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silasours · 2 months

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ৎ⸝⸝⠀COCKWARMING ! —

#pairing : lucifer, alastor, vox, valentino, x gn reader. #cw : 18+ content, mdni. unprotected sex. edging. office sex. public sex. sub/power sub reader. no mentions of specific anatomy. vox is in an online meeting for work. touch starved lucifer. val blowing his smoke on you for fun. non proofread because it's six in the fuckin morning and I have not slept a wink. #summary : in which they keep themselves buried deep inside of you while being busied by other stuff. #note : save me, I've been writing nothing but hazbin smut lately. i should really start working on other shows.. alastor's a bit shorter than the others, can't really think of a solid idea for him and I wanted to get this out as soon as possible

ʚ LUCIFER .

lucifer whines when you force him to focus on his unfinished work once again. he has been going back and forth from attempting to thrust into you, but you always found a way to press him down in his place firmly. he had some unfinished work that he left sitting in his office for almost a week now, and it irritated you. that's when you offered to cockwarm him while he worked, get him to finally get his hands on those unfinished works.

being absolutely touch starved, lucifer agreed without hesitation unaware of how miserable and impatient this will make him. his hand remain on his working desk, occasionally scribbling some words and a signature on the paper filled with printed words. he does his best to resist the urge to finally thrust into you, worried that you'd leave him unsatisfied if he doesn't do as he's told.

but there's a limit to how much he can contain himself, especially when he has you sitting on his lap with his cock stuffing you to the brim, when you'd tease him so often by clenching around him or moving your hips ever so slightly. lucifer whines every time, the hand that's placed on your hip squeezing on your flesh desperately.

"can i please.. just finish this up later?" his voice muffled from nuzzling his face into your shoulder, eyes closed shut to focus on the warmth engulfing his throbbing member. you let out a small chuckle, baring your teeth into his neck to draw out those pretty moans of his; his cock leaks pathetically inside of you.

"no can do, luci. you're not going to get whatever you want until you finish up." you pull away and tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss onto his jaw while giving a quick glance at the papers sprawled across his desk. he's only halfway done with them. "you're doing pretty well, no? you're halfway done."

lucifer groans, annoyed as he picks up the pen from the desk again while reading through the papers. this time, you decide to tease him a little more instead of staying still. you connect your lips with his exposed neck, sucking on the sensitive skin as your hips slowly grind against his. you hear his breath hitch, his knuckles turning white from how hard he's gripping you.

your name spills out from his lips breathlessly, following with a whimper that you love so much. you carry on with your actions, dark marks gradually bloom all over his skin like breathtaking flowers. lucifer shifts to lay his forehead on your shoulder, shuddering from pleasure; you tug on his soft hair, firm enough to lift his head up from your shoulder.

"stay focused, luci. remember what's waiting for you to finish your work."

ʚ ALASTOR .

"oh, what a twist!" alastor exclaims with his eyes glued to the book he's reading, chuckling like you're not clenching down on his cock out of desperation. your eyes are teary as you turn to peek at the page he's on, frustration brewing in your chest. upon noticing your reaction, alastor laughs while moving his hand to cup your face, leaning in with a grin. "don't you agree, my dear?"

you groan, parting your lips further enough to drop his thumb into your mouth, biting down on it. alastor mutters a small "fiesty" before buckling up his hips, watching your eyes widen from the sudden pleasure that shoots up your veins. his arm tightens around your waist to stop you from squirming around excessively.

"put.. the fuckin' book down, a-alastor.." your nails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, the back of your other hand hovering over your mouth with a frown on your face. alastor smiles in response, holding the book between the both of you now that there's a gap.

"why, it has only gotten interesting! patience is key, darling."

"it has been almost a whole fucking hour, alast-" your words get cut off by yet another harsh thrust of his hips, an uncontrollable moan slipping off your tongue. a low, barely audible grunt could be heard coming from alastor because of how you're squeezing around him like your life depends on it.

slowly, he places the book down, pushing two digits into your mouth as his sharp nails graze past your gums. your tongue swirls around them, gaze fixated on his that seems to be mocking your desperation. you grind your hips, wanting to feel more of that sensitive spot in you being stimulated by his tip brushing against it. alastor grunts every time you tighten around him, the feeling making his skin jump and his eyes close shut from the pleasure he receives.

you reach for the book to toss it aside, not allowing him any chance to get it back and return to what he was previously putting you through. he laughs at the action before getting cut off by yet another groan, a frown slowly finds its way to spread across his face despite the grin that remains on his lips.

"the book shall wait after all."

ʚ VOX .

the sound of vox's workers and colleagues echoes through his workplace, the source of it coming from the laptop that sits in front of him. he's holding an urgent meeting with them to discuss some things about work, yet you're here obediently sitting on him, cockwarming him. your arms hug his neck tightly, hands grabbing tightly onto his shirt while listening to him speak to the people in call.

you bite down every moan that builds in your throat, not allowing any sound to be heard by anyone but your partner. times when vox isn't discussing important matters, he leans into your ear to whisper praises, thrusting into you, and stops so suddenly when you're close to release.

he grins as you whine at the sudden loss of friction, skin flushed while feeling him draw lazy circles on your hips with his thumbs. he starts speaking again just when you're about to voice your frustration, drawing out a grumble from you. you stay there unattended, glancing at the part where the two of you connect; you're craving release, and you're done waiting.

with a steady pace, you move your own hips while holding onto his shoulders for support. vox's head snaps toward your direction, teeth gritting as he bites back the groans that threaten to leave his lips. he tries to hold you down, but his body betrays him and allows you to carry on with your movements. his head tilts back to lean against the headrest of his chair, the words that his workers speak gradually shifting to a blur in his mind.

"fuck, w-wait," his breath grows heavy, barely managing to keep his eyes open as you fuck yourself on his cock. you're supposed to be cockwarming him, not riding him. he has allowed you to the point of no return, how is he going to carry on with the meeting now? you grab him and connect your lips with his, drinking in his groans like how he does to your moans.

ignoring the calls of his name from the meeting, he pulls you closer by the waist as you grind yourself on him. it wasn't until he started getting annoyed by the meeting that he broke away from the kiss, strings of saliva still connecting your lips while his hand reached out to shut the laptop down. the room falls to a sudden silence, the only sounds that remain are your heavy breathing.

"you're gonna fuck up my company if this carries on," vox snickers before crashing his lips with yours again, hands holding onto your hips to thrust into you without anything holding him back this time.

ʚ VALENTINO .

you still can't process the fact that you're in valentino's studio with his cock buried deep inside of you while people walked around to work on set. valentino takes puffs from the cigarette he holds between his fingers, often ordering and even yelling at people as they rush to obey his commands.

nobody pays any mind to the both of you; in fact, they see it as something normal. after all, they're working for a porn producer, what is there not to be normal? you keep your face stuffed in the fluff of his coat, hands gripping tightly onto his outfit while still trying to adjust to how good he stretches you apart. everyone has just started working, and the set is still being prepared for a new film.

"you're tighter than usual my love, are you that excited to be around everyone?" he teases with a mocking tone, puffing out a wisp of pink smoke onto your flushed face. you lightly shake your head with a whine, the smoke that you inhale causing your vision to spin immediately. humming, valentino lifts your body up with the help of his lower pair of arms before roughly slamming you back down onto his cock. "I doubt that. you've always loved being fucking in public, no? look at you,"

you gasp, body tensing as a moan escapes your throat. you immediately bite down on your lower lip, eyes screwing shut while simultaneously having your body trembling under his hold. you don't want to draw too much attention to yourself, yet the idea alone excites you in an odd way that you never knew it would. noting your reaction, valentino continues repeating the action before stopping promptly, feeding himself with your choked back moans.

"keep looking pretty like that while i work, i'll have a reward waiting for you." you mewl at his words, giving him a weak nod while tugging onto his shirt. he takes another long drag from his cigarette before letting his gaze fall onto the prepared set displayed in front of him, eyes scanning for the stars of the show in the room.

he would moan softly into your ear whenever you clenched around him, teasing you with his mere voice and carrying on with his work. you don't complain, though, considering how you'll be fucked into a moaning mess once he's done with work.

© silas ( @silasours ). all rights reserved. every work posted on this account belongs to me, and only me. please refrain from reposting, plagiarizing, translating, or reproducing my work in any form possible.

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drjholtzmann · 4 days

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this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

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It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough.

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again.

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.”

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look.

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly.

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end.

“So… it is related?”

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette.

“Show me?”

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned.

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?”

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know.

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.”

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly.

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.”

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.”

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.”

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.”

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile.

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.”

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

#sandman #dreamling #dead boy detectives #sandman fanfic #my fic #hob gadling #dream of the endless #charles and edwin get a cameo lets say #im so excited for the show yall have no idea

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iliveiloveiwrite · 1 year

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Healing Hands // Nikolai Lantsov

Request: Hi Millie! S&B s2 left me with severe Nikolai brainrot 🫠 I love my pirate prince so, if it's okay, I'd love to request a Nikolai x healer!reader 💙 I am a sucker for the patching up trope so that would be amazing. Thanks in advance! ☺️ And happy belated birthday! 🎉

A/N: First time writing for Nikolai so pls be gentle! I’m still getting to grips with his character and I haven’t read King of Scars yet so I only know of the show Nikolai and the trilogy Nikolai. Anyway! Thank you so much for your request, I hope you like, lovely!

Warnings: injuries, mentions of blood, nausea, dizziness. Pining, mutual pining. Mentions of a duel, stabbing. Pain. This is fluff, I promise.

Word Count: 1.4k

Were the grounds to the palace truly that uneven, or was he losing more blood than he initially realised?

Nikolai pondered this as he took a steadying breath against the wave of nausea that washed over him when he placed his left foot on the step first rather than using his right foot to power through. A silly mistake, the prince thinks, but a mistake nonetheless when black spots dance across his vision.

He slumps against a marble column, resting his forehead against its coolness. He could tolerate pain, could stand the sight of blood and deal with the accompanying adrenaline. What Nikolai found hard to cope with, was that he let his elder brother get the best of him.

It was this thought that spurred him on. The anger at being bested by Vasilly that kept him putting one foot in front of the other even though his left leg protested with every single step.

——————

The Healing Room was rather basic in its layout. A row of six beds placed against the back wall; each bed positioned under a window for air ventilation. Across to the furthest side of the room, shackled to the wall, was an apothecary cabinet filled to the brim with plants and herbs that could aid in healing. Most Grisha didn’t have much use for traditional medicine, but the palace hired its fair share of non-grisha too.

To the left of the room, there sat a desk. It wasn’t overly large; big enough for two just about. It was at this desk that he finds you; your face buried in a book, a streaming drink to your side and a pile of unfinished paperwork sprawled across the rest of the desk. If it wasn’t for the blood dripping onto the floor, making him dizzier, Nikolai could stand there and watch you all day.

Nikolai slumps into the door; the dark wood banging against the sage green walls, alerting you to his presence.

“Your Majesty!” You gasp, rushing to your feet, knocking into your desk and spilling ink over the pages of your new book. You barely give it more than a second thought; hurrying to Nikolai’s side. “What happened?”

Nikolai remains silent as you aid him across the small room to the uncomfortable bench where you healed the more dramatic of injuries. Nikolai tries his best not to wince as he settles down onto the hard wood, feeling every bump and scratch laid into the wood. The ceiling lights only further his nausea so he focuses his gaze on you. His eyes follow your every move; bustling from draw to cupboard, pulling out anything you could need before healing his wound with your powers.

A small, pained smile adorns his lips as you draw your stool next to him. Instinctively, you brush his hair back from his forehead. Nikolai leans into your touch; relishing in your gentleness, wishing it could be the first he felt when he came to consciousness in the morning.

“What happened, Nikolai?” You question, turning your focus to the tear in his trousers. A two inch gash stretches across the front of his left thigh; blood runs freely down his leg. The flow seems to have slowed some, but he’d already lost too much for your liking.

Nikolai lazily waves a hand in the air, putting on airs and graces. “It’s nothing. A simple scratch that needs treating.”

You shoot the prince an unimpressed look. “When you want to tell me the truth, Niko, I’m ready and waiting.”

Nikolai groaned, hating the use of your childhood nickname for him. You so rarely used it now; the nickname, like his childhood, a bittersweet memory. “You’re not playing fair,” He complains, throwing an arm across his face.

You snort, shaking your head fondly at the prince. “I never claimed to play fair. I have to know what happened in case I need to treat an infection before closing the wound.”

Nikolai sighs, knowing he had been bested for a second time that day. “Vasilly…” Nikolai begins, quashing the sudden rise of anger as he thinks back to the events of barely an hour ago.

“What did your brother do?”

“It wasn’t what he did. Am I upset he stabbed me? Yes, but I let myself get distracted and lose the upper hand.”

“How?”

“He said something he knew would get a rise out of me and I took the bait.”

“You know better than that,” You chasten, running your hands through his hair again.

He sighs. “I know but I can’t change what’s happened.” Nikolai feels his anger surge once more, “He was spouting nonsense about Grisha and their talents, stating what he would do when he was king. He made a nasty comment about you, and that’s when I lost my temper.”

“I can fight my own battles, Nikolai.”

Nikolai grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. “You weren’t there to fight this battle. Vasilly knew what he was doing, and I knew too.”

“Then why did you respond?”

“I always will when it comes to you. I won’t stand for anyone badmouthing you even if they are their heir to the kingdom.”

You pull away from his grasp. Shaking your head, ridding yourself of the thoughts rushing through them, you bring your hands up to the all too familiar position.

“Ready?”

The prince grins. “Ready.”

Your hands move in their familiar patterns; the movements so second nature to you that you do not give it a second thought as you watch the gash on Nikolai’s thigh close, leaving nothing behind but a faint, light pink scar. You fix the prince with a stern stare, “I may have healed you but I need you to take it easy for the rest of the day. No duelling your brother, no swords, no guns. Do you understand?”

Nikolai pulls himself up, swinging his legs off the bench as he salutes you with a cheerful grin on his face. The colour has returned to his cheeks and the usual mischievous gleam has returned to his eyes.

Your feel your heart begin to race at the sight, knowing that any Heartrender in a sixty mile radius could most likely hear it’s pounding. “You scared me out of my wits, Niko,” You confess, taking a seat on the wooden bench next to the prince, resting your head on his shoulder.

Nikolai rests his head on yours; taking your hand in his. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs, meaning it.

“It seems I’m always patching you up when you’re here,” You admonish before your tone turns softer. “Or when you return from your travels, you seem to have new scars.”

“My healers aren’t as adept as you, darling,” Nikolai compliments; his tone flirtatious as he brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a quick and gentle kiss to the back of your hand.

You hide your face in his shoulder, hoping he doesn’t feel the heat from the flush of your skin. “Don’t tell me that or I’ll be stowing away on your ship next time.”

Nikolai stiffens as the idea comes to him. “That’s perfect!” He exclaims, jumping off the bench, dropping your hand in favour of cradling your face with both of his.

“What do you mean?” You wonder, confused to his reaction but not wanting him to move a single inch. His hands on your face feels like the closest you could get to knowing what the touch of a saint is.

Nikolai keeps your gaze steady. “Come away with me,” He all but begs. “I leave soon and I don’t know when I’ll be back again. Come away with me.”

Your hands cover his. Nikolai’s thumb brush your cheekbones; his eyes shine with sheer happiness as his mind races with thought after thought of what it would be like to have you on his ship, to have you so close.

“I need you to promise me something if I’m to do this,” You warn, arching an eyebrow at the blonde.

“Anything,” He responds immediately, desperately wanting you to say yes to leaving with him, to say yes to a future with him.

“You have to promise to only let me heal you,” You state, dropping a hand in favour for poking him in the ribs. “And only me.”

Nikolai laughs; the sound ringing loud and true through the healing room. As he draws you in for an embrace, he knows that that would be a promise he could certainly keep.

#nikolai lantsov x reader #nikolai x reader #prince nikolai #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone fanfiction #nikolai Lantsov fanfiction #nikolai lantsov fluff #nikolai Lantsov imagines #fluff #shadow and bone #s&b fanfiction

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kaeyas-beloved · 5 months

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dust

Character: Albedo

— when chalk crumbs, all that’s left is dust

CWs: gn!reader (no pronouns), ANGST, hurt/no comfort, death (Albedo), could be read as romantic or platonic, I bullshit a research entry in this, spoilers for Albedo

val’s no sympathy november masterlist

He... he always talked about losing control. You never really understood what he meant by it, but you do remember the nights holding him tight and swearing that he would never fall to such evil. It just wasn't something he'd do, and your unwavering faith in him always brought him some form of comfort, even when he never believed you for a second.

"It's nice, to have someone place their trust in me that is."

But now, as you stand in the middle of the aftermath, smoke heavy in the air, buildings crumbling all around, any vision wielder that could fight congregating in the middle of the city and a pile of dust on the ground, you're left to wonder if there was any stopping what fate had ordained.

For a split second you could swear you heard nothing. When the arrow was fired and struck the threat to Mondstadt - struck Albedo, you remind yourself, he wasn't something, he was someone - you didn't know what to feel. You could feel the eyes of the people on you as you walked without thought toward the pile of powder. The pain as you scraped your knees on the concrete was nothing compared to the pain in your chest.

"The Chalk Prince... I see now..." you mumbled, hesitating to touch the substance.

"Why are you called the Chalk Prince? Don't tell me it's because you were created from chalk?" You'd asked one day while helping him in his lab, sitting not far from him on a stool.

Albedo remained silent, going back and forth between skimming through notes and adjusting the settings on his burner. "That is a conversation for another time. Now please, could you hand me two lizard tails? One blue and one red."

He never did outright answer you, but you remember him talking about how all living things will eventually and inevitably return to their original state. Maybe this is what he was trying to tell you.

The hand on your shoulder brings you back, but you can't bring yourself to look up at who it is (you later learn it was Kaeya, who had his own complicated expression). From there everything was a mess of colours and muddled words. You catch a couple apologies for your loss, people running to check on their loved ones and their homes, and discussions about what to do now. Nothing really sticks though, a case of looking but not seeing, hearing but not listening. You do, however, remember hours later being handed a wooden box, Albedo's name, birth and death date carved on the front.

“You were the closest to him. Klee also received something similar.” Fuck, you think, a fresh wave of tears coming along. Your heart breaks at just the thought of how devastated and confused Klee must be. Seeing the instant change in emotions, Jean quietly leaves you be.

The hardest part though was going through his office. It was a day you thought you’d never be prepared for. When you arrived you were proven right, stuck hesitating at the doorway.

You’d never again see him sat at his desk, documenting his findings or refilling his stock of alchemy ingredients. That painting in the corner by the window will forever lay unfinished and the small bed never to be slept in again.

His presence will slowly fade and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

With a heavy heart and tears in your eyes, you start the long and agonizing process of packing his things away. Beginning with his desk you put away various books, loose papers, displays and even the drawings Klee had gifted him over the years. You moved on to strip his bedding, then pack away his paintings. By time you reached the last bookshelf the warm hue of the evening sun was already illuminating the room.

Letting out a quiet yet shaky sigh you get to work again. Since the books were already in order you took care to keep them close to one another, taking off three or four at a time. Despite how gentle you tried to be though you managed to drop a few, the covers too heavy and slipping from your grasp. You’re quick to apologize even though there wasn’t anyone to apologize to. Still, it felt like you should.

As you collect the hardcovers and the loose papers that were neatly placed between the pages, a particular title catches your eye. Gentle setting what you gathered off to the side you begin reading through the research entry, which was dated about a year and a half ago.

During my research into the mysteries of life and creation, many documents from various backgrounds mentioned the potential of substances holding 'memories'. Some focused on the nature aspects, how trees and lakes remember what and who has affected them. Others however stated that all tangible beings can be included in this theory. Due to the evidence presented, as well as previous knowledge, I believe both are possible.

Molecular wise, it’s not out of the scope of reality, and it’s backed up in the biological aspect as well if heredity is taken into account. It raises the question of just how far alchemy can stretch the laws of nature, and if this can be applied to any and all substances that have been touched by human and nature's hands.

The moment you finish reading a tiny spark of hope ignites within you, and your body launched into autopilot before you could even think. Chalk is a substance. The chalk was him so it would have memories of him. I could bring him back! You start scanning for similar papers around the room and in his notebooks, hoping to find more clues; you collect the things you think you'd need to go through with this act of divinity.

Just as you're about to dump the first chemical that comes to mind you freeze. You... don't actually have any idea what you're doing...

No, you think, inhaling a shaky breath, I've watched him do these kinds of things so many times, I have to know something. You go to pour again yet stop once more; as the bottle trembles in midair you know deep down it's true, you don't know the first thing about creating artificial life, let alone alchemy.

The bottle thunks back onto the surface of the table and a new wave of tears begins to flow, though this time not because of loss but due to hopelessness.

Your legs are quick to give out from beneath you, your back leaning against the desk and as you bring your knees to your chest, sobs filling the forever quiet space, you manage to choke out your true feelings.

"Albedo... I don't know what to do..."

Tag list: (both regular and event exclusive): @spoopy-fish-writes // @that-enby-alien // @xenuuu // @kaeyaloml // @mariposa666haruka // @quackquackmfs // @kunikuzushiii // @genshin-impact-writings // @ventisweetheart // @lordbugs // @leena-shi // @ari-the-wr1ter // @xiaos-wife // @milkwithspiceyicecubes // @stygianoir // @francisnyx

@kaiserkisser // @multipleshadesofblue // @moloteco-real // @kithewanderingme // @scaramood // @ii-lily2 // @esuz // @kochothehoe // @cindywasneverhere

#val’s nsn #genshin x reader #albedo x reader #albedo x you #albedo x gender neutral reader #genshin x you #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader

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teabreakpancakes · 1 year

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im in love with the way you think @bobabees

A Baker's Struggles Bloody Queen, Photographer, Wu Chang, Geisha, Axe Boy, "Disciple", "Hermit", Naiad, and Feaster & GN Baker Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff

Wasted Delicacy

"Son of a biscuit" the baker mutters, hearing their heartbeat race, indicating that the hunter was nearby. Three ciphers had already been popped beforehand but the thing is, whilst going around the map and healing the injured survivors with your treats, the hunter found you by tracing the aroma of your goodies.

"Luca," they spoke, carding their fingers through the inventor's soft brown locks. Luca hums, head twitching as he nibbled on the cookie, occupied with the cipher machine. "Dear, the hunter is nearby, I suggest scurrying off to another cipher so they don't target you" they coaxed, gently pushing the brunette off the cipher machine.

The inventor blinks owlishly, nodding with a toothy smile, "Thanks, s, see you later" he waves, running off to the nearest cipher. They smile before continuing the unfinished cipher, waiting for the hunter to appear.

The hunter draws nearer and nearer, making their heartbeat pick up more and more. They nod, picking up their basket and vaulting the window, activating their speedboost.

Looking behind them, they spot the hunter a few meters away from them, already preparing their abilities.

They really didn't mean to make you spill your cookies, so when they accidentally smacked the basket out of your hands, they really didn't intend to do so. Your eyes remained stuck on the treats splayed across the ground.

The hunter approached the still survivor, surprised to see you walking near them with a downcast gaze. You point to their weapon, "End me already" they said, tone void of any emotion.

The hunter eyes you, unsure of what to do, sure, it is a free kill, but it's no fun if you won't even try.

Footsteps approach the two, stilling at the sight of the hunter. They watch with interest as they attempt to console the devastated survivor.

Why did they want to try consoling one of the various pain in the asses they had to deal with? they didn't know either, it just... came over them.

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘

"Now now, you're a baker, surely, you have more?" the queen chided in an almost questioning manner. The baker frowned at her words, "Those were all the cookies I baked" they replied solemnly, voice quiet.

Mary, unsure of what to say, instead chose to let out a quiet "ah", waiting for you to speak—she wouldn't want to make a fool out of herself trying to pry more from someone that would eventually speak up. The baker looked up at her, gaze never wavering, "I spent three hours on those, I made extra for everyone too" they spoke, frustration rolling off their tongue.

Mary didn't know how to respond, but, by instinct, she placed one of her cold hands on top of their head. "I don't think it would be too late to let everyone have a taste if we ended the match right now," she paused, a bit unsure of how she should continue.

"I'll... even try to help if you'd like" she whispered, patting their head gently as if they were her child—it could just be that she was missing her own children but it wouldn't be so bad if she indulged just a bit.

𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐒

"Are you really just going to remain in that position until I strike you because of some pastries?" the older man questioned, a bit annoyed because a survivor was throwing a tantrum over pastries. The baker sighed, mumbling something the former count wasn't able to decipher.

"Speak up, no one can hear you with how quiet you are" Joseph frowned, leaning down slightly in order to hear them a bit better. "I, I made a lot more than usual so everyone could have a taste even after the match—those were the last ones" they grumbled, frustration piercing through their upset exterior.

The photographer's mouth parts slightly, eyes softening. He had read the baker's background beforehand, he remembered that they valued the art of baking much more than other bakers, to them, pastries are things you should pour your heart into making.

"I apologise for being insensitive, I," he paused, wondering about how to proceed. After thinking for a few more seconds, a lightbulb lights up in the french man's head. "Would you like me to teach you a recipe my... brother and I used to love?" he offered, albeit a bit hesitantly. He watches your eyes light up at the idea, taken aback when you embrace him. "Yes, I would" you mouth into his waist coat, smiling when he returns the hug.

𝐗𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐈'𝐀𝐍 & 𝐅𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐔𝐉𝐈𝐔

Bi'an lowered the umbrella, looking down at the survivor with concerned eyes. Wujiu was displeased, Why are they so upset over pastries? he complained, sighing in irritation.

The white guard kneels before them, umbrella tucked under his arm. He takes their hand in his, rubbing it reassuringly. His smile is small but apologetic, amethyst eyes uncertain yet firm with resolve.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his soft baritone sounding comforting to your ears. You sniffle slightly, shaking your head—looking into his enchanting orbs. He slowly moves to cup the side of your face, finding the feeling of your warmth against his cold hand pleasant.

Fan sighs from within the umbrella, feeling a bit guilty. It must've taken you a while to make those treats and now all that effort has been wasted. Perhaps, he could step out of the umbrella, he could help you with baking and Bi'an isn't all that lacking in that aspect either so he could also help. It felt oddly troublesome and yet, it felt welcome.

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐊𝐎

Worry paints over her delicate features, she lowers her fan, slipping it into her obi. She rubs their shoulder, "I apologise for the cookies, do you have any more?" she asks, staring down at the survivor.

You swallow, shaking your head. "Those were all of them, I, I made extra for everyone but now it's all gone" you whispered, disappointment rolling off you in waves.

She smiles softly, you reminded her of the people she used to care for back when she was still alive. Michiko pulls out a small Wagashi, presenting it before the small survivor.

"If you'd like, I can help you in making more, I know quite a bit about making pastries" she offered, smiling at them genuinely. She watches their expression light up, a grateful smile gracing her. "Thank you, I would like that" they spoke, taking the Daifuku from her hand.

Gluttonous Hunters

The hunters don't need food, but that doesn't mean they don't wish to partake.

The baker huffed, leaning against the rocket chair. They shift uncomfortably, trying their best to not drop the basket in their lap. The hunter eyes the basket with interest, the pleasant aroma drawing them towards it.

They snatch the basket from your lap, obtaining a random treat and taking a bite out of the delicious dessert without paying any mind to you.

They always heard the survivors talk about how your treats were the best they've tasted, they've always wanted to judge whether or not that was true or not.

𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐙

The inventor eyed the basket with interest; whilst he was still alive, Herman would often get him to try out new dishes, recipes and treats of all sorts—but he had to admit, the aroma of your pastries stood out amongst all of the pastries he's had beforehand.

Alva leans on the wall behind him, admiring the craftsmanship of the basket. The chaired survivor eyes the tall hunter, eyes trained on his every move. Their eyes widen when he makes a move to retrieve one of their goods from the basket.

The baker frowns, "Hey! I only made enough for the survivors!" they hollered out, visibly annoyed. Alva glanced at them, cocking his head—"Will you make some for me after the match if I only eat one?" he asked, eyes holding a particular look in them that made it hard to say no.

The baker blinked repeatedly, shocked to hear the hunter being so polite during a match. They huff, nodding, "Alright, I will, b, but, don't eat those okay?" they request with a pleading look, knowing only two pastries are left. Alva smiles slightly, placing the basket in their lap gently.

𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄

Grace traced the patterns of the basket, smiling gently. The baker stared up at her, wide-eyed, in awe of the pretty woman. "Y, You can taste them if you want" they say, bashfully looking away.

The hunter eyes the survivor, she knows you're different from all the other humans but she just can't bring herself to warm up to anyone so easily.

She nods hesitantly, taking a pastry in between her two fingers before chipping off a small piece with her teeth. Her eyes widen, palate screaming with joy at the taste.

She peers down at the survivor, tapping their shoulder gently. Smiling at them softly, she ruffles their hair, hoping that it would deliver her gratitude.

𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄

The boy's mouth waters at the aroma of the pastries, hugging the basket to his chest. His head shifts up, hesitantly meeting the baker's gaze. "C, Can I have some?" the kid asks, as polite as he can be.

The baker opens their mouth, contemplating. Do I give in to the kid and spare the survivors none or... they consider, already reaching a decision. "You can eat them all, but leave one okay?" they beam.

Robbie embraces them for a bit before opening the basket and snacking on the treats. The boy practically vibrates with joy, enjoying the taste of each wonderful treat.

"Do you like them?" the baker prods, staring fondly at the sight of the hunter being a kid. The hunters all seemed human in one way or another, the baker thought, smiling. The boy nodded fervently, hand still stuck under the accessory covering his head.

𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐊𝐎

Onyx eyes widen slightly upon hearing a soft thud from behind her. Turning around, she eyes the basket on the ground. The survivor looked visibly flustered, in an awkward position that made it look like they were attempting to retrieve the basket.

The Geisha only smiled graciously, gently picking it up. She dusted off the basket before presenting it in a manner only a seasoned hostess would know how to. She placed it on their lap, gazing at them curiously when they nudge it towards her.

"Are you offering me one?" she voiced out euphoniously, lowering herself until she was face-to-face with them. You nod, "I, If you don't mind, you can have some, I made a bit more than usual" you replied, smiling at the hunter.

She smiled gratefully, gently opening the basket before taking a cookie into one of her hands. She flicks her hand fan open before taking a bite of the cookie. Her obsidian eyes seem to sparkle with each bite. Finishing the cookie, she bows to the survivor, thanking them.

𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑

His tentacles manhandle the basket, forcing out angry yells of disapproval from the survivor. He pays you no mind, examining the beautifully crafted basket.

He lifts up one of the hatches, greeted by the soft and warm aroma of their pastries. The eldritch god takes one of the cupcakes into his hand, while the baker watches in horror as a rift rips through his "face" forming a mouth.

He seems to be pleased by the taste—judging by the fact that he literally threw the basket's contents down that very same rift. Hastur emits a sound resembling a cat's purring, and slowly, the rift slowly shuts, reassuring you that you wouldn't in fact be one of the things on the menu.

He slithers close to you, placing the basket back onto your lap. "I would like for you to make more for me after the match" he requests, oddly docile as he trails his odd tentacle up your neck, purring even more when you nodded. It felt weird to have the hunter rub your body, it felt as if he was treating you as his pet.

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telvess · 5 months

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Hello Tess🫂❤️❤️ if it's not too much (and if you have time, of course)...can I ask for Hajun, Susanoo and Hermes headcanons with a painter reader? Especially if the reader likes to sketch them or paint them often...a little painter simp!

If you don't want to do it or don't feel like it, that's totally fine!❤️

Love ya!☀️🌻

Don’t I want to do this? I COULDN’T WAIT TO DO THIS! my first Susanoo request, I’m so excited!

I know you asked for headcanons, but I ended up writing scenarios as well, and they, hm… got out of hand. And so you know… before I fell for Thor, I had a weakness for Hermes, and now thanks to you it came back to me!😭😭😭

Anyway I hope you’re feeling better today, Sunny🌞

RoR: Painter!Reader (Hajun, Susanoo, Hermes) 🔞

Hajun

Let’s not pretend this is kind of person who would stop to look at a beautiful view.

Before he met you, he didn’t give an art second thought. After he met you? He thinks it's pointless, but there are works you show him that make his eyes widen for a split second. Hajun then goes back to pretending that it bores him to death…

If you really want to catch his attention, use bright colors and don't paint something boring.

You always make such a mess with the paints… He likes it.

Oh, you want to teach him to draw? Problems start with his I-don’t-care attitude, then you have to deal with countless broken pencils because he grips them too hard, and of top of that refuses to follow your instructions. Surprisingly Hajun isn’t the first who loses patience.

He's usually unaware that you're drawing him. It's nothing new that you're staring at him.

He doesn't ask what you're drawing, he has to look after his image, but when he thinks you're not looking, he takes a quick peek. Tease him and he will be offended.

Whenever you sketched Hajun, you always used as many thick lines as possible, to better reflect his demonic nature. This time wasn’t different. You sat down near his training ground - that is, simply any place that could have been damaged - and sketched him from the distance. You weren’t usually this obvious, but Hajun was too focused on himself to notice anyway… — Why do you keep peeking? — he asked right after you looked again. You looked at him over your sketchbook. — I’m sketching you — you explained simply, almost indifferently. Hajun stared at you with a dull expression, making you almost lose your cool. — Show me — he demanded, stepping closer to you. You did as he said. — It still needs some improvements, but generally I’m quite contented with… — That’s me? — Hajun interrupted you. Now you were the one with the dull expression on your face. Hajun sounded so serious that you took another look at your unfinished work. You saw very well reproduced facial features, proper body proportions, decent shadows and a good capture of his arrogant expression, something you were most proud of. Apart from the lack of horns and blood, it was impossible to understand how he couldn't see the striking resemblance. — Ouch! — you giggled — It resembled you! — you shouted, almost angry. — I don’t have such face — was his reply. You clearly don’t have a mirror either… you though, but didn’t dare say it out loud. — And my arms should be bigger — he added, pointing a dirty finger at your sketch. — Well, you aren’t tightening them now, are you? — you said, slightly annoyed at this point. You both stared at each other for a moment, until a strange tension began to build around you. You quickly glanced at your sketch and then at Hajun again. — Maybe… they’re not big enough — you admitted slowly — But I can fix it, if only you provide a right source. Hajun remained calm, almost too calm after your obvious provocation. — You may not know how to draw me properly, but you definitely know how to talk to me, little harlot — his calm voice irritated the hell out of you, but hearing that nickname gave you chills. — Come, you'll have to take a closer look — he grabbed your arm and led you towards the field. The sketchbook fell from your hand and landed on the ground. — My sketchbook, wait! — You don’t need it — Hajun didn't let you break free from his grip.

Susanoo

He would show interest in your art. Not necessarily a lot of interest. He may give the impression that he is indifferent to art, but he can actually appreciate beautiful works of art.

You can’t expect Susanoo to talk about art tho. It’s just not his thing. He may ask you questions about details, different methods of painting or the inspiration behind each work, but he will not take an active part in the conversation. He just tries to show you he cares (not about art, but you).

If you prefer to prepare your paints yourself, asks him for a help. He may be a little grumpy about it, but he wouldn't say no to you.

Of all your works, Susanoo likes motion painting the most. There’s something special about them. This frozen moment, captured in time. The more creative you can get, the better.

If you paint him, remember to be sure to properly convey all his grandeur and capture his majesty in all its splendour. Take it seriously, after all he isn’t some small fry.

You were chilling on a couch, practising in your sketchbook. Susanoo was expected to meet the other gods about Ragnarok in an hour, so you were all by yourself. So the timing was perfect to complete one of the hidden projects. Nobody could interrupt you or look over your shoulder, or at least that's what you thought… — Oho, that’s how you like me, girl? — you heard Susanoo’s husky voice right behind you and jumped up with a loud scream. The pencil fell out of your hand. Susanoo laughed out loud at your reaction. — It’s just a sketch… — you muttered. At this point hiding sketchbook or pretending you didn’t draw his exposed… things was pointless. Susanoo sat down next to you, his arm rested on the back of the couch. — Let me see… — he tried to take sketchbook from you, but your grip tightened — Don’t be shy — said Susanoo, and so you gave up. Susanoo looked at your unfinished work and studied it for a moment. His impassive face gave you no hint of what was going through his mind. — You could sketch me in any position, but I can clearly see what was your priority here. You giggled, trying to ignore your warm cheeks. But what you couldn’t ignore was his hand appearing on your thigh. His other arm, which had been resting on the back of the couch, now happened to be wrapped around you as Susanoo pulled you closer to him. The sketchbook fell to the floor, but you didn't think much of it because you were too busy kissing his hungry lips. Whenever Susanoo kissed you, he always gave his all. His tongue explored your mouth, his firm grip on your back, he liked to feel your body pressed against his, your warmth and the trembling he made you feel. It always put him in the right mood. While he played with your mouth, you caressed his crotch. It wasn't long before you felt a growing bulge under your fingers. Susanoo’s hand untied your obi and slowly slipped between the flaps of your yukata. The feel of his warm fingers on your breasts sent shivers down your spine. Before lust could completely consume you, you mumbled: — Aren’t you supposed to have a meeting with other gods soon? Susanoo opened his eyes between kisses, you knew you had angered him. — I don’t understand why you dragged them into this — he replied dryly and pulled you even closer so that you were sitting on his lap. — You will be late! — Yes — he kissed your chin, then moved to your bare neck — And I don’t see a problem with it. — You and your stubbornness — you whispered, feeling yourself slowly fall under his spell as his tongue licked your skin. Just as Susanoo thought as he squeezed your buttocks hard. Maybe a little too hard. You moaned, but the slight pain jolted your senses awake. You stopped a kiss, pushing Susanoo away. He watched in surprise as you covered your breasts and reached for your sketchbook. — You’re late — you announced, sitting up straight next to him — And I have to finish my sketch — you pointed at your sketch of him. — No, no, girl — Susanoo said in a voice that brooked no objections — You have to finish me. The real one, over here — he took your sketchbook and threw it away. You huffed at his demanding tone, but didn’t oppose when Susanoo pulled you to him once again.

Hermes

Since the beginning, you two always talk about art. Hermes was known for his musical abilities basically throughout the universe. You two have a special place for art in hearts.

Hermes likes to talk to you about painting, but he is quite demanding. Art is subjective, but don’t you think he wouldn’t notice if you get sloppy painting some particular part you don’t like. Oh, yes, Oh, yes, he’s gonna point that out.

If you don’t paint for some time, he notices it and asks you about the reason behind it. He encourages you for keep trying, especially if you feel stuck and lack motivation.

I feel like if you try hard enough, you could convince him to draw with you. Hermes would expect some kind of tutorial from you, but after his first work it turns out that he has experience and was just playing along.

Hermes doesn’t have favourite type of painting, because he believes that everything can positively surprise him, but he really enjoy seeing first raw sketch of your work and then its final version, for comparisons.

Sketch it as much as you want, at any moment and how you see fit. Hermes doesn’t mind being watched, in fact he really likes feeling your eyes on him.

Your favourite place to relax was the garden at Olympus in the morning, when everyone was busy with their duties or hadn't even started their day yet. You sat on a bench surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and trees, and the silence disturbed only by chirping of birds and the occasional wind whistling. You turned yourself off. Perhaps you shouldn’t. Otherwise, you would have notice earlier that someone appeared next to you. — That looks good — said Hermes in his flawless butler uniform. — I-I-I was just-! It’s… — you hid your sketchbook behind your back, feeling how you cheeks got warm. — A very good sketch of naked me — Hermes finished the sentence for you with a playful smile. You gave in to that smile, and burst out laughing. — Okay, you got me — you tucked your hair behind your ear — I was just practising silhouettes, and then I thought about you and… — you shrugged, embarrassed. — Well I supposed it’s my fault. I've been very absent lately, haven't I? Hermes sat down next to you. — You… aren’t you busy now? — you asked, a bit surprised, because you didn't remember the last morning you spent together. — I’m, but who would I be if I couldn't manage dozen or so minutes for you, y/n? — he smiled again, but this time it was a rare kind of smile that Hermes almost never presented. A genuine smile that wasn't the result of politeness or manners. — May I see the rest of it? — he asked. Without thinking, you handed over sketchbook to Hermes. It’s foolish of you to assume that he only wanted to see your unfinished work. — D-don’t! — you said, but it was too late. Hermes started to leaf through every sketch you had ever drew, including the inappropriate ones. And there was a whole lot of him there. You’ve shown him some of them before, but not every single one. After all, you didn’t want him to know this side of you… too well. It wasn’t lady like. — Well… — Hermes’ voice sounded as polite as always — It seems I’ve neglected you very much. Your cheeks burned to the core and Hermes clearly enjoyed that sight. His red eyes sparkled with joy, and if you weren’t so embarrassed you might have hit him for it. — I think you did… — you found yourself saying. You bit your lower lip. — Eh, what can I say? It’s all your fault! You’re such a good model — you shrugged, trying not to smile too broadly — My hands just want to draw you! Hermes stared at you for a moment. If you didn’t know him, you’d probably assume he was thinking of some sort of riposte, but years of being together had taught you that the only thing that could match his practiced politeness was his sharp mind. To your surprise, Hermes took your hand and started massaging it gently, the fabric of his glove was warm and soft. He caressed your fingers, touched your wrist, even checked your pulse for a moment. There was something very relaxing and natural about his moves, because for a moment you forgot how busy he was and that he would have to return to his duties soon. — Have I mentioned that my favourite part of your body are hands? — he asked you after a long silence. You shook your head in denial, which encouraged him to expand his thoughts — It’s not just the matter of these graceful fingers. Nor is it a matter of what you can create with them. I feel I adore them so, because whenever I’m bored with duties, I find solace in fantasizing about how these hands will take care of me later. Your eyes met again and you could have sworn you saw something rare in his pupils, but it was quickly hidden behind Hermes' playful nature. He stood up. — Well, I should get back to my duties now — he adjusted the flaps of his jacket — Please, dear, keep these sketches to yourself, because they’re very accurate — he winked.

#record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #ror x reader #snv x reader #ror hajun #ror susanoo #ror hermes #ror hajun x reader #ror susanoo x reader #ror hermes x reader #udj

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aspookycrow · 3 months

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Why Hill Top Road is most certainly not the only portal:

A theory I didn’t type out because I had thought to eventually write a fanfic about it, but here you go because it’s the last possible day for me to post a called shot with my tma theory without tmp lore being involved.

Section 1 - The Tree

When we’re first introduced to Hill Top road in MAG 08, the statement giver provides us with his gut-check instinct about the tree on the premises, which cast odd shadows and “creeped him the hell out”, culminating with him feeling the need to destroy it.

This tree, as we all understand by the end of MAG 196 - This Old House, is a symptom of the crack in reality seeping out from underground, but let me draw your attention to MAG 127 - Remains to be Seen, where Jonah hires Doctor Jonathan Fanshawe to visit Albrecht von Closen in the Schwartzwald, otherwise known as the Black Forest in Germany. When his carriage arrives, what does he see but some absolutely heinous tree that absolutely must be killed:

and then, later on:

A single tree so inexplicably foul, it inspires the urge to kill it dead. Section 2 - Underground In MAG 59 - Recluse, the orphan Ronald Sinclair wanders into the basement of Hill Top Road, and recounts his observations of the room:

Compare this with Anya Villette’s description in 114 of the unlisted HTR basement, involving unfinished masonry and damp earth

As a curious parallel, in Albrecht Von Closen’s experience descending down the strange, isolated mausoleum in the Schwartzwald, the tree-punctured, decaying stone stairway yields to a room with books touching walls so weather exposed, the statement giver is unable to tell if the books are truly touching walls at all, or are in fact bordered in with bare soil.

And what item did Albrecht find conspicuously on the floor of Johann von Württemberg’s mausoleum, the subtler mystery detail hidden by the much thematically larger mystery of the books? Section 3 -The coin anomaly Inside this strangely placed, isolated mausoleum in the Scwartzwald, Albrecht von Closen found a coin, dated the year the count Ulrich II of Württemberg passed away.

Interestingly, in both our universe and the in-fiction one, Eberhard I succeeded Ulrich II, and not any bastard named Johann. Our dear Archivist comments on this in the same breath as dismissing it as coincidence, which historically means it definitely isn’t.

Preposterously familiar for anyone who’s spent any amount of time thinking about the obvious HTR-based disappearance/reappearance/time skipping of Anya Villette (MAG 114) and Anne Kasuma nee Willette (MAG 08). Kind of curious how this absolutely cursed book collection shows up in proximity of a cursed tree that people are urged to kill, in a weird mausoleum nobody has any record of, alongside a coin of a man who may not have existed and definitely wasn’t a lord or any sort of royalty and yet there’s currency commemorating him? This is not the end of the Scwartzwald anomalies, though. You see, this coin…went missing. Section 4 - Profound violence, and an eyeless man It’s unclear the circumstances of how Albrecht lost this coin, though given that he wrote his statement in 1816, I suspect it fell out from a pocket during Albrecht’s very next encounter which causes him to flee the Black Forest entirely. The encounter where the guy who keeps creeping around the outside of the mausoleum, issuing vaguely intimidating warnings, decides to accost Albrecht and reveals himself to have empty eye sockets, and the ability to “see” regardless.

The identity of the Eyeless man remains unknown definitively, as he runs off as if he was startled by some sort of predator, but in some Absolute Hunt Bullshit that seems to follow pretty much immediately, there was a murder that same year that investigators briefly thought was committed by Albrecht’s host and nephew, Wilhelm.

An eyeless man, a cursed tree, the profound violence of a hunt, the man who doesn’t belong with a history that couldn’t be true. And that’s not to mention the incredibly cursed vibes of both locations. To wit, in MAG 196 regarding the nature of these cracks in the universe:

Compare this to Albrecht’s description of the Schwartzwald:

AND ALL THIS IS TO SAY, in my heart I know it’s true that there are more portals, because as a patreon subscriber I got to submit a question for the Q&A And do you know what they did? Do you know what happened to my question? They reworded it beyond recognition, to a thing that was NOT what I was on about at all. I asked about the potential for other Cracks in reality to exist currently, like the hints for Schwartzwald or The Eschatology Door in Paris, and do you know what they rewrote the question to be about (but still put my name on so I KNOW it was supposed to be mine) (also please dont go find it, it’s embarrassing how they butchered my ask and also it has my human name on it and I don’t know yall like that tbh, so just take my word for it)? The question they answered was if different places and countries had their own regionally specific fear domains, like Paris for example. Which like, obviously?? I forget how exactly they rephrased it, I was on a walk listening and my ears went hot and my eyes went wide and I KNEW I HAD SOMETHING WITH A MELTY HOT CORE OF TRUTH TO IT. Pure adrenaline, sign me up for the Fucked Up Red String Tower where People Judge Marble Domain I guess, but I feel it in my GUTS now. And you know, maybe the question was rewritten by a staff member before they ever saw it, any number of things could have happened along the pipeline. It seems bizarre to me that they’d even leave it in after choosing to rework it that hard, though. But I’ll tell you what, the question posed was about cracks in reality, not fear domains. And I feel CLOSE to something. In Annabelle’s own words,

Indeed, few have ever thought much of it at all. Perhaps there are many such places across the Earth. Perhaps it is unique. Certainly, no-one has known either way.

(PS don’t get me started on MAG 134 - Time of Revelation, DON’T GET ME STARTED ON IT)

Transcripts lovingly taken from https://snarp.github.io/magnus_archives_transcripts/ All the screenshots have alt texts with the contents in plain text. Mainly, the goal I set here was to get it out there before TMP, so I can feel very very clever if they ever address it. Also, this is my first effortpost using this editor and BOY YA'LL WEREN'T KIDDING.

#tma theory #tma spoilers #the magnus archives #mag 114 #mag 127 #mag 23 #mag 08 #tma #mag 196

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iwonderwh0 · 6 months

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@my-name-is-markus-with-a-k YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID

The following text is entirely your fault

"What's in this room?"

"Oh, this one is my studio. I keep my paintings here and-"

"You can draw?" Connor's eyebrows rise, "Can I see?"

"Sure," Markus says before he manages to stop himself. Realisation catches up with him the next instant, and he almost reaches to stop Connor from entering the room to go first and at least try to hide the evidence, but Connor has already stepped inside and is now coaching down carefully examining dried paintings set on top of each-other along the wall. Good. That'll win Markus some time. He quietly steps around him, grabs a towel from one of the tables and moves to the corner of the room, closer to the window and consequently the easel with yet unfinished piece. Connor shouldn't see this one. Markus drapes the cloth over the canvas just in time for Connor to start standing up to take a closer look at those paintings hanging on the wall.

"They're so colourful, and yet your choice of colours confuses me."

"How so?" Markus steps closer, trying to make his voice sound as casual as possible, but it comes out slightly higher pitched than he intends it anyway. Maybe he'll be able to talk Connor into getting bored and deciding to leave on his own before exploring the rest of the room more throughout.

"It looks intentional, like it symbolises or references something specific. But I'm not sure what it is," he turns his head and looks genuinely curious. Given the situation Markus shouldn't be excited about this fact. No, this is bad. He won't get bored that easily, is he?

"Or am I overthinking it?" Connor adds sheepishly as Markus remains silent for way too long.

"Yes." Markus says suddenly, surprising himself with how determined this false claim came out.

Shit. That's not what he meant, he just needs Connor to leave. Now. He is dying to say something else to refute what he just said, but Connor steps aside from the painting startled by the coldness of Markus's voice.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he says.

Markus struggles to stay quiet.

It's working, don't say anything and he'll leave.

Except he doesn't. He turns around and walks to the other wall.

"Oh, you draw people too," he says as he looks at the portrait of an old man holding a chess piece – white bishop.

"Do you draw them from imagination or are there real-life models?"

"It depends," Markus gets closer, "This one is a portrait of someone I knew in real life – he actually even posed for this. But I have portraits of people that aren't really based on anyone. I can show you, if you want."

Why again is he suggesting something that'll extend Connor's time spent in a studio?

"Or we can do something else?" Markus adds quickly, in an attempt to fix his mistake.

"No, no! Now that you mentioned it, I am curious. Show me."

Great job, Markus.

He gets to the corner of the room where a few old portraits are lying stacked on top of each other and quickly sorts through the stack of them, turning the canvases to the light, searching for the ones not based on real people.

"Why is there two different dates?" Connor asks, and Markus stops to look at the back of the canvas.

"It usually takes me more than a day to finish a piece, so I mark the day I first start it, and then the day It's completely finished. You see, it takes time for this type of paint to dry, and it's important to let every layer dry completely before starting with the next one. It takes a lot of time and patience, so I often work on a couple different paintings at once...Huh, wait, I think it's not here," Markus stands up and looks around the room, thinking where else could he find the portraits he was looking for, then crosses the room to look through the paintings lying along the wall there. Maybe he should just pick one and lie about it – it's not like Connor will now the difference anyway.

"Oh, here!" Markus picks one of the first portraits he's able to find in the stack, "This one wasn't based on anyone," he takes the canvas out of the stack and turns around expecting to see Connor still standing behind him. He could swear he was standing behind him all this time, but now that he turned around Connor wasn't there. Instead, he is standing next to the window, looking at the portrait displayed on the easel.

"How about this one?"

Markus feels as if all the air in the room suddenly disappears, leaving him no oxygen to breathe in. He takes a few steps closer to the window, desperately trying to think of a response. He looks at the towel in human's hand and wonders if there was a single chance for Connor Not to look under it.

"This..erm..," He trails off under the stare of narrowed brown eyes, "It's a little bit of both worlds, I believe."

Connor glances from a portrait back to Markus.

"You 'believe'," he echoes. Markus wishes he could understand what emotion his face is showing, but perhaps Connor himself wouldn't be able to name it if asked.

"Um, I... It's not finished," Markus says, as if this fact drastically changes everything.

"Oh," Connor says, pretending as if it actually does.

He turns the canvas around and stares at the date. He frowns, glances back at Markus, then back at the date. From the expression on his face Markus realises, that he's doing math. Another realisation hits Markus when Connor's eyes widen in silent shock. The date on the back of the canvas precedes what Connor knows to be the first time they've met. What would even be the right time to mention it anyway?

"I can explain," Markus says.

#vampire au #dbh connor #rk1k #dbh markus #dbh

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trinkerichi · 6 months

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I don't feel like drawing it but I love thinking about how the ringmaster Pomni au could work. I've got two routes.

First is, Caine takes a special interest in Pomni over the course of a few years. Yes she's an anxious mess but she's also resilient, resourceful, and incredibly good at finding exploits to his little simulations. Maybe in life she was a play tester looking for bugs and this is a natural extension of that. It was to find a way out at first, but now it's to the point where finding holes in Caine's made up worlds almost becomes a fun sport for her. Gives her a sense of power. After a certain point Caine almost sorta takes her under his wing, showing her How he creates all this stuff, letting her have more input over the environment and adventures. Of course Pomni takes the opportunity to make some changes to her liking, influencing the code. but the more she does this, the further from her own humanity she feels. She begins to become terrified that she'll get lost in the feeling, forget everything outside of the digital circus, and might even become abstract. At this point, maybe some of the others in the cast have lost themselves as well, so it's on her mind. Though her inputs have made the circus a lot less overwhelming and more human, they still couldn't hold on forever. Abstraction seems a worse fate than being stuck in digital purgatory.

Eventually Caine proposes a deal to her. "IT'S AN EXCLUSIVE OFFER, MY DEAR!" There is a single surefire way to avoid abstraction, he says. One way to know everything about how the digital circus works. If she was to join him completely. Become a ringmaster herself. Completely convert herself entirely into data. She would remain unchanged by time, live as long as the game itself, with all of the power to mold this world into anything she can imagine. But, if there was any possibility of escaping the circus, this would completely erase those chances.

OF COURSE she won't accept, is he crazy? She's doing all this to find a way out! She'd never take an offer like that. Of course not... But the more her friends lose themselves, the more she wishes there was a more attentive ringmaster, a more helpful presence around to help them keep their humanity, she thinks more and more about how she would do things if she Did have that power... The thought won't leave her mind.. it's only a matter of time. And Caine can wait an eternity.

ALTERNATIVELY, what if Caine was against the whole thing. Pomni's interfering with his adventures! Seeing his unfinished work! He tries to discourage this as much as he can, which makes her more resentful. This could build up until she finds out how to manipulate the code on her own, and attempts to erase Caine completely, thinking this might free them all from the circus. But with no ringmaster, the game uses her data instead, converting her into his role, giving her all of the power it entails. Now Caine is gone, his npcs all reverted to the void, and the circus is eerily empty and quiet. Pomni has to build it up from scratch, and with her new power over the circus she tries to be a better leader than Caine was. But keeping everyone sane proves more difficult than she planned, and with no guidance from her former ringmaster, Pomni might become a leader even more insane than Caine ever was.

...

UH THAT GOT LONG LOL feel free to use this idea if u want

#the amazing digital circus #tadc #trinket rambles #ringmaster pomni au #caine #pomni

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boggsart · 1 year

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Hello everyone, long post ahead so beware

First of all, sorry for not being active, like...at all, i've been working my ass off, tryna finish all of my school projects, plus i've been overall just very busy in my so called "free time", so i haven't been able to create anything exciting.

This probably won't excite a lot of people, but i'm showing it anyway, cuz i've worked pretty hard on it, so here we go.

So for one of my classes, we were assigned to create our very own recipe books, and mine of course had to be sw themed. The task was to create a minimum of 8 pages (meaning 8 recipes) and design the pages to our liking. I choose cocktails, cuz these recipes barely have any text, so it wouldn't take the reader's attention away from the illustrations

Originally my recipe book was supposed to have 12 recipes: 4 jedi, 4 sith, and 4 clone battalions. As you can probably already tell, i haven't had the time to finish the sith pages (nor draw the missing glasses lmao), so Maul's just sitting there all alone lmao (if i would've had the time, the 3 remaining pages would've had Vader, Sidious and Dooku). I also haven't had the time to finish the last clone battalion page, that would've had Cody, Waxer and Boil.

I know there are some major canonical (let's not talk about the anatomical ones lmao) innacuracies, the whole thing is a mess and everything is unfinished (the book doesn't even have a table of contents, let alone a cover lmao) but the work that i've had to put into this, to have it be 80% finished by the due date (while i've had other classes and projects too) is insane.

So i hope at least one person will appreciate this lmao

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hardly-an-escape · 7 months

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20 questions for fic writers!

thanks for the tag @signiorbenedickofpadua! gonna put this under a cut since it's a little long :)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

22.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Just under 77,500.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Right now, just Sandman – but I do have an unfinished MCU story that I'd like to get back to, and there are definitely other fandoms I'd like to play around in at some point. I'm pretty unfocused, it just depends on whatever tickles my fancy.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Kind of Blue, a kind of fire (443) In the February Sun (437) let your heart be light (381) Headache (356) First Time (322)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to respond to every comment! (Although I'm super behind right now. Sometime soon I'll have a nice long self-indulgent afternoon of re-reading comments and finally responding.) I like to respond mostly because, as someone who reads a lot of fic, I get really excited when an author responds to my comments, and I want people who read my work and take the time to leave a comment to have the same feeling :) Also, I just feel like it's polite to say thank you when people say nice things!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I... don't really write angst. Like, at all. I am all about fluff and disgustingly happy endings. I have a WIP that has a fairly angsty beginning/middle (the shellshocked WWI veterans one which I swear to God I will finish), but even that will still have a happy ending (maybe a little bittersweet, but not angsty).

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Ummm all of them?? Like I am genuinely not sure that one rises above the others in terms of its happiness.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I never have! I'm grateful to be active in a fandom that is almost universally kind and supportive! Also I don't really write the kinds of pairings or subjects that might draw the ire of the general public, tbh, so that's probably part of it.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! At the moment mostly M/M since I'm still very Dreamling obsessed, but also F/M. I don't generally get too kinky or monsterfuckery with it, though. Pretty much just regular-degular sexy times around here.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not really! Nothing against them, just haven't gotten a spark from that kind of idea. Wait, I take that back. A while back I started a Clintasha fic set in the Station Eleven universe. I never finished it, because I feel like I need to re-read the book in order to do so, and I haven't done that yet. But I'd definitely like to.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope. I would love it if that happens someday! I've considered translating my own fic (I speak fluent German, so it's not outside the realm of possibility), but I'm not sure I'm up to that kind of project at the moment.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, I've had some fun brainstorming sessions and just back-and-forth reblogging with mutuals and trading ideas, but never actual co-writing. I'm open to the idea, but I would hesitate to inflict my writing process on anyone because it is extremely slow and piecemeal. I feel like a lot of co-writing relationships these days are developed on Discord, and try as I might I just cannot become an active Discord user.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Oh, lordy. Genuinely not sure how to answer this. If you go back to like... my very first childhood OTP, it'd have to be something like Han/Leia. But I've never been active in online SW fandom and never written that ship. I mean, Dreamling is obviously a contender. I do also love Stucky and Clintasha, although I'm not really into the MCU these days. I've recently been jumping on the Steddie train, but it remains to be seen if that will last or not. Going back a little farther, I'll never not be a Spuffy shipper. And I'll admit to Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose, and (wince) some JohnLock tendencies. But I really don't think I can point to a single all-time fave!

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I don't think I have anything that's published (or at least begun publicly) that won't ever be finished – hope springs eternal – but I certainly have things I've started and abandoned in my personal WIP files. I've got several Dreamling-related bits and bobs that may or may not ever come to something, and maybe 2300 words of a Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries fic that will probably never see the light of day.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I have a good ear for dialogue, and I'd like to think I come up with some nice metaphors/similes and descriptive language.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Actually writing lmao. No seriously though, just sitting down and getting a first draft done is the most challenging part of the whole deal for me.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I think it's fine and can add some interesting color! Just make sure there's a way for people who don't speak the language (or who are using a screen reader) to understand what's being said.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

First I ever wrote was Star Wars Expanded Universe (now Star Wars Legends) fic in elementary school. First I posted on AO3 was a Lizzie Bennet Diaries 5+1 – which, looking at it for the first time in many years, is actually pretty okay! I did something kind of interesting with the form, I think. I think I must have had a fanfiction.com account at some point but I truly cannot remember if I ever posted anything there... I can't remember my username and I don't even think I have access to the email I used to sign up with.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Among the Stars We are Reborn, for sure. I'm really proud of what I accomplished with that story, and to be honest I wish it had gotten as much attention as some of my other fics.

this was fun, thank you! I know this tag game has been going around and I'm not sure who's done it already and who hasn't, but I'll tag @valeriianz @landwriter @teejaystumbles @tryan-a-bex @cuubism and @tj-dragonblade (and as always, no pressure, just for fun!)

#tag game #about me #my writing

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turtle-babe83 · 2 years

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Ouija Be Mine?

Mikey x F!Reader

Warning: Language and NSFW 18+ only

“Do we have everything?”

Mikey glanced around at the candles lighting his bedroom. This whole thing kinda gave him the shivers but he would never admit that to you, not with how much he wanted to impress you. It all started when you asked his older brothers how they got together with their girlfriends. Donnie and Leo had shared a look, then told you this wild tale about how they thought a ghost had taken residence in the lair and that he was playing matchmaker. You ate it up. It was eerie and romantic all at once. Mikey wasn’t sure what he thought about it. He had tried and tried to “make contact” with this alleged entity, but was never successful. So when you brought over the Ouija board and a bag full of candles, begging him to help you try to talk with the spirit, he cringed inwardly before agreeing with his signature grin.

It made sense to you to hold this séance the night before Halloween, believing the veil between worlds to be thin enough to allow for a visitation. You set up the board on a little makeshift table and placed the planchette in the center. Setting a stack of loose paper and a pen to the side, you nodded to yourself. If you were to get in contact with a ghost, perhaps he could write a message. You then placed a bell on the other side of the board for the spirit to ring to answer questions. You weren’t sure if you were doing everything right but you had watched enough ghost hunting shows to make a good guess.

“Okay, dim the overhead light and let’s get started,” you said with excitement in your voice.

Mikey dutifully adjusted the dimmer switch and came to sit beside you. You instructed him to place two fingers on one side of the planchette while you placed two on the other side. Mikey noted that your eyes twinkled in the candle light and felt butterflies erupt in his belly. You were so damn beautiful.

“If there is anyone here in the room with us, please make your presence known. We wish only to speak with you,” you intoned. “Do you have any unfinished business that you need help with? A message for loved ones?”

You continued with your barrage of questions but the planchette remained still. The temperature in the room was still comfortably warm and there was no noise other than the sound of your own breathing and Mikey’s stomach which chose that moment to make its protest. When you looked at him, he shrugged.

“It’s past time for my midnight snack,” he explained.

You thought for a moment, then an idea came to your mind.

“Mikey, I’ll be back in a few. I’m going to grab some items that may be familiar to the ghost, like some snacks or tools. It might draw him out,” you muttered, snapping your fingers. “I’ll grab some of the leftover pizza so you can eat, too!”

You strode from the room on a mission. Mikey watched you go. His mind wandered over your curves and your megawatt smile. You were so sweet and thoughtful, the perfect woman in his book. He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the temperature drop in the room for a few minutes. When he realized he could see his breath coming from his nostrils, fear began to creep up the back of his neck. If he had hair, he was certain it would be standing up right now. The air felt charged and for the first time, Mikey didn’t feel like he belonged in his own bedroom.

“Dude,” he whispered, all bravado out the window.

The planchette began to tremble. Then, ever so slowly, it moved to “YES” and then moved back to the center. Mikey knew right then that if turtles could change color, he would be white as a sheet right now. He reached towards the board, then jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned.

“J-Joe?”

The planchette glided over to “YES” again. Mikey’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. This couldn’t really be happening. He must have bumped his head in training…or…or Raph finally knocked his brain loose from smacking him in the head. Ghosts weren’t real! His breathing began to hitch as he fought not to hyperventilate. The planchette moved again.

“A-S-K…H-E-R…O-U-T,” he spelled aloud. “Wait, you mean, y/n?”

Back to “YES.” Mikey felt his heart nearly stop. Did a ghost really want him to ask you out? His brothers’ stories echoed in his head. Was it his turn for a little ghostly meddling? He gulped. He couldn’t believe he was doing this, but cleared his throat and tried not to sound like a terrified little boy.

“But, what if she says no? What if she sees me as only a friend? Or worse, what if she’s disgusted by the idea of being with a mutant? I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” he rambled, letting all his fears roll off his tongue into the open.

The planchette moved once again, spelling “L-O-V-E…Y-O-U”.

Mikey chuckled nervously, “Ugh, yeah, love you too, man. But what does that have to do with y/n?”

The room grew more frigid and Mikey could sense the spirit’s irritation. “N-O-T…M-E…H-E-R.”

“Oh! That makes more sense. Except…are you sure? I don’t think I can handle rejection. She’s my best friend and I don’t want to ruin our friendship if you’re wrong.”

Mikey started as he felt a gentle pat on the shoulder. Whirling around, he found he was still alone. But then, one by one, different items in his room began to rock back and forth, moved by an unseen hand. It took only a moment to realize that each thing was a gift from you. A Build-a-Bear teddy wearing a little Knicks uniform, a puka shell necklace with a sea turtle charm, a set of pen nunchucks**, among other things. Mikey smiled fondly at the memory of your happiness from giving him each gift. The photo that he kept of the two of you laughing through an awkward selfie came floating over to land on the Ouija board. You had accidentally knocked him over just after the photo was taken, landing in his lap. You had giggled adorably and waited a moment longer before climbing off.

The planchette began to move again, just as Mikey heard your voice getting closer to his room. “L-O-V-E…H-E-R…W-E-L-L.” Then it moved back to the center, and the room became warm again. You came barreling through the door with an armful of random stuff. Bags of chips and a screwdriver fell out of your hands as you breathlessly began to explain what all you brought with you and how it might entice the ghost to come forth. Mikey watched you fondly as you chattered on. Then abruptly, you stopped. Gingerly, you picked up the photo and looked up at your best friend.

“Mikey? Why was this laying on the Ouija board?” you asked quietly.

Mikey debated his answer, then went with the blunt truth, “Joe put it there.”

You blinked. It never occurred to you that maybe the ghost would only speak to Mikey. Of course! He lived there in the lair with them, so he probably thought of them as his family or roommates, or whatever ghosts consider the living. But what would a ghost be doing with their picture?

“Did you-did you talk to the ghost, Mikey?” you whispered, almost reverently.

He gave a hesitant nod. You held up the picture.

“What did he say?”

Oh boy. It was now or never and Mikey felt like he might throw up. He swallowed hard, then looked at your brilliant smile in the photo you held up, and decided that no matter how you responded, he would regret it forever if he didn’t tell you how he felt. Gathering all his courage, he opened his mouth and said the words that would change everything.

“He wanted me to tell you how much I love you.”

Now that the words were out in the open, they hung heavy between the two of you. You stood very still, processing his proclamation. Mikey loved you? Mikey loved you! Your heart swelled with joy until you saw the crestfallen look on his face. The boisterous turtle looked like he could cry. Dropping the photo, you skirted the table and threw your arms around his neck, hugging him tight. His arms tentatively wrapped around your waist.

“Mikey,” you sighed into his neck, “I love you, too.”

“You do?”

You pulled back and looked into his hopeful eyes. Beautiful baby blue eyes that you would gladly fall into and never come back. Instead of answering, you moved in for a kiss. The moment your lips touched his, you felt his gasp, then his arms tightened around you and he kissed you back firmly. Tender lip locks grew feverish and hungry. You bit at his lower lip and the groan that erupted from his throat caused you to have to clench your thighs.

“Mmm, Mikey,” you moaned, trailing your kisses down his jawline.

Suddenly, you found yourself lifted in his arms and he hobbled over to his bedroom door to shut and lock it. Your back was pressed to the door with his hard body right against you. The reason for his odd walk grew evident as a hard bulge pushed into your lower body.

“Damn,” you breathed, eyes widening at the size of it.

Mikey immediately apologized, “Sorry, I shouldn’t- I’m moving too fast.”

“No,” you shook your head, “this is fine, this is…good. I was just surprised by how large your, um..”

The orange banded turtle grinned, “My c-shooter?”

His what? You gave him a quizzical look, asking, “Your…C…shooter?”

“Yeah! Like Donnie’a pea shooter but it shoots cum, so c-shooter.”

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. This was one of the things you loved most about him, his mind was both creative and hilarious! It made you curious how that part of him would translate in the bedroom. Determined to find out, you pulled him back in for another kiss, pushing your tongue through his lips and savoring his groans of satisfaction.

He pressed his cock more firmly against your clothed folds, rolling his hips for emphasis. You managed to whimper a plea for more and he brought you over to the bed, laying you down gently. You started to push out of your clothes and for a moment, Mikey watched in shock, then he quickly followed suit. Once you were down to your panties and bra, you suddenly felt self conscious. You bit your lip, thinking about all your imperfections, like the cellulite on your thighs and the stretch marks on your ass. Then you chanced a glimpse of his face and felt warmth bloom in your chest from the look of pure adoration he was giving you.

Mikey couldn’t believe his eyes. You, the most beautiful girl he knew, was stripped nearly bare and offering yourself to him. He had hoped, daydreamed, and wished fervently for a moment like this but never truly thought it could come true. Tentatively, he reached out and brushed his fingers down your cheek, continuing his trail down to the front clasp of your bra. Holding your soft gaze, he slipped his finger under and popped the clasp open. You pulled the two pieces apart and shrugged it off. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Mikey slid his arms around your waist and pulled you closer to the edge. He nuzzled the underside of one breast with his snout, then to your great amusement, muttered, “Bon ‘appetitty’ to me!”

Amidst your giggles, he latched on to one sweet nipple and sucked strongly. Your moan egged him on and he lavished attention all over both boobs with his tongue and lips. You were going to have one hell of a hickey on the side of one. You smoothed your hands up and down his massive biceps, admiring his muscles and strength as he indulged himself. Suddenly, he launched himself up to kiss your lips again before tugging the sides of your panties and asking, “Can I?”

“Please,” you murmured, heat flooding your face.

As you lifted your hips and watched him slide them down your legs, you noticed how wet your panties were and felt another wave of embarrassment. Mikey looked at them for a moment before tossing them over his shoulder.

“Wow, Babycakes! I can’t believe you got that wet just for me!” he preened. “I really want to be inside you right now, but I just gotta have a quick taste.”

You nodded your consent, and his “quick taste” snowballed into a very thorough and not so quick feast. From the first lick, he was hooked on your flavor. His tongue wound in between your folds and all around, exploring and gathering all he could of your essence. His tongue laps were noisy slurps and his swallows were loudly vulgar. All of it combined to bring you to a thigh-shaking high, and you clenched your thighs around his head as you rode out your orgasm.

“That was amazing,” he exclaimed, grinning widely with your juices coating his chin. “I wanna make you do that again!”

You laughed and pulled at him until he lay over top of you. You wiped some of the excess wetness off his face but still tasted yourself on his lips as you kissed him again. His hard length rested against your thigh and you couldn’t wait to feel it deep inside. Your breathless begging of, “Mikey, please, please, please!” coaxed him to line up to your entrance. The spongy head of his cock popped in and out teasingly as he savored the first feeling of your tight canal. Hooking the heels of your feet under the bottom of his shell, you pulled in hard and sent him balls-deep in your pussy. You both cried out as he struck your cervix.

“Did that hurt? Are you okay?” he asked instantly.

You squeezed your walls around him and watched his eyes nearly big out of his head.

“I’m fine but I’d be better if you would move,” you purred, with a roll of your hips.

Mikey could take a hint. He pulled back and rocked forward, building a perfect staccato rhythm instinctive of a polished drummer. His cock rubbed you in all the right places and you were soon moaning his name. He sat back on his haunches and lifted you effortlessly into his arms, bucking up and thrusting from below. Your lower belly tightened as another orgasm seized your womb.

“Mikey! Oh god!”

“That’s it, Angel, you feel so good,” he groaned.

His hips moved at a pace that you couldn’t keep up with, allowing him to have full control as he fucked you through his own release. One more straining thrust and he lowered you both back down on the mattress. He laid to your side to avoid crushing you and watched in awe as his thick seed ran out and made a sizable wet spot on his comforter.

“So, we love each other…and we totally just fucked, I mean, dayyyyum, that was incredible…” Mikey trailed off. “Are we like, together, now?”

You nodded your sweaty head and grabbed his hand, bringing it to your mouth to kiss his knuckles.

“Yes, Mikey, I would like that very much.”

Mikey pulled you close to hug you tight, sprinkling kisses all over your cheeks and neck and making you giggle again.

“Thanks, Joe!” he called, and you got the second shock of the night when the candles flickered and went out.

You felt a chill go down your spine and then a thought crossed your mind that freaked you out.

“Um, Mikey? You don’t think he watched us, do you?”

Mikey pondered for a second, then shrugged with an eye ridge wiggle, “Huh, a voyeur ghost? Give me a few minutes to recover and then we can give him a real show.”

🧡

@exovapor @tmntspidergirl @nittleboo @raisin-shell @thelaundrybitch @leosgirl82 @mysticboombox @roxosupreme @zowise2912 @xanadu702 @chicchanmooshy @fyreball66 @thelostandforgottenangel @lady-maria-the-wolf225 @labeccy @0x0spunky-monkey0x0 @7mika8 @fictionalmenmistress @misteria247 @ladyofparchments @raphielover @tortuefaerie @bunnyraptor69 @polypandragon @avvaazz @tkappi @aurora-the-kunoichi @imthegreenfairy88 @pheradream15 @rheawritesforfun @cowabunga-doll @coulrofilia-sexuell @lilyssims @daedric-sorceress @raphslovemuffin80 @raphsgrl @drowninghell @digitl-art-monstr @fluffytriceratops @angelcatlowyn @turtlesmakemehappy @bibiz82 @ceciliawastaken @scholastic-dragon @ashleighclark98 @sewerninno @sketch-and-write-lover @tmnt-tychou @sharpwindow @dilucsflame33

**yes, this exists, I have two of them lol

#tmnt trick or kink #tmnt #tmnt bayverse #teenage mutant ninja turtles #turtlebabe83 #tmnt fandom #bayverse mikey #tmnt fanfic #halloween #Tmnt Halloween #mikey #tmnt michelangelo #michelangelo #tmnt michelangelo x reader #michelangelo x reader #mikey x reader #tmnt mikey

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soup-of-the-daisies · 8 months

Text

Prongsfoot Week

Day 7: Write/Draw/anything for this ship.

sweeter than candy (on a stick)

Warnings: around 4k words, is NSFW (blowjobs).

Can be read on AO3 here.

James’ lips are stained red, shiny with sugar and spit—and Sirius can’t stop staring.

It’s a wonderfully sunny though bloody cold Sunday afternoon in November and they’re doing homework in the dorms—Peter and Remus have taken to ‘Weekend Walks’ around the lake, which really means that they talk about everything and nothing while Wormy sneakily tries to get Moony to give him homework answers. It’s a solid, well-choreographed dance — Pete’s far too clever to be hard working, and Moony does have a tendency to preach about the topics that will be discussed next week — that, quite honestly, neither Sirius nor James wish to witness. And besides, for them weekends are usually reserved for the planning of assorted mischief and general tomfoolery to be executed on school days.

Usually, yes, because the Defense essay really couldn’t wait today: though Sirius was planning on doing it at breakfast tomorrow, James has taken pity on their ever-nervous Defense professor Michael Burgary and made the decision to make it easier for the bumbling buffoon. It might have something to do with the running bet all the seventh years have going on how long the bloke will last — Sirius has two Galleons on March twentieth, whilst James bet five that Burgary will make it to the end — but, of course, James will never admit that.

“Can’t bear the thought of him having to order us to write a better one, really,” he said earlier today, grave and pitying and therefore successfully convincing Sirius to do what he wants to do, as is usually the case. “Let’s just ensure we get a good grade, and then he won’t have to talk to us as much. Poor bloke’s already so uncomfortable.”

Sirius would probably be a bit jealous of James seemingly having taken a liking to the twat if Burgary didn’t sweat so much, didn’t constantly look five seconds away from bursting into tears, and also wasn’t a practitioner of the lost art of the comb-over. He hopes he won’t have a receding hairline before turning seventy: both his grandfathers still have a full head of hair, even if grandfather Pollux’ locks were thinning the last time Sirius saw him.

Afternoon sunlight filters in through the small windows of their dorm, highlighting the auburn sheen in James’ messy black hair and the warm undertone of his brown skin. He’s sitting oddly, like he usually sits—one leg resting on the floor with the foot under his arse, and the other propped up; his crotch is in full view. The way he’s leaning over his essay is an absolutely outrageous display of subtle flexibility, and his left hand is holding the quill almost clumsily. It’s as if it’s too small for his veiny, quidditch-calloused hands.

He’s also sucking on a lollipop, which makes matters significantly worse.

The pale plastic sticks out of the corner of his mouth and sometimes he just sucksat it, loud and lewd, before using his tongue to shove the damned sweet to the other side of his mouth; the hard candy will click against his teeth, and then James will purse his lips, covered in the sheen of artificially dyed sugar, and suck again. It is obviously the latter that Sirius can’t help but focus on instead of his painfully unfinished Defense essay.

The thing is, Sirius knows what burning feels like. He once fell off father’s old broom when he was ten and landed in the patch of firenettles mother grows for her own version of Pepperup; he once tripped over his own two feet and fell hands first into the crackling hearth. He knows how the heat won’t stop, knows how the blistering feels, knows how the sensitivity will remain for months even after the burn salve and the essence of dittany. Knows the sheer pain of it, that sharp tone of agony that lasts for days if left untreated.

And somehow, for some absolutely ludicrous reason, Sirius is certain that swallowing glowing embers burns less than witnessing James Potter suckle on a fucking sweet.

James drops his quill and fingers the plastic of the lollipop absentmindedly, takes the damned thing out of his mouth with another obscene sucking noise and puckering of his red, wet, shiny lips. Then he licks it, wraps his tongue around it, and slurps it back into his mouth.

Sirius is burning. He’s burning, and his balls aren’t blue but they’re red-fucking-hot, and if he doesn’t tear his gaze away in the next second he’ll go from ‘uncomfortable but manageable’-hard to ‘Morgana’s tits this is painful’-hard. All he can think of is that fucking lollipop as his weeping dick, James’ absurd mouth around it, swollen and soaked with spit and precum, and Sirius—

James, the oblivious prat, taps the lollipop against the very bottom lip Sirius has been wanting to bite for the better part of an hour, like torturing his best mate without knowing it is helping him think. Then he sucks the candy back in his mouth, wetly and terrible and hotter than a Merlin-damned ashwinder.

Sirius whimpers. Out loud. And instantly wants to die.

“Pads?” James asks, and Sirius scrambles to put on an oblivious expression. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius, lying through his teeth. James has taken the lollipop out of his mouth, again, and is tapping the bulbous candy against his bottom lip, again. “Just stuck on a sentence, you know…”

“You’re never stuck on sentences,” James points out. He pops the lollipop back in his mouth, pushes his essay aside, and shuffles closer. “Let us see, then.”

Sirius fashions his mouth into a scowl and glances at his parchment. He’s only written half of the duelling method of his choosing, a creative offense strategy, while James is likely already on his conclusion considering how in the zone he was while Sirius stared at him and that fucking sweet. And though it could be a bit embarrassing — Sirius has never liked lagging behind James, always needs to meet him with every step — he’s far more preoccupied with hiding his stiffy than with the abysmal state of his essay.

James sucks absentmindedly on his lollipop as he reads the paragraph Sirius managed to write down. It’s loud, and though it should probably be a little bit gross it’s actually really hot, and Sirius has to squash down the urge to kiss him. Heat is coiling in his lower belly; he adjusts himself discreetly, suppressing the moan that follows the pressure of his hand.

“It’s fine,” James murmurs eventually. The lollipop slips back out and he shoots Sirius a little smile that kicks Sirius’ heart into a riotous pace. “There’s no need to make it perfect right now, anyway. You can always write the final version later.”

James never needs to write drafts, as almost every essay ends up perfect on the first try. Sirius, usually, doesn’t need to write drafts either, but he’s been a bit distracted.

And hot under the collar.

Just a little bit.

“Right,” he manages, “it’ll be fine.”

“It will,” James says brightly. He pats Sirius’ shoulder, then slides his hand to the back of Sirius’ neck and squeezes. “You’re brilliant, ‘Rius. I see many more O’s in your future.”

Sirius makes a disparaging little noise, contemplates whether or not he should ask James to stop holding his neck because the touch is killing him, wishes desperately he were alone so he can wank himself raw to fantasies of getting sucked off by James Potter. His dick throbs.

Sirius utters, a bit strangled: “You’re more brilliant.”

The smile brightens. Sirius feels a sudden, absurd need to lick James’ teeth.

“Funny,” says James, “I always say that about you.”

Sirius smiles back and James does his funny little nose-scrunching thing that he always does when he’s a little bit amused and a little bit happy. Then his hand travels upwards, up the back of Sirius’ head, and his fingers tangle with the hair Sirius has been considering growing out.

“You still look a bit flushed,” James muses. Sirius feels the pull at his roots, knows James is twisting locks around his longer fingers like he is wont to do. It usually reduces Sirius to a puddle; now, he wants James to yank. “You sure everything’s okay? Is something bothering you?”

Yes, Sirius thinks, gaze dropping to James’ shiny red mouth. Something is bothering me. You’re sucking on a lollipop I wish was my prick, and now I’m so horny it’s all I can think about.

“Nah,” says Sirius. “Just, erm—a bit warm. That’s all.”

“You can take off your shirt,” James says. He laps at the lollipop, sucks at its side for a bit. “You wear another underneath anyway. It’s not like you’ll be naked, if that’s your issue.”

“Right,” Sirius says. “Yeah.”

James smiles at him again and puts the lollipop back in his mouth. Then, to Sirius’ grief, he takes his hand out of Sirius’ hair.

Starts to fiddle with the buttons of Sirius’ shirt.

“Erm—”

“You’re hot,” James says, lisping past the lollipop between his teeth and utterly oblivious to the implication behind his own damn words. “But you weren’t about to take off your shirt, so I’m doing it for you.”

Sirius hems, high-pitched and choked. James’ fingers are warm, brushing briefly against the bare skin at the base of Sirius’ throat before travelling down and only touching cotton. The fiddling and gentle touches spark goosebumps and, to Sirius’ complete and utter horror, pebbling nipples and an increase in the throbbing of his dick.

Eventually, James reaches the last of the buttons and Sirius is almost relieved that it’s almost over. But then one of James’ knuckles presses briefly against Sirius’ crotch, and before Sirius can even try to lock his muscles in place, his hips jerk forward. James pauses for less than a second before he releases the final button and, without asking, slides the shirt off Sirius’ shoulders. His palms brush down Sirius’ bare arms and it takes every last inch of willpower for Sirius not to start whining.

“I see the problem,” James murmurs, voice low and smooth like molten chocolate. He’s smiling around the lollipop, closed-mouthed and small, an intrigued tilt to one corner.

“Do you?” Sirius whispers, shaking.

James’ smile widens, and in pops his singular dimple. If Sirius wasn’t so utterly baffled by the lack of shock and disgust coming from James he’d have genuinely entertained the notion of kissing it.

Then a large, veiny hand lands on Sirius’ crotch, fingers slipping under the fly and playing with the pull of the zipper. His entire body tenses, trembles, and his next breath is expelled choppily.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to be doing, Sirius?” James asks, tilting his head in faux-curiosity. He’s stillsmiling, like this isn’t weird, like this doesn’t cross any unspoken boundaries for him. “Is it still too warm?”

Sirius is quite certain he’s gone bright red. He nods, unable to speak.

“Words, Sirius,” James murmurs.

They come out breathy. “Yes, it is.”

James’ eyes darken and the button of Sirius’ trousers pops open. The zipper is slid down, and James pauses, sugar-shiny lips pursed again, rubbing the waistband of Sirius’ trousers between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Take them off,” he says quietly, and Sirius does, scrambling to get the black wool down his arse and off his legs.

He kicks them at the last bit, throws them aside, and turns to stare at James. James, whose gaze has apparently been caught by the erection tenting Sirius’ briefs, pupils dilated and dark eyebrows pulled together. Sirius can’t find the words he probably should say; his mind is far too busy reeling, far too busy thinking of James’ mouth and the sudden turn of events and oh fuck, this is happening—

James looks up, takes the lollipop out of his mouth, and smiles.

“Here,” he says, and he reaches out to push the sweet against Sirius’ lips. “Take it.”

Sirius wraps his mouth around the lollipop, ever-obedient, because there’s truly nothing he wouldn’t do if James asks nicely. It’s cherry, sickly sweet and a bit tart, bit bubblegum-esque, artificial flavouring and colouring. He sucks at it almost desperately.

Then he promptly chokes because James’ hand is on Sirius’ crotch again, pressing down, and—

“Would you like me to suck you off?”

Sirius closes his eyes and wonders what absolutely incredibly good thing he did to deserve something like this—his wildest dreams coming true. Tilts his hips up, so that the pressure increases. Whines.

“Words, Sirius.”

“Yes,” he gasps around the goddamn lollipop, blinking sluggishly and daring to take a glance at James. “Yes, yes, please, I would like that very much, I—”

James deftly shoves the briefs down until they’re caught under Sirius’ balls, tilts his head again, and grips Sirius’ prick tightly. Moves his hand up, then down.

Sirius damn near chokes again. It’s a rough glide because of the callouses on James’ hand, dry because of the lack of lube, almost uncomfortable—but it’s the best thing he’s ever felt and his hips jerk up again. He falls back on his elbows, tilts his head to the ceiling, and moans.

James whispers something Sirius has no energy to translate. There’s a sudden wetness between James’ palm and Sirius’ prick; the next slide goes so much more smoothly, sound positively obscene. He feels the flat of James’ thumb rubbing at the head and Sirius whines, pants, collapses onto his back.

“Oh, Sirius,” James tuts, voice low. “We’ve barely started, love.”

Heat spreads through Sirius’ veins like warmed honey, slow and viscous. His head spins a little. “Hmm.”

“Then again,” James whispers, “how much time do we have, really? Moony and Wormy can barge in at any moment. Then they’ll see us, won’t they? Maybe it’s a good thing your control is already shot—”

“James,” Sirius breathes. James has ceased to move, index finger tapping absentmindedly at a spot just below the head, and Sirius can’t fucking— “James, c’mon…”

“Or,” James continues cheekily, “you’ll burst right as they open the door. See you come all over yourself, or in my mouth, and who knows what they’ll think?”

To his complete horror, the thought of their friends seeing him fall apart is agonisingly arousing. He can almost see the shock on their faces, the confusion, maybe the mild intrigue—Sirius’ next exhale comes out in bursts and he lifts his hips slightly, desperate for a little friction. He’s certain that the aftermath of it would be incredibly embarrassing, even if Sirius can handle the jesting, but at the moment…

Well, he might combust.

James makes an amused little noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

He moves his hand again, lightly, slowly. Sirius keens, shivering, and briefly and dazedly muses about potentially kicking James’ thigh for being annoying. Decides against it in the end, because suddenly a gust of air floats over the head of his prick, hot and damp and delightful—

“Let’s see how long you can last,” James whispers, lips brushing over sensitive skin.

Before Sirius can so much jerk his hips he’s being swallowed down; not particularly smooth, with James’ mouth going lower in little bursts as he adapts. If Sirius focuses — something that takes an embarrassing amount of strain to do through the thick cloud of pleasure — he can feel the pressure of shallow swallowing and skin-covered teeth, the chilliness of cooling drool beginning to pool at the base of his cock.

James’ tongue tickles him, exploratory, teasing. Sirius stuffs his fist in his mouth, bites down on his knuckles until he’s sure that any more pressure will break his skin; the moan that rumbles out from deep inside his chest sounds muffled and muted.

Then the heat disappears.

Sirius bites back a whine, lifts his head and meets James’ eyes. He’s confused and a little bit dazed and very, very turned on and wondering, almost a bit angrily, why James has stopped.

The view that greets him almost makes up for the lack of physical stimulation. James is on his knees, toned arms easily holding him up—he’s hovering right above Sirius’ weeping prick and is grinning like the devious little shit that he is, sharp teeth and full, bruised lips, pupils dilated and irises alight with heat.

“You shouldn’t muffle all those pretty sounds, love,” he rasps, voice hoarse and low, and Sirius’ hips jerk. “I want to hear you.”

Sirius groans, reaches out to curl his hands around one of the feet of the bed behind him, and startles so badly when James’ hot mouth surrounds his dick again that he produces a pathetic, whiny hiccup. James hums and takes him deeper, far quicker than before, hollows his cheeks and swallows and only gags a tiny bit. Perhaps Sirius, one of another life who let his arrogance and misery guide him maybe, would’ve been offended by how little James seems to be struggling—or jealous, wondering if James did this before.

This Sirius—the one who catalogues the shades of gold and green and brown in James Potter’s irises, who marvels at the jagged curves of James Potter’s Adam’s apple, who wishes to brush the tips of his fingers over the raised veins and tendons strung across the back of James Potter’s hands… this Sirius does not give one flying fuck, actually, because James is taking him like a Merlin-damned champ and Sirius is simply melting into a puddle, becoming one with the rug, will have to be scrubbed out of the fibres by a particularly annoyed elf later today.

It’s to be expected, anyway. He’s been waiting, got pulled into James’ orbit a month into their first year and has stayed there ever since. Sirius admired from afar but closer than most, relished in the sound of laughter, the warmth of an arm slung over his shoulders, the feeling of a knee pressed against his own. And it wasn’t like this at first, never, just felt that urge to remain close and hold on and hiss at the threat of being ripped away, but then there were growth spurts and deepening voices and then one day James smiled crookedly, ran his long fingers through Sirius’ hair and pressed his thumb against the hinge of Sirius’ jaw, and—

The tip of James’ tongue twitches, rhythmically brushes against sensitive and thin skin. It takes a momentous amount of effort to suppress the ever-mounting need to jerk his hips up, to increase the friction or lessen it or keep it going or stop it entirely, and Sirius groans deep inside his throat, muscles already starting to tense. He could sigh, dispel some of the tension, try to relax—but he wants to whine and twitch and hold himself back just barely, keep himself on that delightfully agonising edge that he was so easily dragged towards.

Sirius is panting and his head is reeling. He can barely register the coarse braided fibres of the rug digging into his shoulder blades and pressing against the back of his head, or the end of his abandoned quill tickling his jaw; the feeling of James’mouth around him is better than he ever imagined, absolutely nothing like his own lube-slicked palm, and he can’t think of anything butJames’ mouth and the tightening of his balls and the coiled, ever-growing knot of an incoming orgasm in his belly. It’s amazing, this, the end-result — or better yet, beginning — of years of hopeful musings and months of looks and smiles and subtle talking that Sirius interpreted as casual, meaningless flirting but prayed was true and purposeful.

This can’t possibly be just for a laugh. And even if it was, Sirius won’t ever be able to truly think of it as such.

James makes another one of those absolutely obscene slurping noises, one thumb stroking the sharp jut of Sirius’ hip and the other stroking the base of Sirius’ cock. There’s another finger teasing Sirius’ perineum, like James is considering doing something morethan taking a dick into his mouth, and that thought – combined with one last, slightly out-of-practice swirl of the tongue – causes Sirius to tip over the edge.

His vision whitens out and his back arches as the wave of pure pleasure crests and washes over him; it feels endless, yet somehow far too short, and if he distantly registers some sort of keening groan that must come from his own throat. His fingers and legs tingle, feel like jelly, and Sirius inhales, exhales, and allows himself to jerk a little as his cock spurts.

A long time coming, he thinks through a haze of syrupy feeling, breath stuttering in his chest and limbs lax with that temporary exhaustion of an orgasm. He’s too limp to even snigger at his own pun, can barely lift his head to look as James swallows and licks him clean from any come that leaked. He’s been wanting this for years, and dammit if it isn’t worth the wait. Sirius wants to kiss James, wants to mould his own mouth to James’, get lost in the movement and the taste and the tiny huffing breaths that always accompany a good snog.

But James leans back upright, and as Sirius blinks at him blearily from the floor he wipes his mouth, stuffs Sirius’ prick back inside his underwear, and hands him the trousers. When Sirius simply stares, brain still full of cotton, he pats Sirius’ thigh and nods at the garment.

“Put them on,” he murmurs.

Sirius forces the blood back into his limbs, always listening—stumbles upright and steps into the trousers, yanks them up and over his arse and zips them up. He’s only just closed the button and sat down again when the door handle jiggles and twists.

As their friends appear in the doorway, James leans back over his essay whilst Sirius remains leaned back on his hands, twitchy, with the breath punched out of him. Peter breezes in with a skip in his step, jumps on his bed with a satisfied sigh; Remus remains standing in the doorway, head slightly tilted to the side and eyes a bit narrowed.

“Merlin, Pads, you look flushed,” says Peter. He snatches several textbooks and some stray bits of parchment from his bookbag, spreads the materials out over his crimson sheets. “The last time I’ve seen you this red was when we played some Quidditch last summer.”

“During the heatwave, you mean?” Sirius drags a hand through his hair and shrugs when Peter nods. He hopes it looks effortless and casual. “Er—yeah, I’m hot.”

“Your vanity never fails to amaze me,” Peter shoots back. He grins and fishes a quill from his bag. “It isn’t that warm in here, though.”

“I run at high temperatures.”

Remus steps into their dorm slowly, eyes on a quiet James before they linger on Sirius. His nostrils flare, and his eyebrows lift, and then he stalks towards his bed. His foot collides with Sirius’ as he goes.

The behaviour doesn’t make any sense from an outsider’s perspective. But it does here, for Moony, because — and there’s an excited twist in Sirius’ gut — he can smell it. Must be even if Peter didn’t, because Peter’s sense of smell is surprisingly human, even as a rat, but Remus is not fully human, and—

“Made any progress on the essay, lads?” Remus asks, a forced casualness to his tone. “Wormy’s been nagging me about the ideal subject matter—the lazy git.”

“Work smarter, not harder,” says Peter loftily. He’s still grinning. “Merlin forbid I start thinking, you know. It’d be over for you lot.”

“I’m almost finished,” James says quietly, clearing his throat when his voice breaks, and Sirius bites down on the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from smiling. “Padfoot is stuck on a sentence, though.”

Remus’ brown eyes flick between the two of them. “I can imagine.”

James sends their friend a grin. The combination of swollen, bruised lips and straight white teeth makes it particularly roguish—there’s an edge to it, hovering between smug and daring. His eyes are like chips of flint.

“Gave him my lollipop to cheer him up a bit,” James says cheerily. “He’ll manage, our Pads. There’s some O’s in his future. I can taste it.”

Peter rolls his eyes exaggeratedly with a muttered, “Merlin, don’t we know it”, but Remus’ only reaction is the slight tightening of his jaw. James tilts his head, still grinning, and holds eye-contact until Remus’ gaze flicks to his bag.

“That’s nice,” he says. “Hope it helped.”

“It will,” says Sirius. Remus looks at him, and so does James, and after sharing a conspiratorial look with the latter Sirius gives the former a fat wink. “I’ll return the favour when he needs it.”

It’s a delight to see James’ cheeks flush red from his peripheral.

Yeah, Sirius thinks, stomach constricting pleasantly. I’ll return the favour, absolutely.

#prongsfootweek2023 #prongsfoot #bambibelle #my writing #soopsiedaisies #prongsfoot fanfiction #sirius black #james potter

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