching one of your hands and planting it firmly on top of his own head, pale stubble of hair stinging your palm through the neck-hole of his t-shirt-mask.

as if you could really make colonel könig do anything in this state.

so desperate that his hips thrust back and forth of their own accord. they have been since the moment the colonel dropped in front of you to lose himself in his self-assigned task. they always do when his lips can taste your juices – or those of any other, you presume. they fuck empty air, occasionally swatting your legs as he laps at your cunt with wanton greed unknown to you before you and the colonel were introduced, large, gloved hand still covering yours, squeezing your fingers as he fantasises about you forcing him to pleasure you, like he requested.

it’s more of an instinct, an uncontrollable tic for him, than a genuine attempt at release for himself. he doesn’t even register how he could dry-hump your boot to get himself off, so completely taken by his visceral hunger for you while in the unshakable grip of whatever darkness stirs within.

the one that guided his actions so far. the one that guides his actions often.

you are certain he revels in the feel of your sex against his tongue more than you in the feel of his tongue against it; as if every lick and suck brought him closer to a salvation otherwise denied.

this confirms the initial suspicion that formed in your head as soon as you looked at his grey, dire eyes as he came at you like a battering ram: another one of his night terrors. another phantom lingering in his wake.

you don’t know what it is he sees in the back of his skull every time he blinds himself from sight, when exhaustion claims him and he has no choice but to succumb to it. that is the one thing that still remains a mystery and you won’t prise. you can imagine the horrors, you have seen it before, and that is not the kind of information you force out of someone, no matter how erratic they behave because of it.

his messy slurping is getting out of hand; the way he traps your lips and folds in his teeth and pulls on them, before burying his tongue in your slit to harangue your too-sensitive nub with his nose becoming unbearable; his feasting off of you far rougher than usual.

«col--- könig!», you finally call, voice stern, and his head lifts, chin glistening with spit, before the lower hem of his mask falls back down, sticking to it.

he looks at you as if he were seeing you for the first time today, fury, if not sated, at least subdued, for now. the troubled look so vivid in his eyes moments ago dulls enough that it’s only a pale, threatening glimmer on their glassy surface.

you carefully pinch the hem of your clothes, slowly lifting them to cover up. he stops forcing your thighs apart, so you can adjust your uniform around your hips, gaze still boring into his as you refuse to avert it from his unreliable nature, hoping it will be enough to stay his brash hand.

instead, he helps you with the button, then shuffles back a little, signalling he is no threat to you. he never really was. not willingly, at least.

«belt!»

he swiftly collects it from where he discarded it earlier in his state of rash lust and mysterious turmoil and coils it tidily around his fist, before placing it in your outstretched hand.

he watches, still on his knees, as you loop it back in place and buckle it close, his breathing quiet again.

«könig», his eyes are back to yours as he expectantly awaits for your next words, «to your quarters, colonel.»

you are the one to lock the door behind the two of you with the colonel’s implicit blessings. both of you know what comes next, yet könig does not move, waiting for your say.

so you do. you inhale deeply, closing your eyes for a moment to recollect yourself, knowing now that the distance between you, modest though it may be, will still be the same when you reopen them.

«kit off, colonel», there is no harshness in your voice, but it sounds authoritative all the same.

könig complies, ridding himself of any encumbrance save for his mask, then stands there, further waiting. you don’t allow yourself to indulge in his attractive figure too long, even when his arousal is difficult to ignore, pointing straight at you, leaking thickly.

«come», you barely open your arms and he goes down to the floor, crawling towards you. you meet him on the tiles, slipping your back against the door and settling in a squat as you invite him to join you, invite him closer.

now he can touch you.

he hugs your waist tight, almost dragging you down with him, but careful not to. his head immediately finds shelter in the hollow of your neck, silently begging for comforting touch you are now willing to provide. your hand is soon going through his short-cropped hair, mindful not to lift his mask.

not until he is ready to do it himself, or give you leave to.

there, on the floor, you both find your peace. the peace of liminality: fleeting, for it won’t last and, therefore, all the more precious. he barely moves, trying not to burden you with his conspicuous weight, even when, after a while, even your well-trained thighs and knees need reprieve from the squatting.

you sit down, legs spread wide to make room for könig as he slots himself between them, ruined, scarred lips tracing your throat downwards, then up again as his hands open the top of your fatigues, where more of your skin can be freed for him, covered only by your tank top.

he needs that contact. close. warm. reassuring. even when he unshackles your breasts from the trappings of your attire, mandated down to your underclothes, it is not out of need of his loins that he does so.

you hold him to your chest and soon, you feel his throat tremble. hot, wet tears melt his face, safely hidden against you, breaking the soft murmur of quiet breathing in low, reluctant and shameful sobs the colonel holds in until he cannot any more. a litany of exhalations and mutterings in his native tongue pushes out of him to take their place.

delirium

you hold him tighter as one of your hands finds its way under his mask to contour the battlefield that is his face. unevenly raised scars older and newer that litter his skin welcome the pads of your fingers as you wipe the tears with your palms, gently stroking.

he glances up at you, miserable, bloodshot eyes supplicating for things he couldn’t name if he knew what they were called.

«shhhh», you reassure him that there is no need to ask for anything as you begin to lift his mask, slowly enough to give the colonel time to object. he doesn’t and the fabric swishes off his head quietly.

now he is fully bare. a level of nakedness that you are sure not many have had the chance to witness.

your hold tightens around him and your hand runs through his matted hair, his damp cheeks, contouring the crooked shape of the left cheekbone, the one that broke and never healed right, dabbing at ever-renewing tears as he curses a past to you unknown.

the colonel shifts his heavy eyes, voice louder as he hisses at an invisible figure that hangs in the air of his memory, right next to your head, then shelters his face in your bosom again, crumpled on his knees, fingers digging the sides of your back, which he easily hugs.

you haven’t stopped stroking his hair a moment, holding the colonel as tightly as you’re capable of, trying to hush his whimpering with voice steady and secure.

you don’t know what could reduce the epitome of man such the colonel is, or at least, presents as, to this shaky mess and, at this point, you hope you never learn. the slump of his otherwise proud, muscled back looks pitiful as you stare at it. it brings a bitter scowl to your lips. what, indeed, could possibly have brought reserved and competent könig this low, in front of you?

you remember a tune you once heard him hum when he thought no one was there, or when he was so lost in thought that he did not even realise doing it, more likely. you intone it to the best of your memory.

this seems to soothe the colonel, enough that he is quiet, save for the occasional shaky gasp that still seizes his throat. he soon joins you, voice off-key and hoarse, to complete it with sparse words you couldn’t possibly know.

you try not to think of the consequences of missing the daily training, yet have no intention to ask the colonel to vouch for you. you want to keep this strange moment all to yourself, separate from your quotidian routine. a slice of time in an alternate place, cut away from your everyday reality.

yours and könig’s alone.

your thoughts are interrupted by the colonel’s mouth, warm and hungry. it wraps about the tips of your tear-stained tits and sucks, finally driven by different needs than consolation. your body responds right away to the ravenous love bites he marks on your skin, another blemish of his you will carry with yourself. a memento that this was not some daydream that never really was outside of your imagination.

your nipples pebble in his mouth and, as he steals another gasp from your throat, his demeanour emboldens. his large, rough hands cup your breasts while his teeth move to your neck, your jaw, your lips.

you are weak to his advances. you don’t deny him. yet it leaves you wondering who is taking advantage of whom.

«turn around, colonel», you forcefully grab a tuft of könig’s hair and pull the roots to show him you meant it. again, he complies, even though you can sense a note of disappointment.

he sits in front of you and you kneel at his back, bodies pressed tightly together as you reach around to knead his stomach, muscles flexing involuntarily as your hands descend. the thickness of könig’s abdomen forces you to struggle to reach his cock, but you can work with it. you already have in the past and the fingers now curling around the root of it confirm it.

your hand barely contains his heft, but it is quick to move along the heavy organ all the same. you squeeze, a groan reaching your ears as his flesh throbs back your touch, fingers tracing pulsing veins along it until they come away wet, foreskin rolling down softly almost on its own.

enough with the toying. you want to hear the colonel, könig, gasp and whimper as desperately as when he was weeping, but for rather different reasons. your determination spurs your movements and you start stroking his cock in earnest, wasting no more time.

it feels more aggression than service, almost violent, the way you abuse his cock with your hand, but you know he can take it. can take it. the man demands it. you know by the way, uncomfortable though it is sitting on the floor like that, he bucks his hips into your fist, meeting your downward slide with a jolt from his loins.

and when you torture him with your delightful touch, only to open your fist, enough for him to feel the silky warmth of your palm, but none of the friction, he whines for your hand back. he wines oh-so-sweetly for it as you mock him in pointed whispers in his ear.

this only riles him up more, forcing the most endearing of sounds through his broken lips. so you grant him his wish, hugging his girth in your fist and returning to your task, skin sliding smoothly with könig’s own wetness.

you repeat one, two, three more times, delighting each one in his reactions, until you force him to pleasure himself with your hand.

you hold it still around him, making him work for his release, his hips back to their frantic bucking, until you cheat him out of his pleasure one last infuriating time.

he curses in his tongue, that much you understand without need for translation, as you rise from the floor to stand a little distance away, in front of him.

«silence, dog! you know what i want, now.»

his chest heaves visibly as he peers at you from below, almost hateful in the intensity of his leer, but he obeys. back on all fours, he crawls towards your outstretched hand, seeking contact once more.

you stroke his face, damp and exhausted-looking, by now: «you’re a good, obedient dog, colonel.»

he hums at the praise and lets you guide him closer to you by his hair as you extend your left leg towards him, planting the heel of your boot to the floor. he observes while you let a glob of saliva trickle down on its tip and shuffle your foot to spread it on the rest of the black leather surface.

you lean towards him: «you know what i want from you now, pup.»

könig nods, then positions himself atop your boot, thighs straddling each side of it, disappearing it from sight with their large, powerful muscles. he stares up at you as he rubs his cock against the squeaky-clean, smooth leather you maintain in impeccable condition. he would do so even if that hand of yours caught in his hair weren’t twisting his neck backwards enough to relish in the sight of him.

his slower, sensuous movements begin to grow more haphazard once more. you are sure he will give himself rope burns with the laces if you don’t let him find relief.

«go on, colonel. i want you to come. now.»

he buries his face between your thighs as his hips keep working your boot, rubbing his cheeks against the rough fabric of your fatigues, lapping at it with his tongue, mouth hungry for the warmth and sweet taste of your cunt, just below the clothes, yet out of reach for the colonel until you decree otherwise.

he will have to settle for breathing in its scent, especially after those theatrics of his, earlier this morning.

finally, his penance is served in full. he moans against your crotch as he floods your boot with his seed, breath scorching as his mouth seals against your trousers to quiet his pleasured utterings.

his tongue is dry when he sits on his haunches to recover his breath.

you pet könig’s head, sweat wetting your palm as you run it along his skull: «you are a good pup, colonel», he basks in your praises, eyes almost beaming, «but do you know what a really good pup would do, now?»

he nods, sparing you the breath to tell him and immediately goes down to your boot again, lips and tongue working, relentless, to clean it from his mess. he doesn’t come up until not a single trace of his juices is left on your footwear, nor the floor around it, where it trickled.

you watch him swallow the last of it. No complaints.

that’s when you kneel to encase his jaws in your hands, so you can tilt his head towards you: «you were perfect, colonel.»

you can feel all the tension leave könig’s body. as for the anguish that plagues his spirit, you have done what you could.

colonel könig’s uniform looks impeccable on him. it hugs him perfectly, as if every piece of it were not lying crumpled on the floortiles only minutes ago. his mask is back on his head, shrouding his face as he likes. he waits by the door, gaze illegible, with a glass of apricot brandy in hand whose bottle he retrieved from one of the drawers.

he offered you some, but you declined. even if you could bear its taste, you don’t feel like indulging in spirits when your day has yet to begin. he shrugged and went to lean against the egress wall. he’s still sipping on it to rinse his mouth as you readjust your own fatigues.

you nod your head in goodbye and make to leave, but his figure doesn’t budge. you wait for an explanation. all you get is his gaze trailing behind you as he eyes his large desk, instead.

you sigh, considering what he is offering. your absence must have been noticed, by now and you don’t think a few more minutes will make a difference. in truth, your unsatisfied arousal is probably tainting your common sense, but you already said no to the brandy. it wouldn’t do to leave you superior without saying yes to a kindness he offers.

you nod and he sets his glass aside after emptying it. the temperamental giant easily lifts you again, this time much calmer and gentler, allowing you to find balance by gripping his shoulders as he walks towards the elegant wooden surface.

he rests you on it, sheltering your head with his arm and taking a few steps back as he waits for you to undo your trousers and pull them down enough. you do, clumsily, but quickly and you see him return, towering from above, eyes vacuous and inexpressive now that his mask is back on his face.

he repositions you to his liking, bending your knees to your chest to grant himself a nice view of both your face and your cunt, dripping from all the pent-up energy you accumulated during your session.

he ungloves his right hand, bringing the fingers to his mouth to wet them more out of habit than need, then plants the left one beside your face as he leans over you, mask hovering above you, brushing your face as his fingers find easy way inside you.

he gets working right away, no preambles, rather utilitarian in his approach. his thick index and middle finger squelch rhythmically inside you as his thumb covers your clit. he attacks your sweet spot right away, curling his fingertips as you bite hard on your lower lip to stifle your noises.

the recent memory of him kneeling at your feet, obedient and desperate, coupled with a few more pointed, circular motions and you’re convulsing around his hand, arms instinctively sheltering your eyes from his as your back arches. you feel him retreat right away, his job done and you can finally readjust your clothes for good.

you glimpse könig sneak the fingers he used on you under the hem of his mask, the sucking sounds you hear as you buckle your belt around your waist eloquent enough. he doesn’t seem satisfied until he has licked all of your humours from them, then his glove is fitted back on.

now you can leave.

thank you for reading. let me know what you thought, if you feel like it. and please, if you enjoyed it, consider reblogging.

#call of duty #cod #cod fanfic #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #könig mw2 #konig mw2 #könig mwii #konig mwii #könig x reader #konig x reader #könig smut #konig smut #submissive!könig #minors dni

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