#anyhow my hands grow more calloused by the hour

[r0b0t1me]

RAGE.

bonus. grandpa got in the ketchup again

#my art #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt movie #blood #i drew this today too woohoo #i have been making them too soft. i had throw them back in the wood chipper #andy if youre looking at these tags #i am perpetually thinking about 'he gets to be a monster out here #so casey doesn't have to see this part of him' #anyhow my hands grow more calloused by the hour #bad future

[discobiscotto]

“Signor Marcovaldo is my father, call me Alberto, Alby…or Maestro 😏”

If we’re talking predictability in design, adult Alberto was NOT easy. I had literally nothing to work from. No (living?) family to compare to, no hints at what kindof quirks he may develop. I had nothing!

All I had was that (assumed) deep-seated desire to be accepted, useful/helpful, and not left behind…..that, and yanno, that Charisma In Excess (as a KID no less, dude calm that shxt down or you’re grounded lol)

Alot of pawing around in the dark and just going with what felt right to me.

I took some cues here and there. Some pretty forward and commonly accepted (“You, the big strong one.” etc), others subtle and unassuming but I ran like the wind with it?

Anyway, here we go. What’s the deal with this walking bowl of spaghetti anyhow?

This will be a two parter. His seamonster form requires a separate post.

Alberto as I said is a bit of a wild card. He doesn’t have as much of an obvious blueprint compared to Luca or Giulia.

His physical appearance for his human form was based solely on environmental influence.

Physically I imagined him to be a bit rough around the edges. Kindof gaunt but not so much that he looks sick or weak. He’s pretty much just one big muscle. Not an ounce of fat on him. Nothing but sinew. Very toned and muscular but certainly not huge. He’s just solid and FIT.

He’s a guy from the docks. He’s a fisherman. He’s salty and peppered in scars. Heavy calloused hands. He picked up smoking at a young age. He spends endless hours in the sun, thus he’s still very freckly as an adult. His impulsive ass got a tooth busted out in a fist-fight. Five o clock shadow and untidy sandy facial hair. I imagined his hair growing more “out and up” than down. Tight coils suggest he’d likely have a ‘fro or pomp, so I combined the two, keeping that old Alberto “top heavy” hairdo lol.

Profoundly Italian, so he’s pretty furry everywhere. Being a hard worker for years, excessive sun exposure, substance use, he looks alittle “older” than he actually is. (Pushing 34 ish).

I made him very tall, 6’4” ish. I admit, I love a good “Tall Man x Small Man” dynamic, so that’s definitely a shameless “luberto-centric” choice lol But I also considered a funny “goldfish” concept where just like a goldfish only gets bigger when his bowl is bigger…perhaps nature was trying to make him “compete” and measure up or even end up bigger than Massimo. 😆

If there’s one thing I learned from “Ciao Alberto” it’s that Alberto has a deep desire to be useful and accepted. He tries through the entire film to impress Massimo and in turn hope Massimo accepts him and sees Alberto can be just as good at his knife-wielding barrel heaving badassery as he is.

Alberto ultimately ending up as a fisherman by trade was an easy choice. Not only do I write what I know (being a Mainer in the coast with a deep affinity with fishermen and shipbuilders) but it is the ultimate way to show his love for Massimo. To help carry on the legacy.

Alberto has mastered some unlikely skills as well. Not as unlikely as you’d expect though considering his desire to impress Massimo.

So consider this:

-Alright, Massimo is great at cooking. Alberto sucks EPICALLY at first but over time, his motivation to measure up to his hero and dad-figure makes him an amazing cook? Check.

-Massimo likes to sing. Alberto picks it up and finds he’s an Unreasonably Excellent Singer and prodigious musician who plays by ear? DOUBLE CHECK.

(Note: The lore and reasons behind this and Alberto’s mandolin will be a blogpost on its own eventually)

-Alberto being a competent and prolific/productive fisherman resulting in the family biz growing and delivering outside of Portorosso? Definitely a proud moment for Massimo.

So to me it all checks out, and drives home Alberto’s strong gumption and the next generation being better than the generation before. As a parent, I subscribe to this goal. I want my boys to be the “Big Strong Ones.”

There’s also the bit that Alberto is a bit of a lush and a party animal. Charismatic, has a bit of a Casanova complex. Charm pouring out of his ears. Why? Well, dang, I really don’t know. I guess bringing it back to that “Charisma In Excess” statement at the beginning of this, it just felt right somehow. I had it so that he really wasn’t all that conventionally attractive but had a level of animal magnetism that’s hard to resist.

There’s lore behind that too…but will be reserved for his “Fish Form” post.

I dunno, it’s probably cus he’s Italian. It could be that simple. 🤷🏻‍♀️

#alberto scorfano #luca1970s #pixar luca #lucafanart #albertoscorfano #discobiscotto design notes #ciaolucafic #ciaoluca #ciao luca #ciao alberto #luberto #older!alberto

[hobidreams]

may 1869.

just this once, you let yourself be a little braver.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, angst, fluff? words: 1.4k contains: someone new, something new.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 20. start from the beginning?

A balmy wind drifts through the open window of your bedchamber, making ripples upon the freshly made spread. You stand in sunlight before the mirror, tracing the faint remnant of the bruise on your collarbone, left by the king’s hungry mouth too many nights before, and wish absently that the mark will stay for at least a few hours more.

As the days grow longer, his visits have become far less frequent, though the minutes he spends indulging in your heat seem to extend ever so slightly in turn. The explanation that leaves your heart intact is that he is occupied by overseeing the administration and results of the national civil exam, the gwageo that took place a few days ago and will bring a new group of eager scholars into the palace. You try very hard not to think about the possibility of his finding his way to another woman’s bed, even though he is well within his rights to. Even though it is expected of a king to have handfuls of consorts in his court. He has, thankfully, spared you of such truths, like he continues to spare you of any details about his life. Theoretically, that makes it easier to not get so attached. Theoretically.

With an exhale, you re-adjust the collar of your blouse to hide the mark and put on your hat before stepping out into the sun, holding a book that you intend to return to the king’s library.

As you walk towards the building, you soon realize there’s a man you’ve never seen before in green scholar’s robes in front of the shuttered doors, pacing back and forth as the dark samo on his head bobs from the effort. What’s he doing? While people may pass by here, they rarely linger.

When the man spots you, his gaze seems to brighten. “Excuse me, uinyeo-nim!”

You come to a stop before him, taking in the wane of his eyes that are like friendly crescents. “Good morning. How may I help you, Scholar…?”

“Park.” He smiles. “I’m one of the newly admitted scholars.”

“Scholar Park. Congratulations on passing the exam.” You return his smile with a small one of your own though you remain on your guard, no matter how kind he seems. Most of the current scholars treat you with disdain (though they at least attempt to veil it on the king’s account, you are certain), as you are a woman and thus beneath them, no matter if the texts you’ve read could rival theirs. This Park must be brilliant though, if he passed the rigorous exam at such a young age.

“Thank you. I’m excited to begin my work! But…” He bites his lip. “The head scholar asked me to obtain a copy of Bang Si-Hyuk’s latest text, and the royal library said that only the king has a copy…” His expressive face falls and you, with a twinge of endearment, think he might be an awful liar if he ever tried. “Would you happen to know how I might borrow from the private library? Should I request an audience with the king? Are there official forms to follow? I really don’t wish to misstep.”

You stare at him quietly, contemplating whether or not you should reveal that you have such access.

He nervously seems to take your lack of answer as confusion. “Yes, I am aware that I should have asked my fellow scholars but they are all so much older than me and I’m afraid that they will take me less seriously than they already do if I cannot complete such a simple task on my own... But no one else has walked by here and I do not want to go back empty-handed and…” He trails off, giving you a look of absolute desperation that warms your heart, despite your reservations.

“Scholar Park. I can retrieve the book for you, if you promise to return it within a few days.” The king wouldn’t notice that it’s missing anyhow, not with how busy he’s been. That, and you get the feeling that the older scholars have been playing a bit of an initiation joke on this poor boy.

“Really? You will? Thank you, uinyeo-nim!” He breaks into a huge grin. “Oh, but uinyeo-nim, how do you have access to the king’s libra…”

You can practically see the moment it clicks in his mind that you are that physician, the one who’s name is irrevocably tangled up with the king’s.

It seems palace gossip is not exempt even from those who have only entered the grounds the day before. You can literally feel the turmoil going on within him as he tries to figure out how to address you, whether or not he should give you the respect of the king’s consort even though you are technically not one in the slightest. Just a lowborn, a hole, even a witch doctor that has bewitched jeonha, as those less polite than this boy have put it when they thought you were out of earshot.

“Hm?” You prompt like a masochist, wanting to see what he says. Wanting to see if it’ll hurt you some more, or if you’ve finally gone blissfully numb.

“N-Nothing, uinyeo-nim.”

You were right. He’s an awful liar.

But you get the book for him anyway, and see him off with promises to meet you back here two days later for the return. Your reality is none of his fault, after all.

That night, the king drops by with little decorum. Opens the door to your chambers and strips off his robes, like he always does. Though this time as he kneads your bare chest in his calloused fingers, pinching the peaked nipples so hard you whimper, you are filled with a need for some scrap of certainty. You want to wipe that coolness from his eyes for even one second, to stoke some intimate fire from him that says he still remembers how you used to be together. How it used to be easier than this. Closer, even though now you know how thick his cock feels as he robs you of air.

“You—ah—you’ve been busy, jeonha?” It’s been getting marginally easier to talk to him like this in the moonlight, his hands making a mess of you. “It’s been quite some time since you’ve come.”

“What, are you that needy for a fuck?” He smirks, but it’s a look more dark and dangerous than playful as he reaches down and finds you soaked. You think you feel the ghost of that word lingering around his question, but it is a small blessing that has not said it aloud since that night in April.

Your face flushes hot. “I-I was just wondering…” You shouldn’t mention it. You really should hold your tongue, but you’re sick of being trapped in your own mind, going in circles with your own insecurity. Just this once. Just this once you want to let yourself ask— “I thought… That perhaps you had taken another conso—oh!” You’re cut off by an abrupt inhale as he sinks two nimble fingers into your cunt. One smooth stroke takes him so deep, only for him to pull out to use the translucent wetness he’s gathered as lubricant along his shaft.

“You think I have time for other women?” He snaps. His stare is intense, but you can’t see a single lie in their depths. “Never have.”

Then he takes you so roughly, you think the bed might break from all the rattling. You have to blink away white spots in your vision when you come and he doesn’t say much more to you for the rest of the night, but you’re smiling almost deliriously all the way through with your nails scratching faint red down his back, the bracelet he gave you dragging over his skin from its home on your wrist. Never, your mind echoes, again and again.

Against all the odds. Against anything you would have expected. Even if he keeps you at arm’s length to the thoughts in his heart, it’s still the chance three-step skip of a grey stone across a rippling pond.

You’re the only one.

a/n: wow. drabble 20. it’s taken us half a year to get here & it honestly feels like a dream that i’ve made it this far. yet there is still so much on the line. so much further to travel together. thank you, if you’ve been here since the beginning. thank you, if you’re just picking up the series 💜 please do come let me know your thoughts on the series as we slide into the present time, with all the tension of the past lingering too closely by. i truly couldn’t have gotten here without all your support ♡

#ficswithluv #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #min yoongi #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #how are we feeling about the new scholar? ✨

[meat--grindr]

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

·       It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

·       Even better, you aren’t alone.

·       Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

·       The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

·       Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

·       The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

·       The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

·       Okay. Sure.

·       It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

·       In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

·       “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

·       Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

·       “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

·       “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

·       “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

·       And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

·       The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

·       You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

·       In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

·       So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

·       He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

·       You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

·       His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

·       He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

·       “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

·       And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

·       He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

·       “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

·       Limp or lifeless?

·       The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

·       You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

·       You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

·       When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

·       He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

·       “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

·       Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

·       “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

·       He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

·       You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

·       You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

·       “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

·       And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

·       “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

·       The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

·       You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

·       Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

·       Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

·       You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

·       Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

·       For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

·       The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

·       You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

·       When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

·       “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

·       You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

·       His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

·       The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

·       “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

·       You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

·       Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

·       You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

·       “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

·       Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

·       There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

·       “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

·       There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

·       “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

·       “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

·       “Oh, yes.”

·       “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

·       Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

·       “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

·       Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

·       “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

·       The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

·       Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

·       Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

·       Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

·       “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

·       “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

·       You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

·       Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

·       Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

·       Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

·       “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

·       Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

·       “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

·       Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

·       You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

·       You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

·       “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

·       “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

·       You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

·       “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

·       Clever boy.

·       You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

·       He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

·       You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

·       He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

·       His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

·       You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

·       With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

·       His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

·       You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

·       “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

·       “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

·       You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

·       “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

·       “They are aware, yes.”

·       The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

·       Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

·       You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

·       Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

·       “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

·       You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

·       “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

·       The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

·       You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

·       “Oh yeah? How?”

·       “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

·       He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

·       ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

·       You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

·       Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

·       You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

·       He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

·       But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

·       This is going to be fun.

·       You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside.  Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

·       Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

·       “What was that, Count?”

·       “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

·       The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

·       Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

·       “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

·       With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

·       The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

·       “Their…blood?”

·       You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

·       “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

·       Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

·       The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

·       Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

·       The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

·       Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

·       Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

·       You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

·       “What’s going on, Count?”

·       “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

·       “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

·       Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

·       The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

·       Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

·       His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

·       Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

·       You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

·       “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

·       “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

·       Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

·       He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

·       With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

·       The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

·       His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.  

·       He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

·       The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

·       Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

·       He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

#martin x reader #slasher x reader #martin 1977 #slasher imagines #ripper fics #sorry for how late this is #enjoy!

[bjy-on-ao3]

Kinktober Day 22

(As before, you can find a link to the AO3 version of this and the rest of my Kinktober 2020 prompts on the ‘Masterlist’ section of the blog.)

Both of these two are in my top half of the demon brothers and given they don’t seem to mind the idea of sharing MC in-game this was kind of the most obvious choice for me for a threesome.

Kinktober Day 22: Threesome (Beelzebub & Belphegor | Obey Me!)

The three of you had spent a long time out, eating, drinking, and talking, celebrating your declaration of love for the twins. Fortunately, there hadn’t been hide nor hair of the other five and you had been in a blissful little world all your own. At some point, Demonus had made its way into the equation and the brothers had proceeded to indulge just a bit too much. You had drunk some as well, but with the minimal effect it had on you, all you felt was a pleasant buzz to complement the warmth the twins created in you. Beelzebub was less affected than Belphegor, likely due to whatever furnace metabolism he possessed that allowed him to eat mountains of food in one sitting. His cheer showed through, his cheeks tinged pink and his voice louder than it probably should have been. 

Belphegor appeared even more relaxed than normal, the barest smile turning up the corners of his lips. For a while, you were worried he might not make it away from the tablet without nodding off, let alone make it home. Then again he fell asleep wherever he pleased anyhow, so it wouldn’t have been too far from the norm. Luck was in your favor though and he managed to keep his eyes open.

As luck would have it, you made it home without trouble, slipping into the building and quietly stealing away down the hall to the twins’ room. You considered retiring to your room, but it was common knowledge that all brothers liked to drop in at unexpected times at all hours. Generally, it had always been in the name of innocent fun or conversation so it never bothered you. But you wanted to be alone with Beelzebub and Belphegor without any unexpected guests that night.

Yet that left the decision of which bed to sleep in. Ideally, you wanted to cuddle with both of them. To your knowledge, neither bed was larger, despite the fact Beelzebub was a good deal larger than his brother. Alternating didn’t sound like a great option either. Perhaps if you just picked one they’d both follow your lead.

Your train of thought was interrupted by Beelzebub’s large, warm presence behind you. You hardly needed to look to know it was him and not his brother. The redhead had always been a furnace when it came to his body heat, whereas his brother was considerably cooler. The large hand that wrapped around you and splayed across your torso was a giveaway as well. He leaned down, his hair tickling your skin, and started to nibble your ear gently. Sighing, you leaned back into his hard body, enjoying the soft pinch of his teeth on your ear, even when a fang grazed a bit too sharply against the sensitive skin.

As if of the same mind as his brother, Belphegor wasn’t far behind, coming around in front of you until he was only inches away. He ran the back of his hand softly along the cheek opposite of the ear Beelzebub was worrying before tilting his head and meeting your lips with his. The kiss was lazy and a little clumsy from his intoxication, but sensual all the same. Making a soft noise against your lips, he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth and touching your own. You could taste lingering remnants of the dry, sweet flavor of demonus on his tongue. Beelzebub stepped in closer, your back becoming flush with his torso, his hands bolder, slipping under the hem of your shirt and grazing the skin beneath.

You sighed contently from the pleasant, sultry press of Belphegor’s mouth and the comforting warmth of Beelzebub’s body. The pair had a way of making you feel so at ease and comfortable that was irresistible. They were irresistible in other ways though as well. Their attention quickly sparked embers of desire in your belly, making you crave more than just tender touches and kisses. You tried to restrain yourself, wanting just as much to enjoy the unrushed pace and each little feeling it came with.

Belphegor broke away from the kiss, allowing you both to catch your breath, but only for a moment. In the same instant, he dipped his head to the curve of your neck opposite his brother, Beelzebub curled his fingers gently beneath your jaw and angled your head back toward him. He bent down, taking his turn to catch your lips in a kiss that was characteristic of his gluttonous nature. It was more insistent, greedy, and came with a hint of fang pricking your lip. Nonetheless, you melted into it just as you had with Belphegor’s more relaxed kiss.

Belphegor’s affections to your throat were more calm and deliberate, far more lips and tongue than teeth. When he did nip at your delicate skin, he soothed it with a stroke of his tongue. Beelzebub’s hand under your shirt traveled up, cupping one of your breasts through your bra and squeezing. Belphegor joined him in groping, moving one of his own hands up your shirt, latching onto the other and kneading it languidly. His other hand draped itself across your hip, rubbing absentminded lines over the waistband of your pants. You flitted between satisfied, breathy sighs and excited gasps from the contrast of sensation on your tits, unable to decide which you preferred. Both ways they touched you only stoked the flames of want and burned away your patience.

When your lips parted from Beelzebub’s, your breath came in heavy puffs and you squirmed against their caresses. “More, please, Belphie, Beel, give me more,” you breathed, a soft whine punctuating your speech.

Your pleading tone spurred the brothers on, their actions suddenly much more feverish. Belphegor’s fingers abandoned your tit, moving with his other hand to hook under your pants and draw them down until they hung around your knees. Beelzebub’s hand that angled your head backward before took up the slack Belphegor left and he tugged your bra down until your chest was freed. The rough kneading turned to rolling each perked nipple, his thumbs occasionally brushing across them featherlight, the calloused touch making you shiver.

Belphegor moved further down, his hands flanking your hips, and knelt between your thighs. He snaked his grip to the soft skin beside him, cyan nails digging lightly into it. Violet eyes peering up at you through the fringe of his dark hair, Belphegor nudged his nose against your center through your panties. Instinctively you bucked your hips against the contact, a small fleeting tingle of pleasure running through your core. You didn’t miss the small, impish grin that pulled at his lips from your reaction. He licked a hot stripe up your slit through the fabric, adding to the growing wetness he found there and you whined, chewing your lip in frustration at the touch that wasn’t nearly enough.

“Belphie, please,” you begged, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Hm, only if you make more of those cute faces,” he teased, face so close you felt the heat of his breath wash over your damp underwear.

Not waiting for an answer, he hooked two fingers under the line of your panties and pulled them down, taking the chance to gather them and your pants around your ankles. Parting you with his thumbs, he flicked his tongue against the spot he knew you wanted most and you bucked your hips again into the pressure. He lapped at your clit for a moment, before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

You clutched at Belphegor’s head between your legs, grabbing a fistful of his hair and tossing you head back until it bumped against Beelzebub’s hard chest. Beelzebub’s lips leveled with your ear and he watched the expression of ecstasy that swept over your face. “Belphie’s right, you do look really cute like that,” he hummed in your ear, unable to resist pressing several more kisses to your cheek.

His hips moved gingerly against you from behind, making you aware of how much your pleasure was arousing him. Beelzebub couldn’t deny he was a little jealous of his twin, how he got to taste you, even if he did have a front-row seat to watch you fall apart from the feeling. He’d have his turn eventually, maybe not that evening, but there was plenty of time.

Belphegor continued to suckle and lap at your clit, his tongue sometimes sliding lower and dipping into your entrance tantalizingly before moving back up. A litany of low noises of satisfaction drifted from the dark-haired demon, obviously enjoying himself. The longer he went on, the quicker you felt your pulse race and the more labored your breathing became. Mewls and gasps were ripped from you, mostly from Belphegor’s tongue, but sometimes from extra sharp pinches of your nipples or a hard, possessive nip. Beelzebub’s excitement seemed to play off yours, the press of his hips more and more adamant as time wore on.

You thrust your hips abruptly, feeling the crest of your orgasm mounting with each passing second, chasing each little bit of friction. “Fuck, don’t stop,” you groaned with another uncontrolled pitch of your hips.

Belphegor obliged, latching onto your clit again and drawing insistent shapes against it with the tip of his tongue. Beside his face, your thighs began to shake and he briefly wondered if your knees might’ve buckled and sent you crashing down if Beel wasn’t holding onto you tightly. The harshness of your breathing and the lilt of your voice was music to his ears and he was eager to hear the crescendo.

You came with a mix of swears and moans of the twins’ names, still clinging to Belphegor’s hair. Beside your ear, Beelzebub stifled a groan, grinding especially hard against you. When your shouts died away, Belphegor swept his tongue along your folds again, drinking in the remnants of your release. Pulling away he looked up at you again, licking his lips clean in a lewd display.

He rose to his feet, crushing his lips over yours and entering your mouth again. You could taste yourself strongly on his tongue, bitter with a hint of sweetness. When he pulled back, Beelzebub was immediately on your again, ravenously thrusting his tongue into your mouth as well, yearning for just a little taste of what his twin had sampled. The taste was faint, but he hummed with delight, reinforcing the want to taste you directly at some point.

Legs feeling weak, but body tingling and warm, you kicked aside your undergarments. Beelzebub took the opportunity to pull your shirt away, slinging it aside into the bedroom. Your bra followed swiftly and in no time you were standing between the twins completely bare. Despite Belphegor already sating your need to cum once, you felt all too hot and your cunt ached, longing for something more filling.

“Mm, come over here,” Belphegor insisted, moving away and climbing onto one of the beds and propping himself up against the pillows.

You and Beelzebub both nodded, trailing after Belphegor and joining him on the bed. Belphegor occupied himself as he waited for you to situate yourselves, fumbling with the button of his pants and pushing them and his boxers down enough to free his cock.

The twins all but sandwiched you between them, Beelzebub at your backside and Belphegor’s cock standing tall in front of you. You heard Beelzebub fussing with his pants behind you and after a moment the hard warmth of his dick pressed against you directly. You leaned forward impatiently, wrapping one hand around the base of Belphegor’s cock and ghosting your lips over the leaking head, all the while wiggling you rear against Beelzebub enticingly.

The touch of Beelzebub’s calloused fingers on your cunt made you jump a bit, and you moaned as you took more of Belphegor into your mouth. He groaned, muttering something unintelligible and running a hand through your hair. Taking Belphegor’s length into your mouth and running your tongue along the underside, Beelzebub sank into you in a smooth, hard thrust. Seated inside you completely, his thickness made your cunt burn and stretch satisfyingly. 

He pulled out until only the tip remained before pushing back in, watching as your cunt swallowed him up, a guttural growl erupting from him. He thrusts stayed that way at first, slow so he could savor the velvety, tightness of your body, but his patience was worn away quickly, the tempo increasing. You tried to set a steady rhythm to match it, sucking in your cheeks and bobbing your head up and down Belphegor’s cock, his hips jerking up to meet your mouth from time to time.

It wasn’t long before the dark room was full of the sound of skin slapping against skin wetly and a chorus of moans and growls and husky curses and names. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of sex and sweat, each motion more and more desperate. You were to first to break from the rush of sensation and sound, already oversensitive from Belphegor eating you out. You nearly screamed around his dick, your stuffed mouth making the sound come out muffled, though it vibrated through him. 

Belphegor was the next cum, the added stimulation from your shout the little bit extra he needed to finish him off. His previously soft grip in your hair became a vice grip and he buried himself as far as he could go before emptying his load into your mouth and throat in hot gushes. He groaned your name, a heady blend of arousal and affection suffusing his voice.

Beelzebub was the last to catch the high he was chasing, still pounding into your cunt as you tried to swallow all that Belphegor had given you. Pulling off of Belphegor’s cock, you dug your nails into his thighs unintentionally and the smaller brother hissed. He couldn’t be mad at the sting, eyeing you as you tossed your head back, Beelzebub’s thrusts still eliciting small whimpers from you.

When Beelzebub came at last, you thought your hips might bruise from the force with which he held onto them. Hips stuttering and pressing the harshest thus far against you, he spilled into you, the hot, warm sensation as he filled you up very different from when Belphegor had found his peak. He eased out slowly once he had spent himself completely and you felt the thick warmth drip out, seeping over your thighs.

The three of you said nothing for a time, all relishing in the full body high from your orgasms and basking in the heat of each others’ bodies. You were sticky, sweaty, and exhausted now, but well satisfied. Though you weren’t sure if your night of celebration had come to an end yet or it was only a break. Whatever the case, so long as your evening was spent with them enjoying the fruits of your newly confirmed relationship, it was going to be time well spent.

#kinktober #kinktober 2020 #kinktober day 22 #day 22 #day twenty-two #obey me beelzebub #om beelzebub #obey me belphie #om belphie #belphegor #swd om #shall we date? obey me #ao3 #archive of our own #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #fandom

[autistic-stedebonnet]

3x05

•••

3x06

In which Winnie isn’t at the fair, and also, Gilbert isn’t courting her.

Anne adjusted her bow for the millionth time that day and smoothed down her perfectly unwrinkled skirts.

“Anne for goodness sake!” Marilla cried. “You’re acting as if we’re going to meet the Queen, it’s just Bash and Gilbert.”

Exactly, Anne thought to herself. Gilbert. Despite her apparent anxiety though, Anne was determined to have a wonderful day. This probably would’ve been easier if she wasn’t being forced to spend it with Gilbert though. She felt like a lamb to slaughter.

•

The ride to the fair passed soon enough. Thankfully Anne’s giddiness couldn’t be lessened by even the presence of Gilbert Blythe beside her. She bounced up and down on her heels as they waited in something that was more of an organized cluster than a line.

As soon as her cake was settled, Matthew and Marilla sent her off with 10 cents and instructions to stay with Gilbert, or Diana if they found each other.

Anne practically sprinted from the tent, half hoping that Gilbert wasn’t trailing after her. Who was she kidding though, of course he was right on her heels. He was like a baby goat sometimes, always following her.

“Is this your first county fair?” Gilbert asked casually

Anne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was Gilbert. He was her friend and she would not allow herself to fly into a temper over her own internal conflicts. She nodded briskly at his question and continued weaving her way through the crowds, staring in awe at every booth, performance and extravagantly dressed person she could see.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” She sighed, not even realizing that she’d clutched Gilbert’s forearm in her joy. When she did though, she shoved him away forcefully and cleared her throat, turning her head to conceal her reddened face. Much to Anne’s relief, she spotted Diana at that very moment. Without so much as an explanation to the boy beside her, she ran off to her bosom friend.

“Diana!” Anne hissed, snatching the baffled girl’s arm. “I need to speak with you about a matter of utmost importance.”

After composing herself, Diana arched a knowing eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with a certain young and may I say, very confused boy?” She asked, glancing over at Gilbert who was too far to hear their whispered conversation, but close enough to see Diana smirking.

“Yes it does!” Anne whined. “I have to spend the whole day with him, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

Diana let out an overly dramatic sigh. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Am not,” Anne retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes you are. He so obviously likes you, and you admitted your feelings for him just yesterday! Just go and tell him how you feel and live happily ever after.”

Diana’s face softened upon seeing Anne’s stricken expression. She placed a comforting hand on the redheads arm and smiled encouragingly. “Good luck, I have to go.” And with that, she left Anne alone with Gilbert Blythe and her horrible feelings.

•

“Anne, are you alright?”

Anne nodded crisply and forged onwards. “Yes Gilbert, I am perfectly content. I can’t imagine what would lead you to believe otherwise.”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet today, and normally when you’re excited you get very... passionate,” Gilbert explained, his voice becoming significantly more wary as the sentence continued. “I hope I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You did nothing of the sort, I’m just caught up in my thoughts.” Caught up in her thoughts indeed. But upon noticing a man selling ice cream, her thoughts seemed to be lost to the wind. “Oh, Gilbert!” She squealed, having forgotten her romantical predicament for a moment. “I haven’t had ice cream since the church picnic years ago!” She sighed, skipping over to the booth and pulling out her meager 10 cents. “Marilla claims it’s a right waste of milk, but I find the delicacy quite divine,” she explained to Gilbert, her back turned on the booth while she waited for her companion to join her.

But her sunny disposition was soon dashed as the seller proclaimed that she’d have to pay 12 cents for the ice cream.

“Oh drat!” Anne cried. “I’m just two cents short.” She examined the money in her hand with a disappointed sigh. “Oh well, I suppose Marilla would scold me for spending all my money on food anyhow.”

Gilbert cleared his throat and Anne looked up at him with an inquisitive expression. “Yes?”

“I, uh... I could give you the 2 cents,” he offered.

Anne gaped at him. “Absolutely not, Gilbert Blythe!”

“Why not?”

“I simply won’t have you wasting your money on me,” Anne said. “It’s only a minor disappointment, I do think I’ll live. And besides, there’s probably something more sensible for me to spend my money on anyhow.”

“Then I’ll pay the whole 12 cents. In fact, I’ll buy us both ice cream.” He smirked at her and stood up straight, proud to have rendered Anne Shirley-Cuthbert speechless, if only for a second.

“Wh-what, but, but I-“ Anne sputtered. “I didn’t ask you to, you don’t have to.”

“I’m not doing it out of obligation, I’m doing it because i’m trying to be nice!” Gilbert snapped, his frustration quickly growing. “We’re friends right?”

“Y-yes, we’re friends.”

“Then let me do something nice for you.”

Anne opened her mouth, then closed it again. A voice in the back of her head that sound strikingly familiar to Diana, told her to stop being so stubborn and let him do this. Then there was Cole, practically taunting her with the notion that Gilbert could ever like her. “Fine.”

•

Oh no. Oh noooo. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Anne’s eyes grew wide. There was no way she’d be able to pass by the tunnel of love with Gilbert and not blush profusely. She glanced around frantically, but she was already almost late and taking any other way to the cake competition would make her just that, late. If she just kept her head down and walked faster and- Gilbert stopped. Why did Gilbert stop?!

“Gilbert?” Anne squeaked, her entire body shaking like a rock during a violent earthquake.

“Anne, are you okay?”

“Yes i’m fine!”

“Really? Because we’ve been walking around for hours and the only actual conversation we had was you yelling at me,” Gilbert said.

“I-I don’t- I... ugh!” Anne dug her heels into the ground in frustration and clenched her fists at her side. Why couldn’t she just say it? Get it over with? Rejection was inevitable so what did it matter?

“Anne...” Gilbert’s expression was one of exasperation, but his eyes told a different story. They seemed to be digging straight into Anne’s soul, searching for something.

“Gilbert? Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious. Really, can I?”

“Go ahead.”

Anne pushed away the fact that they were directly in front of the tunnel of love and forged onward. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Gilbert blanched. “I... um... look at you like, like what?”

“Like you’re...” Anne trailed off, grasping for a way to put this into words. “Like you’re looking for something. Like you’re trying to see into my soul.”

Gilbert nodded slowly and stepped closer to Anne. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled that crooked smile that made Anne’s stomach do somersaults. “Because I am,” he replied simply.

“You’re... looking for... what?” Anne’s sentence was so quiet, no one but them could’ve heard it even in the most silent of rooms.

His eyes seemed to double in...whatever they were. They searched her, once again looking, hoping for something. “Anne, I...”

“You?...”

He cupped her cheek in his calloused hand and Anne was sure he could hear her heart pounding. She could’ve easily pulled away, ran like she always did. But she didn’t. She didn’t and then he was kissing her.

It was warm and safe and felt so incredibly right. For a split-second, Anne froze. Her muscles tensed and her entire body seemed to freeze over. But then he began to pull away and she realized that she didn’t want him to. She grasped the lapels of his shirt and pulled him closer to her.

There were no fireworks, or sparks, or rainbows, but there should’ve been. Because this moment, to Anne, felt as if destiny was being fulfilled. Like they were made of stardust from the same star, and were finally coming together after millennia of separation. Two coiled ribbons unraveling and twisting around each other in inexplicable harmony.

They finally pulled away from a desperate need for air, but their foreheads stayed pressed together.

“I love you Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” Gilbert murmured.

Anne swallowed and bit the inside of her cheek. Love? He loved her? Did she love him? Of course she did. Denial was obviously not an option any more and it seemed as if that kiss had opened a door... no, not a door. It cleared a cloudy sky and revealed the golden sun.

“I love you too, Gilbert Blythe.” And then she jumped back and gasped. “Oh no, the cake contest!”

Gilbert laughed, a deep throaty laugh in which he threw his head back, turning his face to the sky.

“Oh I’m so late, oh no!” And with that, she ran, but for once, she wasn’t running away, she was barreling straight into something, and it felt so good.

#anne with an e #awae #anne shirley #anne shirley cuthbert #anne of green gables #gilbert blythe #shirbert #shirbert fanfiction #shirbert fanfic #shirbert fic #awae fanfiction #awae fanfic #awae fic #gilbert blythe x anne shirley #awae 3x06

[doomstypewriter]

16

I finally brought myself to writing something for the Untamed/Mdzs fandom, would you look at that! 

This fic consists of one chapter and an epilogue (that I shall write next week). 

AO3

Summary:  A collection of moments over the years in which Lan Wangji waits and struggles to survive his grief. -- How could someone so vocal in life lay so silent in death? Missing. Wei Ying’s spirit was missing from the land; his body too, not even there to bury, to memorialise. He would never dress in anything but white for the remainder of his life. Wei Ying was missing and Lan Zhan missed him.

Words: 2439

TW:  This is heavy on angst. Really heavy, and at some points it can kinda hint at depression (not fully, but I have left a window for it to be able to be interpreted as such). It also deals with a lot of grief. (If there are any other things that I need to add to this list, please, do tell me).

“It must be one of the worst ways of suffering, to lose someone you hold so dearly, don’t you agree, Hanguang-Jun?” 

Jin Guangyao’s comment caught him by surprise. Today was not a day in which he felt with the disposition to gift his attention liberally, less after having spent it on listening to the rest of the sect’s leaders.

They had gathered in a council to discuss politics and, of course, the repercussions of demonic cultivation two years after its founder had passed away. Exactly two years later.

Nobody had let go unnoticed the entrance of Jiang Wanyin. It did not seem out of the ordinary, given that he found himself leading one of the most powerful sects, however, that was not the reason why he stood out. Even if every eye had set on him, no one had the guts to stare at his face on the second anniversary of his shijie’s death. 

Maybe that is why refocusing his attention from a place of bitter introspection to a conversation he did not wish to have served him of very little comfort. Anyhow, he could not afford to offend Lianfang-Zun.

Before he even got the chance to intervene, his interlocutor spoke again: 

“My apologies”, he retracted with the usual mastery, “perhaps today is not the best time to talk of such things, having so many other important matters to discuss”. 

A glance at the expression of veiled pity and shame that his brother and Jin Guangyao, respectively, shared let him know what they had said wordlessly. A warning, or rather a petition. “Please treat the grief of my brother with kindness”. 

Lan Wangji nodded, not knowing any better way to reply. 

‘Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you never say much, do you? Don’t worry, I’ll speak for both of us’ that’s what Wei Ying would have said, had he been there, with his lively smile and his skills balancing Lan Wangi’s own. 

There was no response. 

Yet another evening without an answer. 

He did not believe that his fingertips could hurt after years being used to playing for hours, to testify for that were the callouses he’d earned with the extensive practice that had made him such a good instrumentalist and fighter. Yet, the pain still flowed from the strings to his fingers, howling through chords without response.

How could someone so vocal in life lay so silent in death? 

Missing. 

Wei Ying’s spirit was missing from the land; his body too, not even there to bury, to memorialise. He would never dress in anything but white for the remainder of his life. 

Wei Ying was missing and Lan Zhan missed him. 

His uncle gave him an eyebrow raise in all but the expression when he chose A-Yuan’s courtesy name. Lan Wangji could not help but to get a sense of estrangement by looking at his shifu, when had it become like this? By asking that, he did not mean the open air of disapproval in their conversations, that started the moment Lan Wangji fell in love with Wei Ying and consolidated itself when he attacked the elders, he knew as much. No. 

When had his uncle begun to see Wangji as a looking glass, that offered passage to a vision of his own worst nightmares and greatest failures? 

Even worse, how could he have become the living ghost of his father? 

Shizui meant to yearn. His uncle could tell who Lan Wangji was yearning for, but could he see his own yearning, the agony present in his eyes every time he watched him and Xichen? Most likely. The knowledge of that truth must weigh heavily. 

The arrival back to Gusu was swift. Both he and his brother traveled light, as per usual when urgent matters occurred. 

Such was the case of a conflict regarding intense resentful energy within Qinghe, for which Sect Leader Nie Huaisang had appointed them. An outburst of demonic energy had subjected great commotion within a minor city and was said to need urgent attention. Nie Huaisang, not knowing how to deal with the issue himself and concerned to further disclose it to the other sects, as it would surely catch the eye of Jiang Wanyin and arise his own resentment over a certain somebody, had instead opted for writing to his brother and request his help. Upon reading the letter, Xichen asked for his assistance in this occasion, saying that their uncle could attend to the matters of the Lan Sect in their absence. Lan Wangji obliged. 

The incident turned out to be, indeed, of most interest. A circle of local and external parties had reunited inside of a crypt hidden beneath an inn to perform a ritual of sorts. As a direct consequence, the establishment above, along with all of their clients, had been blown away by the never-before-seen resentful energy. He had recommended for the place to be sealed off and purified every ten days for the next twenty years to ensure the safety of those living in the city. His brother and him then focused on shedding some light on how it all came to be, but were unable to reach a satisfactory clarification, given that the main culprits had perished and Inquiry proved to be ineffective. They theorised their spiritual conscience had been shattered, too, by the resentment’s magnitude. 

After almost three weeks away, they set back to Gusu, promising to further investigate using the resources within the library, but settled the matter closed for the time being. Riding their swords was most welcome as a means of travel, reducing the journey to two days, instead of the week it would take by land. 

Gentians’ fragrance filled the air on his path back to the Jingshi. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself he had missed the comfort of its familiarity. Even if said familiarity meant the pang of memories and grief, returning gave him a sense of peace. 

He entered his living quarters. Any and all thought left his head with what presented before him. Not what, who. 

“Lan Zhan!” 

Wei Wuxian sat by the desk, drinking from one of the uncovered vases of his hidden stack of Emperor’s Smile. 

“Don’t look at me like that”, he pouted. “I know it’s against the rules, but you can’t possibly be so mean to someone who has just traveled for a week to see you” Wei Wuxian finished adding a smile. 

“You’re back”. 

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. An air of doubt passed through his expression. 

“You once asked me to come to Gusu with you”.  

“Hmm”.

“What can I say, it is your fault for not saying when…” 

Wei Wuxian stood up, leaving the wine behind, to get to where Lan Wangji stood. 

“Now I’m here, can I be here?” he stole a quick glance at Lan Wangji’s hands, as if trying to make up his mind, and then took both in his, bringing the two pairs together in between them. “What I’m saying is, I want to stay by your side, teach A-Yuan to shoot arrows, feed the rabbits, and whatever boring things you do in Gusu, I want to do those with you”. 

Wei Ying’s smile hid a shade of embarrassment, the novelty of a realisation, a confession. 

This very thing gave Lan Wangji a surge of confidence to kiss the hands that intertwined with his. A softness enveloped each kiss, not only because of the pressure but for the years of longing enclosed in each contact. 

“You love me”. 

“Ah, Hanguang-Jun, am I such a bad influence that you’ve become this shameless? What would your uncle say?” Wei Ying gifted him with a mischievous grin. “Don’t be mad, Lan Zhan, I’m only teasing you, it’s too easy”. 

A trembled ensued when the pressure of Wei Ying’s lips caressed his hands, mirroring his previous gesture. 

“I do love you”. 

Oh. Lan Wangji said to himself. 

Another realisation. 

“Wei Ying did not love me”. 

The one in front of him laughed in response. 

“If so, then who am I?” 

Lan Wangji closed his eyes and kissed his forehead, making him catch his breath. 

“Not real”. 

He woke up to the tickling of tears. A trail of bitterness stained his face. The merciless reality of the image of the Jingshi, turned monochrome by the dimness of night, rendered him helpless. How small it seemed to be in a world made so big by the hole torn with Wei Ying’s absence. His heart’s willingness to deny the facts, to rush back and check the Burial Mounds once again, surfaced yet another night. This vain disposition had to be snuffed out. Wei Ying would not come back to Gusu with him. 

And the knowledge of said truth did grow heavily indeed. 

A-Yuan, now turned Lan Shizui, grew up faster than anticipated. 

Of course, that was not true. Everybody becomes older at a steady pace, set by time only. And yet… the years had seemed to merge in such a way that it simultaneously appeared to him that an eternity had been caught in the blink of an eye, but he had not possessed a second to taste it. How could he? Moreso when the aftertaste left such sourness. 

If only Wei Ying could have guided Shizui for all these years. He had to wonder how their… his son would have turned out to be. Would they recognise each other in the sharpness of their minds? Could Wei Ying’s smile show on Shizui’s face as more than the infrequent sliver he so desperately searched for? Seeking it just to feel shame at his boldness immediately afterwards. He had always vowed to treat Shizui as his own person, succeeding at it for the most part, but, at certain points in time he could not help but to ponder on the shadow his former soulmate casted onto the child. 

Oftentimes Shizui came to the Jingshi to practice his skills on the guqin. Most should assume he did so in order to receive advice regarding his playing, such was the case… almost every time. There were moments, seconds, in which he could see the pride in Shizui’s eyes. Of course, such behaviour was forbidden and he quickly censored himself. 

But it was there, nonetheless. 

“You stopped” Lan Wangji observed, finally, opening his eyes and dropping his meditation position. 

Shizui looked up from the table in which he had laid out a piece of paper and writing utensils. When did he do that? Oh, Lan Wangji must have been too entertained by his own thoughts to notice it in time. 

“Yes, I did. Should I go over the pieces again, father?” he asked, gesturing to retrieve the guqin. 

“That won’t be needed”.

“Then I will be leaving momentarily, it will be nine in not so long”. 

Lan Wangji answered by giving a small nod.

 “Thank you…”

“What is it?” 

“I made this once I finished practicing”. 

Shizui moved towards him, holding the piece of paper loosely in his hand. He placed it carefully on the table in front of Lan Wangji. And there it was: a drawing. Not unlike the one Wei Ying had made of him so many years ago. The style appeared far less whimsical, yet, not as observant as it’s counterpart. How unfortunate, the implications of said realisation. Did Wei Ying pay attention to him to such an extent?

No need to wander about what could have been. For it was pointless. 

Shizui’s linework showed off preciseness and finesse, paired up with a great sense of depth in the interpretation of lights and shadows. Lan Wangji could not help but to smile at the display of talent. 

“Thank you, A-Yuan”. 

In spite of having stated his intent to leave, Shizui stood in front of him, as if debating something. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind. Right after a change of expression, he threw himself at Lan Wangji’s side and hugged him tightly.  

“Hmm?” 

“I’m afraid. Sometimes you leave somewhere distant, father, and I’m afraid”. 

‘Please…’ Lan Wangji pleaded stricken with panic. 

Mishearing a collection of sounds. 

If someone had told him that would bring upon him the most terrifying experience of his life… Lan Wangji would have simply given them a look of disdain. How could that elicit fear from him when he had been witness to the love of his life letting go of one bleeding arm. He thought about the Xuanwu of Slaughter, that cave where Wei Ying had fallen asleep while he sang to him, looking so pale it almost appeared as if death had claimed him already and spared him. Gods, death had pardoned him from falling alongside Wei Ying! He could think of no greater torture. 

And yet, he found himself running like a desperate man through the outskirts of Dafan Mountain, dodging natural obstacles with none of his usual poise. 

An eco. 

That’s what had set him so far off who he had barely managed to see himself become during the last sixteen years. His spirit, his heart, mummified shrouded by the mourning clothes he had begun to wear to somehow memorialise the departure of his life. 

That attire flung forward and backwards, moved by the winds. 

Please. 

Jin Guangyao was right, all those years ago. Now that maybe, maybe, he could be returned to him, loosing him again would only bear the worst king of suffering. 

Have this not be another call without answer. 

No matter what uncle saw when he stared at him. 

He would accept any new whip scar a thousand times over to just have him be real, wake up in a world where he existed. 

Anything. 

Anything would be better than missing him so. Better than the memory of the initial years, spending every night crying himself to sleep for the first time in his life. Better than breathing just to pretend the sensation filled the empty within his lungs. 

He ran. He ran like his life depended on it, because, maybe, it did. 

With each step the world burned and it didn’t matter. The sound became clearer and nothing else mattered. He had lived through sixteen years of snuffing hopefulness and finding sustenance in the memory of a song he had once sung in a cave, but, now that he heard it, maybe it had been worth it. 

He began to sprint in spite of how scary the idea of a world with him suddenly became, a place where he could lose him again. His figure almost flew across the forest, because he would not allow it. Lan Wangji was never losing Wei Ying twice.  

Right then, he reached the clearing.

Thanks a lot for reading!!! If I butchered the spelling of some name or term, please tell me!

#wangxian #basically this is about lan wangji's grief and him being sad af #sad lan wangji hours #eventual happy ending #wangxian fic #wangxian fanfic #the untamed #mdzs #lan wangji #lan zhan #hanguang jun #wei ying #wei wuxian #yiling laozu #yiling patriarch #angst #wangxian angst #CQL #the untamed fanfic #lan xichen #lan huan #lan shizui #wen yuan #a yuan #doomstypewriter #doomywrites

[echoresonance]

Murder Mystery

An amateur meets a professional.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. Of course he hasn’t. It takes a special sort of talent to go unseen with an appearance like yours, but what can you say? You have it in spades. You know the trick to hiding yourself successfully isn’t always slinking through shadows and alleyways. That would just make you look more suspicious. Between the small horns protruding from your forehead and the pale violet hue of your skin, you had to accept early on that you were going to be seen every moment of your life. But there is a difference between being seen and being noticed; and even someone like you doesn’t garner much attention with her shoulders hunched, tail curled around your leg as though afraid someone would step on it or grab for it. People pay sad little beggars very little mind, whatever their race.

Particularly people dressed in fine silks and gold brocade. You’ve been tailing this man for the better part of an afternoon, ever since he knocked you into a stand in the market and told you to watch where you were walking. As if he hadn’t blatantly rammed his shoulder into you instead of stepping around. Well, it’s fine; you had been growing bored anyhow.

You’ve followed him to a tailor’s shop, a wineseller, and now he sat outside an upscale restaurant, nursing some amber liquid in a crystal goblet and checking his timepiece every few minutes. A server had come by his table twice, and both times had been sent away with a mere wave of his hand. Who is he waiting on? Curiosity keeps you from acting just yet, a want to know as much about the man you’ve targeted as you can, though you have no need of the information. You simply enjoying knowing what kind of stain you intend to wipe from the world.

You’ve begun to entertain the idea that he’s been spurned by a lover when a figure enters your view and you nearly jerk in surprise. A fairly tall woman is approaching his table, and she… is not what you would have expected to be his company. Her skin is a deep blue-black, her hair even darker, and slim golden rings decorated two large, curved horns. Her clothes were dark and tight, hugging a surprisingly muscular physique, and a pointed tail whipped behind her, the tail tip flaunting multiple golden piercings. You can’t tell if she’s a prostitute or a mercenary at first, but then she grins at the man and you know; that expression was positively feral, a promise of violence. 

She sits at his table and reaches callously for his glass, lifting it to her nose, and you watch his shoulders tighten, his back straighten. She returns it a moment later, but she’s already set the tone for this encounter. You lean in, as if this will grant you some insight into the reason for this meeting. It doesn’t, as you can’t even see his face fully as he raises his glass to drink. You can see hers though--and for the briefest moment, a moment that makes your blood freeze over and time slow, brilliant scarlet eyes seem to bore right through you. 

She sees you, too. What’s worse; she’s noticed you. And then she winks.

The cold turns to heat, and you sink lower into the folds of your cloak, hand curling around the dagger strapped to your thigh. The man notices nothing. He sets his half-empty glass down, and you expect he’s getting down to business. A shame, really; the ice is melting, watering down what was likely top-shelf liquor.

The woman turns her attention back to him, but the smile on her face tightens, as if being kept there by force. She shifts in her seat, rolling her shoulders, crossing her ankles, then her legs. He isn’t much of a conversationalist, it seems. For what it’s worth, he seems to realize he isn’t keeping his audience well, and takes another swig of his drink to fill an uncomfortable silence.

It clicks into place a moment later, as the woman’s smile falls away entirely, twisting into a disdainful sneer and the man sets down an empty glass. You’re already slipping back towards an alley when he starts to twitch; by the time his convulsions knock him from his chair, you’re turning around and darting into the shadows.

Poison. How did she pull that off? She had the man’s attention the entire time she was there.

You duck around a corner and crouch behind a haphazard stack of crates, your heart pounding in your chest. She knows you were there, watching. She knows you saw. Will she come after you? It seems reasonable to assume so. You’re a witness to her murder. Nevermind that you were prepared to make her the same.

“Nobody suspects nightshade extract in the ice.”

You jump and whirl, dagger flashing through the air in a flash before your mind fully catches up. It flies from your fingers, and while you had no intention of killing that woman, instinct sent it straight for the heart. It’s her own fault for sneaking up on you.

Then your mind does catch up, and you stare. She’s holding the dagger as if she had drawn it, casually inspecting the blade, even pricking her fingertip on the point.

“You have impressive reflexes,” she says, grinning as her scarlet eyes fix on you once more.

“I- I’m not gonna snitch,” you rasp, fighting the growing panic pressing against your ribs. You can run. Outrunning her would be so easy; you know these streets like the back of your hand, you’re small, you’re agile. You could do it. Why won’t your feet move?

She merely laughs, twirls the weapon between her fingers, then holds it out to you hilt-first.

“I didn’t doubt that, darling,” she chuckles, and it’s a sound that sends a thrill down your spine. “I wanted to apologize for stealing your mark.”

You don’t take the dagger back.

“My...mark?” you echo. The woman nods sagely, and continues to hold the blade between her thumb and forefinger.

“Your kill,” she clarifies. “You’ve been tailing him for hours. However, I’ve been working on this job for the better part of a week; I had to see it through.”

“Job?” you say, slowly processing what happened. “So--you were hired to kill him?”

You try to keep the envy from your voice. She gives you a knowing grin.

“I was,” she says casually, and she holds the dagger out a little closer. “Interested in that sort of work, are you?”

You hesitate. Glance down the alley to your right, then back at her. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for the dagger; it leaves her grip easily, and you return it to its sheath.

“If I am?” you say, striving for nonchalance. Again, she doesn’t seem to buy it.

“Then you’ll be happy to know I’m recruiting.” She says it so casually that you think she’s joking, but you can’t help it. You can’t help the intrigue, the fascination, the...excitement.

“And who exactly are you?” you ask, but you have a sneaking suspicion that the answer won’t surprise you. Killers for hire are a dime a dozen, but this one…

The woman’s lips curl into another feral smile, and you feel that same thrill run down your spine again. The thrill of excitement.

“I am Aries,” she practically purrs. “And you are?”

You hesitate. You’ve been called many things in your life. People spit venomous insults at you as commonly as they spew false praise for the higher class. You’ve never called yourself anything other than what you are; an urchin. You’re a poison to society, and a poison on people’s tongues. 

A slow smile curls your lips, and the two of you beam at each other with primal, savage excitement.

“Call me Nightshade.”

#my writing #drabbles #tumblr drabbles #original content #dnd #dnd oc

[bjy-on-ao3]

Kinktober Day 18

(As before, you can find a link to the AO3 version of this and the rest of my Kinktober 2020 prompts on the ‘Masterlist’ section of the blog.)

My bad taste in fictional men strikes again. Onto the hair-pulling! (And a warning for some misogynistic name-calling). Early cut also because again getting into things fairly quick.

Kinktober Day 18: Hair-Pulling (Tohru Adachi | Persona 4)

Fucking Tohru Adachi was never a gentle affair, no matter how good a day the man had or how much you tried to butter him up beforehand. Sweet, clumsy, and friendly on the outside, he was a torrid swirl of bitterness, entitlement, and anger on the inside. Anger he was more than thrilled to misplace one way or another when he got the opportunity - which wasn’t often, in many cases. So intimate encounters were often something that left you feeling sore but somehow satisfied when all was said and done.

Maybe it would have been smart to distance yourself from the relationship with him once you saw the darker side of him, but against all logic, you found him hard to resist. Even if his first priority was his pleasure and yours a distant second, you felt drawn to him. Perhaps you liked the way he treated you more than you cared to admit. Or your taste was just that poor, you weren’t sure at this point.

That night hadn’t been too much different than others. Sure, the two of you had been forced out for drinks with co-workers for some unimportant celebrations and made to foster niceties a bit longer, but it hadn’t been a  bad  day per se. Nothing had gone wrong and you hadn’t recalled hearing Dojima give Adachi  too  much of a hard time, at least compared to the usual. In your mind, it had just been a plain, boring day with nothing especially offensive. When you noticed the look in Adachi’s eyes as he followed you past the threshold of your apartment you knew he didn’t share the feeling. He was frustrated and dying to find a release for it. A release you knew would make thorough use of you.

The lock on the door had hardly been done before the man set upon you, all teeth and tongue and wandering hands. His grey eyes were as hungry as they were cold and ruthless, his touch feverish. His prompt swing from the mask of bumbling, but upstanding police detective was no surprise to you. The man’s mood could change on a dime once he was away from prying eyes. You weren’t sure if you should’ve been insulted or flattered that he let you see that side of him.

Once you made your way to the bedroom Adachi took little time ripping your clothes off - almost shocked he had given them that much time. Some were close to being  actually  torn away, a stitch bursting here or there, something made you squeak half-indignantly for the sake of the clothes rather than surprise. You weren’t looking forward to having to do some at-home tailoring on your uniform because he had gotten impatient. Though it didn’t seem he cared for your feelings that evening - not that he commonly did anyhow. After all, it wasn’t the first time it had happened in his haste to have your body.

Done undressing you, his eyes wide and half-mad in the depths of hunger and frustration, he spun you around, shoving you unceremoniously onto your mattress. You planted face first in the sheets with a muffled ‘oof’., Your head whipped back when you managed to prop yourself up on your palms and you shot him an annoyed look. “You want to try  asking  first next time?” You growled sourly. As much as you were used to him being a rough asshole, it didn’t mean you were always thrilled with every bit of it.

He leaned forward smoothly, wrenching a handful of your hair in his hand. You grimaced at the unexpected sting and hissed through gritted teeth. The sensation stung and you wanted to be angrier, but in the same instant, you felt your pussy throb and slicken in response to the brash action. A bark of harsh laughter assaulted your ears. “You really think I need your permission?” He sneered, a mixed expression of lust and contempt lingering in his stormy eyes. When you opened your mouth to snap back, he interrupted you with a tighter, more painful jerk of your hair. “It was a rhetorical question, bitch, I don’t  need  your permission. You’ll do what I want when I want it like the dumb little slut you are.” 

He allowed no further room for debate, twisting your head back away from him and readjusting his grip in your hair. You huffed angrily but didn’t open your mouth again, humiliated by how on point his words were. Even when he pissed you off to high heaven, you never stopped him. You might try and talk back or wrest some control away from him, but you didn’t say ‘no’. He knew you better than you knew yourself some days. That alone was frustrating.

Waiting obediently, you heard the sound of him fumbling with his belt buckle and pants, aching both from the ruthless hold on your hair and the heat between your thighs. You heard a grateful sigh when the whisper of belt leather and cloth went silent. His sigh and a rough prod at your folds were your only warning before he stuffed you full of his cock, groaning in delight at the sweet, hot embrace of your pussy he’d been craving. “Fuck, fuck,” You cursed at the stretch, biting down on your lip and trying to quickly adjust. You knew he wasn’t in a mood to tend to your needs, let alone allow you to adjust to him.

“Shit, your pussy feels so good. I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he groaned, rolling into a quick, hard tempo. “Couldn’t wait to be done with that work bullshit,” he continued, his other hand clamping down on your hip. 

You tried to relax against his brutal pace, take him for whatever pleasure there was to be had. You thrust back, trying to angle your hips to brush someplace more enjoyable. Adachi and his smart mouth couldn’t even let you take that for yourself in peace though.  “See? Why do I need to ask when you want it as much as me?” He jeered, bucking into you especially hard as if to add to his point. “You’re so damn wet, I’d even say you wanted it  more.”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, nor did he wait for one. Instead, he leveraged his grip on your hair, tugging you back toward him and off the brace of your palms. You yelped, the sting temporarily overwhelming. His hand on your hip moved eagerly to your chest, callously rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Despite your burning scalp and carelessness of his touch, the added sensation was enough to make your cunt contract around him and he groaned. He alternated between pinches and greedy palming of the soft, supple mounds, pressing you back even more. He bent forward, his thrusts growing more erratic, and bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder.

You cried out at the rough treatment,  trying to keep your pace with him despite your change in position. Desperate for a contrast to his merciless affections, you stretched a hand down to your clit, clinging to his forearm to steady yourself with your other hand. “That’s it, fucking whore, touch yourself for me,” He spat lewdly, voice strained with his approaching climax. 

You obeyed, stroking yourself fervently, feeling the slap of his hips become more unsteady. It didn’t take you long to work yourself into a frenzy great enough for the knot in your core to tighten and burst, the angle of Adachi’s cock adding to the build despite the ruthlessness of his thrusts. Your orgasm washed over you, the blend of its euphoria and the bite of Adachi’s harsh touch making you arch your back and shout his name.

A low, obscene groan left Adachi as your tight, wet cunt pulsed around him, your body begging him to fuck you harder and deeper. He felt the familiar tightness in his balls as the edge of his climax swept him up, crushing your body even closer to his. “Fuck that’s good. I hope you’re ready for my cum,” he snarled, voice breathless and guttural. His hold on your chest and hair clenched so tightly it made you whine between your cries, he came hard, spilling into you hotly.

When he pulled out, you were near shaking, partly from your orgasm and partly from the strain of half holding yourself up on your knees on the bed. Breathing deep and slow, the air thick with the smell of sex, you felt his essence dripping out, hot and thick onto the sheets. At last, he released his vice grip on your hair and tit. Your scalp tingled and stung and you knew, just like the rest of your body, it would be sore in a few hours. If Adachi even gave you the time for  that  soreness to set in. You had a feeling he wasn’t done with you for the night.

#kinktober #kinktober 2020 #kinktober day 18 #day 18 #day eighteen #persona 4 #p4 #persona #tohru adachi #adachi tohru #p4g #persona 4 golden #writing #ao3 #archive of our own #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #fandom