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jeonlicious · 1 year

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MASQUERADE II ; jeongguk

pairing: prince!jeongguk x princess!reader

synopsis: “Follow my finger.” He said. “This one is named Andromeda and Perseus,”

genre: smut, fluff

warnings: oral (f recieving), hickeys, titty sucking, kook loves reader tits sm, aftercare, cuddling, they bathed together, overstimulation

word count: 2,8k

author’s note: finally its out!! i’ve been so excited to post this!! english is not my first language.

series mastelist | chapter three…

As the hours got later more people started to leave the masquerade ball bidding their goodbyes and getting into their carriages. The music has slowed down and you found yourself in a state of pure relaxation. Jeongguk’s hands holded you close to him, your back against his chest, his head resting on your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your ears. Who wouldv’e thought the night would end like this.

Jeongguk went from an abnoxious motherfucker to a boy of your dreams in just a few hours. When you turned around to look at him a purplish mark was decorating his neck, reminding you of the past events that happened not so long ago.

“You look cute with it.” You smiled and gave him a small peck on the place where the mark has laid. Smiling softly your fingers went to his hair massaging the raven locks. He lowered his head into the crook of your neck, clearly enjoying the feeling. “Feels so nice,” He mumbled into your neck closing his eyes and getting completely lost in thought.

That wasn't until he heard his mother's voice. “Jeongukkie it's late, we're going home,” She said. Jeongguk felt like his whole world was going to burn into ashes. He didn’t want to go home, he wanted to stay here, with you. “Mother, just a little longer, please.” He pleaded, looking for his mother's approval which he quickly found. “Okay, but get home as soon as possible, good night Jeongukkie” She kissed his forehead and went to his father telling him that their son will be returning home later than expected.

“Now where were we?” He smiled and came closer to you (which was almost impossible since your chests have already been touching). “I believe you were begging your mom to stay here with me since you think I'm awesome, talented, and gorgeous.” You laughed and watched as his cocky smirk faded from his face at the speed of light.

He had to admit it did catch him off guard, he expected you to say something like ‘i believe you were about to kiss me.’ But after all, you were still the same Y/N, the same Y/N who he had a silly crush on since he saw her dancing on one of these masquerade balls 4 years ago. And he was still the same Jeongguk, the same Jeongguk that desperately tried to get your attention any chance he had. He failed many times, but not today, today all your attention was on him and he loved it.

“How about we get out,” a mischievous smile decorated his face as he took your hand a led you out of the ballroom. You had no clue where he was going but when he didn’t turn left to your bedroom you knew he had something else in plan. “Guk, where are we going?” You asked, but he didn’t respond he just kept walking to what seemed like the winter garden.

Jeongguk took out the key to the big silver door that was the door to the winter garden. You have never been here. Living in the castle for the past 20 years you never really cared about the winter garden, you knew it was here but just didn’t catch your attention. Until now.

The big door opened with a loud screech which made you cringe. “Sorry,” Jeonggjk said as he laced his fingers with yours and walking into the garden. Firelies were flying around lighting up the place a little. You never noticed how many beautiful flowers were here, roses, hibiscuses and orchids, your favorite.

You came closer to them take a sniff of the beautiful scent. All worries and anxiety leaving your body as you bathed yourself in the scent. While you were having your moment you heard Jungkook clear his throat. “There’s actually something i want to show you,” He said and you followed him out of the garden, your eyes were met with the most beautiful sight ever, a night sky full of starts and different constaletions.

“You know some of the constellations right?” Jeongguk asked as he laid on the grass with you admiring the sky. “Yeah, but not all only the basic ones,” You said getting lost in the night sky. “Follow my finger.” He said and started connecting the stars in the sky, showing you a constellation you had never seen before. “This one is named Andromeda and Perseus,” He said and continued to connect the little dots. “It's about how a mortal and a demigod fought for a beautiful princess named Andromeda, in a struggle that only ended when Perseus brandished Medusa’s head at Phineus, which turned him into a stone. Andromeda and Perseus got married and lived long lives filled with joy and love. When they died, they were placed together in the sky as eternal beacons of love and loyalty.”

He stopped talking when he noticed you were a little too quiet, when he turned his head to the side you were already looking at him, eyes full of adoration. You wanted to squish his face and kiss him at that moment right now. So you did.

Your lips crashed against his, meeting in a wet sloppy kiss. He leaned into your touch, grabbing your neck from the back and pulling you even closer. Soft whines and whimpers escaped the both of you as you laid on top of him. Straddling him you pulled away, gasping for air as your chest heaved up and down, your eyes were full of love but there was also something dark in them, lust.

You started to kiss down his neck, to his chest. Your shaky fingers started to unbutton his shirt and that's when his hand stopped yours. “Baby, what if somebody sees us?” Jeongguk said as he gently caressed your face, a sexy smirk forming on your lips as you bent down to whisper in his ear. “What Gukkie? Are you afraid of getting caught?” You said in a mocking voice and bit down on his ear a little. “You're scared about my dad finding out his daughter sucked his best friend's son's cock, hm?” You continued your little act kissing down his neck decorating it with more pink bites that will soon turn into a pretty color purple.

Jeongguk gathered all the strength he had a flipped you over so now your back was pressed against the soft grass again. His eyes were fully black, full of lust. He looked into your eyes as he asked for permission you smiled at him and pecked his lips and that's when you heard the material of your dress being torn. The now torn clothing falls next to your laying figure. Jeongguk looked at your breasts with hunger, his hands coming to touch the soft flesh through your bra. “K-Koo, please,” Jeongguk smirked at your whining, unhooking the bra and releasing your delicious tits.

Jeongguk loved them, they were soft, squishy, and big. He often caught himself staring at them when you were wearing a dress with a tight corset as they were too big for the dress, almost falling out. His head dove down into your cleavage kissing you all over. His lips wrapped around the erected bud, and he sucked. It wasn't soft, he was mercilessly suking on your nipple hard, even giving it a small bite, your back arched into his face as you moan and whimpered his name. Your hand came to his head trying to lift him since it started to hurt.

“K-Koo, please, It h-hurts.” Jeongguk’s head quickly shot up looking at you with worried eyes, he would never forgive himself if he hurt you, you were precious to him, the most beautiful flower in a garden, the prettiest star in the sky. He looked at your right breast, looking at the damage he had done.

It was covered in love bites in all shades of pink and purple. He started to shift his weight away from you but then you grabbed him by the collar. “Koo, it's fine, just go slower okay? We have all night.” You smiled at him and gave him a little kiss. You expected him to continue but instead, he picked you up carrying you back to the castle.

“Guk wha-“

“If I’m going to fuck you, it’s not gonna be on some dirty grass”

He said and continued his path to your room, the last one on the left. As quickly as the door was opened it was closed. You two were back where you left off. He grabbed your wrists in one of his hands and pinned them above your head, trapping your body between the wall and him. Then he continued kissing down your body stopping at your breasts.

He came up to you and whispered in your ear. “If you feel uncomfortable or something hurts tell me, please.” He said and continued peppering you with kisses taking his extra time now on the swollen nipple. If this was his way of apologizing you should tease him more often.

Then he came to your left breast giving it the exact treatment as the right one. Slowly he started kissing and licking down your body, leaving hickeys here and there. The hand that was holding your wrists came down to play with the band of your skirt. That was one thing he fucking hated about these royal balls, too many layers. How the fuck was he supposed to please you when your skirt had 4 layers alone. He gave two little pecks to each of your hip bones and started to undress you layer by layer. He was going painfully slow and he knew it, but he just wanted to rile you up.

The tension was getting overwhelming so you grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him down to his knees, if his smirk could grow bigger it would. Jungkook enjoyed being in control but when he was with you he couldn’t give two fucks. If you want him on his knees he’ll be kneeling for you, and only you.

“Impatient aren’t we?” He said with a deeper voice, that went straight to your core. Your thighs were rubbing with each other embarrassingly fast. His hands grabbed your thighs and separated them. Revealing your soaking, clothed cunt. He noticed the little bow on the band of your panties and gave it a little kiss. Then he began kissing you further through the underwear, the material almost transparent now. “Jeongguk, please.” You brought your clothed pussy to his face bumping his nose.

Jeongguk took that as a sign that it was enough of his teasing and tore your underwear apart. His face dove straight into your pussy giving it a long lick from your dripping hole to your puffy clit. The grip on his hair tightened and your legs weren’t able to sit straight, if you weren’t holding on to him you would probably fall.

Suddenly you felt his arms hook under your thighs lifting you so your pussy was directly in his face then he proceed to push you against the wall so there was no way of escaping. That’s when the real fun began. Both of your hands went to his head holding onto him so you didn’t fall over. ”Fuck! Jeongguk! Yes!” You almost screamed, one of your hands coming over your lips. After all, the castle wasn’t empty and there were still guests downstairs including your father.

Jeongguk’s tongue dove straight into your wet hole brushing against that spot that made you cry with pleasure. Your thighs began to shake next to his head trapping him in. Just in a matter of seconds, the most intensive wave of orgasm hit you.

Your vision went a little cloudy and you kept repeating Jeongguk’s name like a mantra. When he noticed your fucked out state he came down kneeling so you could step away from him. Your head fell on his shoulder. You two sat there in silence for a few minutes till your breathing went back to normal.

“Baby? Are you okay? Did I go too far?” You lifted your face from his shoulder your eyes meeting his worried ones. “I love you,” You said and kissed him on the lips, his lips tasted like strawberry with a hint of your cum too. Jeongguk was stunned, did you just say that you love him?! No way.

You were still in your post-orgasm bliss. But he didn't care whether you meant it or not. You still said that you loved him. He gently lifted you carrying you in bridal style to your bathroom closing the door behind him. He sat you on the edge of the tub as he turned off the faucet.

“Which one do you like?”

“Hm?”

“The bath bomb baby, which ones are your favorite?” He handed you the two bath bombs letting you choose between them. “The strawberry one” You answered staring at him as he bit through the packaging to get the bath bomb out. Soon the water was filled with bubbles and essential oils ready for you.

“I’ll be waiting outside if you need anything just call my name.” He kissed your forehead and started to walk towards the door when you stopped him. He looked at you confused thinking he must've forgotten something.

“Can you help me wash up?” You asked as you led him back to the bath. He couldn't say no, not to you. So he started to unbuttoned his pants revealing his now painfully hard dick.

“Oh”

“It's okay, we can try next time,” He said and held your hands guiding you into the bathtub. Once you both were in you leaned against his chest sighing heavily. “What?” He smiled wondering what was going on in your mind. “Nothing just, I didn't expect you to be such a romantic” You smiled to yourself remembering the story he told you about the constellation.

“You don't know a lot of things about me Y/N,” He said and squirted some of the shower gel onto the heart-shaped sponge. “Then tell me about you” You turned your head to him looking into his eyes. “Later okay? You need to relax baby” He kissed your temple and washed down your body. When the sponge brushed against your puffy pussy a little whimper escaped your lips.

You immediately covered your face, your cheeks turning a hot shade of red. Jeongguk just chuckled and continued washing you. To him, nothing was embarrassing about your reaction. After all the orgasm you had was very intense. For a moment he regretted his decision of eating you out like that. You had no escape and his tongue pumping in and out of your hole was enough to leave you sensitive for a while.

Jeongguk walked out of the bath first wrapping a towel around his waist and then helping you out. He dried you with the towel and gently massaged the strawberry-scented lotion into your body kissing the little purple marks he left. Then he brought your pajamas and went outside of the bathroom so you could dress. When you were done you looked into the mirror, you almost didn't recognize yourself. Your eyes were sparkling and your cheeks were a slight shade of pink.

You looked happy.

When you walked out of the bathroom he was already laying on the bed waiting for you to join him. You lay on the bed cuddling with him. His hand came to your back drawing circles on it, soon after you fell asleep.

Tonight was an unforgettable night.

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waltwhitmansbeard · 8 months

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could you write another why haven’t you been eating with vaxleth but it’s Vax that’s the one who hasn’t eaten and keyleth finds

43. "Why haven't you been eating?" this is set in grow with the flow! tw: depression

Vax isn't as slick as he likes to think he is. Keyleth notices when the shadows in the apartment start to coalesce, when his eyes dim in the string lights she's hung to make their tiny studio feel less like a shoebox. His smile hasn't reach his eyes in days, and she's still learning the steps to this dance, when it's okay to push and when she needs to let him come to her. She hears him talk to his sister on the phone and wonders if Vex can hear it too, the dull edge in his voice, like the script he's reading from isn't particularly interesting. They've been together long enough that Keyleth doesn't take it personally anymore, except for the gnawing guilt in the pit of her stomach that she doesn't know the right thing to say to breathe life back into him.

So on one chilly autumn night, when the sky is black as a raven's feather and the moon is swollen and bright, Keyleth slides up behind him on the bed, hooks her chin over his shoulder, and plucks the phone he's been doom-scrolling on out of his hand. She ignore his "Hey!" of protest to point past him at the dinner left untouched on the bedspread beside his knee. "Why haven't you been eating?"

His whole body tenses, so she wraps her arms around his middle. He's skinnier, she can feel it. "Not hungry."

Sometimes, this conversation can be like pulling teeth. "For four days? Because that's how long it's been since I've seen you put anything in your mouth."

"Something in particular you'd like me to put in my mouth, Kiki?" But neither of them find his joke very funny.

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" There's a long silence as he picks at the stitching in the bedspread. "It's okay if there isn't. But...I miss you. When you go away like this. And even though I know you'll come back to me, I can't help but worry in the meantime."

His body sags back into hers, just a bit, but she holds him up. "It's just...the food." He shrugs. "It tastes like ash."

She presses a kiss to the crook of his neck. "Do you think...maybe getting some help could...help?"

"Hey." He peels one of her hands from his middle and plays with her fingers. "I'm fine, really. Just...in a funk."

"I mean, I'm no expert, but when I'm in a funk, I make Tiktoks exposing my plants for being drama queens. I don't go four days without eating because food tastes like ash." She squeezes him tighter. "I don't want your world to be bland and gray. You're the brightest person I know. You deserve that light, too."

Vax sniffs once. "Yeah. I don't know. I don't want Vex to worry."

Keyleth snorts. "Too late for that, dude. She texted me an hour ago to let me know she could get black market Zoloft if we needed it. I think Percy's physically blocking the door to stop her from charging across town right this very moment."

For the first time in over a week, Vax smiles a smile that doesn't send Keyleth's heart sinking into her stomach. "Yeah, she's pretty great." He turns to look at her, and there's a warmth in his eyes that nearly brings Keyleth to tears. "So are you."

"So are you." She kisses his forehead. "If you eat your dinner, I'll let you play with my hair."

He laughs, and hope swoops fast and bright through Keyleth's chest. "You'll let me play with your hair, anyway."

"Eat, or I'm blending it into a slurry and baby birding it to you until you don't look quite so much like death."

"Rude." But he obliges her, picking up the plate of leftover pasta and popping some into his mouth. He's going to be okay, she knows that, but she's gonna be here every step of the way until she's sure, until the winter passes and spring blooms in his eyes once again.

#ask #Anonymous #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #vox machina #vox machina fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #my fic #critical role au #cr au #vox machina au #vaxleth au #grow with the flow au

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writers-requiem · 5 months

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"Unfortunate Encounter, or Fated Meeting" Jack Russell "Werewolf By Night" X GN! Reader

It was a late night and you were starting to feel adventurous. They say to never wander the streets alone at night, but you don't care. You got dressed in comfortable clothes and brought an umbrella since it was pouring buckets outside. You hated it when it was raining like this. The rain, coupled with New York traffic made it impossible to go anywhere.

Today was particularly bad since there was some damage to repair after a super powered serial killer named Cletus Kassidy, or Carnage, had wrecked everything. So the only place you could go was through downtown Manhattan. And that was your favorite route. But the more you went along that trail, the more you felt on edge. As if somebody is watching you. Like a hunter stocking their prey, and you're the prey in this case. The air started to feel tense, your heart began to beat faster, your breathing accelerated while falling out of rhythm, your face drenched in sweat and your hands shaking.

You were alone in a long, dark alleyway. Anyone could do anything to you. The thought terrified you, and you tried to get out of there. But that's when, it appeared from the darkness. It looked almost human, but with many characteristics of a wolf. A pseudo wolf snout, the nose, the pointed ears, and of course, the muscular furry body, clearly a male. It, *He* pinned you to the wall and bared his fangs at you, his vacant black eyes filled by glowing yellow pupils that gazed into your very soul. He could maul you to pieces, and you couldn't cry for help since he was covering your mouth. He leaned in closer and started whispering something into your ear.

???: "What are you doing here? You an associate of Dracula's?"

You freeze. Had you trespassed into his territory without knowing? And did he just say Dracula? He leaned in closer and started to sniff you from head to toe. All you could do is stay still, to avoid getting mauled by this guy.

???: "No blood, no ash, no dirt under your finger nails, no blood stains on your teeth. And your skin is fairly colored. I guess I had you wrong, buddy."

You cautiously looked up at him to see his expression soften into a more pleasant smile. His eyebrows furrowed upwards as if to signal a bit of guilt. He rubbed the back of his head and put a hand on your shoulder.

Jack: "Sorry about that my friend. I'm Jack by the way. Jack Russell."

You were still pretty shaken up, and he noticed. He gently takes your hands and rubs his thumbs on the back of them.

Jack: "Let's try some breathing, to calm you down."

He calmly guides you through the exercise and slowly inches you closer to him. He then gently pulls you in for a hug. He stroked the back of your head while encouraging you to keep breathing slowly. It was working, your heart rate began to settle down and your breath slowed to a calm pace. But then it began to race again. Not out of fear. But out of, excitement.

Jack: "Your heart's racing again.~"

Y/N: "Maybe this time it isn't as bad."

You pulled away while still being in his hold. You looked at him and saw those black and yellow eyes. Now they weren't as scary as before. Something oddly, familiar about them. You placed a hand on his furry cheek and he leaned into your touch while closing his eyes for a bit. You started to scratch his cheek and you heard him tapping his foot on the ground, faster and faster as you kept on scratching him.

Jack: "I may be a werewolf. But I still got the heart of a puppy dog."

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he put his hands on your waist, and without thinking on both ends, you both leaned in closer, then kissed. It was a deep, passionate kiss. Your tongues wrestled with each other, the unexpected sensation taking over both of you. It was sudden, it was, enjoyable. After about a minute, you two parted lips and realized what you just did. You just had your first romantic kiss, in the rain, in New York, with a werewolf no less.

Jack: "I think we both have the same question."

Y/N: "Indeed we do."

Both: "Wanna see where this road leads?"

Jack: "Sure, babe."

Y/N: "Of course, sweetheart."

You just hugged each other and then you walked back to your place, with you holding the umbrella over his head to keep him and you from getting wet. Today got real interesting real quick. A walk through a rainy New York turns into what could have been your final moments, only to become the day you found your soulmate. A werewolf. All you knew, was that he was the one for you. And he knows that you're the one for him.

#character x y/n #reblog friendly #fanfic #werewolf by night #Jack Russell x Reader #marvel #lgbt friendly #straight #gay #bisexual

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wildroseofarran · 3 days

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The Silent Treatment || Bretan & Olek || April, 2024

Brett: "I'm hooome," Brett announced as he walked through the front door, feeling his entire body sigh in relief as the quiet of his house settled over him. Well, the relative quiet. Woodstock was doing his usual happy song and dance to welcome him home but that wasn't a nuisance. It had been a very, very long day and hearing his dog bark in excitement was music to his ears.

"Hey, buddy." Brett scooped him up and gave him a pet, wondering why he didn't hear Bo until he remembered that his husband had texted him earlier telling him that he'd be going out. "Guess it's just us. You hungry? Where's your brother?" Brett looked around. "Oleeeeek. I brought tunaaaaaa."

Olek: A series of chirps and trills started from the top of the stairs, bouncing gently with every step until reaching the first floor, where a tortoiseshell cat stretched its long legs and yawned, showing off his perfect pearly fangs.

A proper greeting this time in the tone of "Brrrr?" as he trotted over to the ghoul and pretended to use his leg as a scratching post. A little game he played. No claws today.

Brett: Like with Woodstock's barking, there was an instant ridiculous smile on Brett's face the moment he heard that first little chirp. This right here was his reward for the day he'd had.

"Awwww, big yawn," he chuckled, switching the shopping bags he was carrying over to the hand that was still holding Woodstock so he could scratch Olek's head. "Hey, fluffy baby. Did you have a good day? Lots of napping?" His arms were already full but he didn't care; the cat was being scooped up, too.

Olek: Purrect. Maybe someone would find it odd that a cat would hug a human's neck, but not in this house. Quite normal for both Bo and Brett to receive such affection. Same with the curious sniffs at his hair, his face, and when he had the opportunity, his hands.

Brett: There would be plenty of interesting things to smell on Brett today, but almost none of them were particularly pleasant. Aside from the usual scents of his body products and the station and his car, there was sweat, alcohol, car exhaust, and body odor that did not belong to him.

“Ya’ll wouldn’t believe the day I had,” he sighed, nuzzling into Olek and Woodstock’s fur as he carried them to the kitchen. “Lady almost caused a traffic accident because she was texting and ran a light and then tried to argue with me about it when I pulled her over. Oh, and that was after I actually managed to pull her over. She almost took me on a high-speed chase. Why are tourists like that?”

Olek: Well, that sounded terrible and exciting! Better than the scent of ash stuck to his skin after being in the presence of his domitor. The poor man seemed to only have a break at home. Time for some heavy-duty nuzzles to wipe the day from his skin and clothes.

Brett: Only around his animals did Brett feel comfortable enough to giggle, and aggressive cat nuzzles always got him.

“Awwww, thank you, honey.” He kissed Olek’s head and set the bags on the counter and him and Woodstock on the floor.

“I’m gonna go shower and then we’re gonna make some dinner, okay? And we’re not gonna tell Bo about the fresh tuna or the chicken I’m gonna make ya’ll. It’ll be our secret.”

Olek: Fresh?! Not from a can?! Bo's journal had called Olek his familiar - November 2010 - and some days there was no mistaking his awareness. His noises were long and grateful, circling Brett's leg quite recklessly.

Brett: “Oh my goodness!” Brett carefully walked over to the fridge to put everything away, making sure he didn’t one, trip or two, accidentally step on Olek. “Are you so happy, honey? Are you a happy fluffy boy? Watch your feet.”

He was almost certain that if he could’ve, Olek would open the fridge and help himself. His lack of thumbs was all that stood between him and being a little menace.

“I’ll slice it up for you as soon as I’m done, okay? You be good and wait for me.”

Olek: Fine, fine. He would sit on his hunches and wait.

Little did Brett seem to realize, that was exactly what happened when there was no one to entertain him but Woodstock. The many nights when leftovers would go missing, furniture shifted, and Bo's clothes out of order, it had been none other.

They both seemed to have forgotten what he was.

As often as he thought about revealing himself to Brett, asking politely for his aid in breaking his curse, he thought just as often what a terrible idea that was. He'd heard every story of every unsavory incident in his absence. Really, did he want the ghoul to faint? Absolutely not!

So, there he sat, eying the fridge and... maybe he could just... no, no. He'd wait.

Brett: Showering, like coming home and loving on his animals, was always a balm after a hard day. It was one of those comforting little rituals that always seemed to help no matter how he was feeling or how long he spent actually doing it. Feeling better started with feeling clean.

He was gone just shy of fifteen minutes and returned smelling like himself, which was exactly how things should be. “Okay, I’m back. Thank you for being a good, patient boy.”

As he set about getting everything to prep for dinner, he continued telling Olek and Woodstock about his day.

“So after the texting lady, I got called down to the docks because those kids that’ve been sneaking onto people’s boats to party finally got caught. One of them got too drunk and ended up passing out. Owner of the boat found him this morning with his pants half off and sharpie all over his face, snoring away. His friends drew dicks on him while he slept.”

Olek: Woodstock was a bit oblivious to what was being said, but enjoyed the sound of his master's voice. It was Olek who climbed onto the bar stool across from the ghoul and sat handsomely, watching intently as Brett talked about his day. Not the first, and guaranteed not his last.

His eyes softly blinked. He chattered his pleasure at the story and placed his paw on the table. Just testing the waters.

Brett: Brett couldn’t help but smile at the cat. Sweet boy. He always listened so patiently to all of Brett’s rambling, as if he really understood everything Brett was saying.

Granted, he was a magical cat so maybe he actually could. But without the ability Brett had once had to communicate with animals, he’d never know for sure.

The ghoul took that little paw in his hands and gently squished each tiny toe bean in turn. Truthfully, he was kind of grateful he couldn’t talk to Olek. Better to assume that the cat didn’t mind listening than to potentially be asked to quit his yapping all the time.

“Should’ve seen his parents, they were mortified. They’re gonna let him stew in a holding cell for a couple days to teach him a lesson. Hopefully it sticks. Oh, and that meth head is back. Again.”

Brett sighed and went to grab the tuna from the fridge.

“I got the pleasure of helping Peabody chase him down. Guy smelled like he hadn’t showered since Christmas.”

Olek: Brett gave the best massages. Bo avoided him most days, looking at him with eyes most hurtful, confused. The days he did receive attention, it was when the mage was half asleep. Scratches behind his ear, just as he used to.

"Ech," said Olek. That didn't sound pleasant at all.

Brett: “Yep, exactly. It’s just my bad luck that we got the call about him right after we’d had lunch. I almost saw it again.”

Brett shook his head. That particular little scene had all but drained him, literally and figuratively. He would’ve stopped at Guildias’ to fill his tank, so to speak, but his domitor was busy. It would be another day or two before he could top up.

“Peabody hosed him down before we brought him into the station. I swear that water ran brown.” Another shake of his head. “Maybe being roommates with him in holding will scare that kid straight.”

He considered the tuna for a moment before deciding how he wanted to cut it. Sashimi? Yeah, he’d go with that.

Olek: His other paw joined the first. He stretched again. Sleeping sixteen hours a day requires a significant wake-up period. Another yawn and a vigorous shake of his head.

Ah, but what was Brett doing now? He'd stretch his back legs while he watched, trying not to imagine brown water while he enjoyed the scent of tuna.

Brett: “I should tell whoever is on duty to febreeze the car and let it air out overnight so it doesn’t smell for the next six months. County isn’t about to give us the money to have it professionally cleaned.” Even though all the squad cars could certainly use it. God knew B.O. wasn’t the worst thing that seeped into those seats.

“Actually, I think Peabody might still be at the station. He wanted to pull some overtime since he’s saving for his—ow, fuck! Dammit, Brett.”

He’d gotten distracted. He was too busy talking and thinking about the day and not paying enough attention to what he was doing. He’d sliced his hand right open.

He set the knife aside and tried not to drip blood in the floor as he turned to run his hand under the sink.

Olek: Wasn't the first time the sheriff had cut himself while talking. He was a sweet man, but sometimes as clumsy as children. Not all children. One came to mind that was only reckless with spellcasting.

But, he didn't dwell. He was sitting up, craning his head for a better view of the ghoul's injury. How bad was it this time?

Brett: “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m okay,” Brett said soothingly to Woodstock, who was making that little whining noise he made whenever he sensed his owner was in distress.

The ghoul looked over at the cutting board, relieved to see that none of his blood had gotten on Olek’s dinner. At least something had gone right today.

Without thinking, Brett shut the water off and grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands. “I’ll get your chicken going as soon as I’m done with the fish. Actually, you know what?” No harm in putting the water on now. It would take a bit to boil anyway.

But as Brett reached to open the cabinet for a pot, he froze.

Olek: Woodstock whined for many reasons. He was a rather anxious little fellow, but the scent of blood gripped the cat's attention, watching just as intently as the previous conversation. No chirps or trills, just waiting.

The scent had yet to dissipate, and that was... new.

Brett: Brett was staring at his outstretched hand as if in a daze, heartbeat quickening and chest tightening.

Over the years he’d become accustomed to shrugging off minor injuries. Bumps and bruises seemed to practically heal themselves with very little effort on his part and normally, something as simple as a cut would’ve begun to heal before he’d even managed to turn the sink on.

But that could only happen if he’d been fed recently, or if he hadn’t been using his abilities.

The day he’d been telling Olek about had drained him. Quite literally. It had taken a great amount of strength and effort to wrangle the meth head, even with Peabody’s help. The chase had left Brett exhausted and without the ability to heal himself as he usually did.

The cut on his hand had remained open and, having been deeper than he’d first thought, was now steadily bleeding.

Onto the floor and onto his skin.

It was the stomach-churning sensation of it running across his hand that had Brett snapping out of it and bolting for the sink again, desperately scrubbing at his hand under the full blast of the tap turned as hot as it could go.

Olek: This wasn't normal. He knew normal, having lived under their collective roofs and seen Brett nearly every single day for years. He would wince, cringe at the sight of blood, and heal himself. It was the way of things, and yet blood stained the immaculate floor like sloppy drippings of chartreuse paint. He didn't have to know its true color to recognize the scent.

Brett could walk himself to the car and drive to the hospital, but he wasn't. He was no different than an anxious child on the verge of tears.

That's right... he was afraid of blood now. A story he had not witnessed. Something about Woodstock? A vampire? Something, he forgot.

If ever there was a time to be helpful before the ghoul scraped skin away in desperation.

His transformation was slow. It had been some weeks since he had snuck out of the house, exploring Edenton in human form. Precious time to allow his limbs to elongate, his fur to recede. Brett was too busy to notice a man of over 6 feet, in linin trousers, V-neck shirt, long cardigan and scarf manifest just feet away.

"Brett," came a gently warm, soothing voice.

Brett: In truth, Brett wouldn’t have noticed if god had descended from heaven and appeared in the kitchen. All he could see, all he could focus on, was the hot water washing over the cut on his hand.

What blood there had been had quickly been rinsed away but Brett could still see and feel it. His hand wasn’t clean. It wouldn’t be clean until the cut had healed but maybe if he scrubbed a little harder and maybe if the water was a little bit hotter, it would be. He had to try. He had to be clean.

He heard his name, or thought he did, but it sounded very far away. It was probably his imagination. Like the hearts on the tile. Like the scent of lavender.

He reached for the dish sponge so he could scrub harder and didn’t realize his vision had blurred because of the tears in his eyes.

Olek: His name wasn't enough to interrupt the panic stinging his eyes and trembling his hands.

Human form had been avoided in Brett's presence for this very reason. He was a capable ghoul, a good husband, a man of strong morals suitable for his profession, but an innocent flighty creature.

"Brett," he said again, more firmly to be heard above the faucet. "Look at - Look at Olek, please."

Swift thinking, he held his hands up, elbows to his ribs, submissive and unarmed, for the sheriff's peace of mind.

Brett: It wasn’t his name but his cat’s that finally got Brett’s attention and made him look away from the sink, though what he saw did nothing to calm to his panic.

What it did do was make him freeze again.

A man—a man he did not recognize—was standing with him in the kitchen. He must have been he one that had spoken, and somehow knew both his name and Olek’s.

Brett’s teary gaze searched this stranger’s face first with trepidation, and then with confusion. A question was beginning to penetrate through the haze.

Why wasn’t Woodstock barking at this stranger?

Olek: At least he wasn't screaming. That was progress! The familiar did his best to keep his expression gentle, his voice calm and his movements fluid.

"Good. Yes." Fingertips softly tapped over his heart. "Olek. I'm... I'm Olek. Yes." The simpler he kept his words, the easier, he assumed, it would be to wade through his anxiety.

He then pointed to the ghoul's hand.

"I... help?"

Brett: …Olek? The stranger was Olek?

Brett peered around the stranger at the barstool where Olek had been sitting while he’d cut his tuna. It was empty.

He looked down at the floor, but all he saw was Woodstock sitting at his feet, still making his anxious little noises and ignoring the man completely. There was no cat in sight.

His mind wasn’t exactly cooperating at the moment but…he couldn’t seem to find a reason to doubt what he was being told.

He gave a cautious nod.

Olek: Strands of blond, brown, and black were combed back from his eyes. He took a cautious step closer, then another. Eventually, he cupped his hands in offer.

With his aversion to red, he assumed Brett would look away. He didn't have to wonder what the color really looked like. He had an assumption in his dreams. Not at all his lovely blues and greens.

He remembered when Bo was a teenager, what helped him, and took a slow breath.

"Mama said there'll be days like this, there'll be days like this, Mama said..."

Not full voice. One could barely call it singing, just above a whisper. His attempt at keeping the atmosphere light, as he pressed his thumb against the wound. First, to stop the bleeding, and then with a sympathetic wince, he pressed harder, numbing the area.

"Mama said there'll be days like this..."

Brett: Was this all just his imagination? Brett couldn’t help but wonder as he held out his hand to this man that wasn’t a man but actually his cat.

Even though his hand was starting to bleed again, Brett didn’t panic or become fixated on it again. He was too busy staring at the man’s face. It would’ve been more than enough distraction even before he started to sing.

His voice was nice. Gentle. And it gave such a surreality to the situation that it was actually keeping him grounded while his wound was taken care of.

Was this really Olek? Could Olek turn into a human because he was a magic cat? Had he been able to do it this whole time? Why hadn’t Brett seen him like this before?

So many questions to keep him calm and distracted.

Olek: There was the bleeding, and his hand should have been sufficiently numb, as if circulation had been cut for a few minutes. A temporary fix as he continued. This would have been over sooner had he put his mouth to the wound, but intuition told him not to dare attempt with a ghoul, so instead, he pinched. Pinch and mend, pinch and mend.

"Olek - I thought you were going to faint." Not just now, but seeing him... ever.

Brown-green eyes looked up from the wound, and his smile easily reached them.

Back to singing.

Brett: The numbness almost tempted him to look down at his hand but he didn’t dare. He knew better than to push himself when he didn’t need pushing.

It was enough to know that Olek was helping him.

Brett nodded. That was a fair assumption to make. He still could, but he didn’t think he would. He didn’t feel like he was in danger or anything.

“Why…” He swallowed. “Why haven’t…?”

Olek: The inevitable question. They would work through it slowly, like this wound. He took a deep breath from his nose, and kept his smile on his features.

"Because I didn't want to scare you."

Brett: He frowned. “Then…why didn’t Bo tell me?”

Olek: "He did."

Brett: “He did?” Had Brett forgotten? No, that was impossible. He’d remember being told their cat could turn into a person, wouldn’t he? But maybe…

Olek: "He said, 'Look, Olek is familiar,'" he pointed to an invisible book, flipped a nonexistent page.

Brett: “Fam—ohhh.” Olek was right. Bo had told him about Olek being a familiar after finding that information in his diary but until now, it hadn’t occurred to Brett to wonder what that actually meant.

Magic cat didn’t just mean magic cat; it apparently meant a magic cat who could turn into a person.

“Wait, then do you…turn into a person…around Bo?”

Olek: The familiar shook his head.

"All better. Olek clean. Don't look."

Brett: Brett didn’t need to be told twice. He closed his eyes and covered them with his other hand for good measure.

Olek: There he was, moving about the house as a part of it. Wetting paper towel and setting to work on the floor, another for the counter while he hummed.

"Better?" not physically, of course. He knew as much. No more tears?

Brett: Even after Olek spoke again, it was still another couple of seconds before Brett worked up the nerve to open his eyes.

They were, in fact, free of tears and a little clearer. Not as panicked.

He nodded. “I’m okay. Thank you.”

Olek: Olek's smile immediately ached with its intensity. "Good." The stained paper towels were shoved all the way down to the bottom of the trash bag. Out of sight out of mind.

"You need practice."

Brett: Was this really his cat? Brett had no reason to doubt it but it was still so surreal. He’d seen magic before but this was different.

Magic didn’t usually put an entire person in front of him.

“Practice?”

Olek: "Mm. No more fear. No crying. Why didn't you heal? The color?"

Brett: “Oh. Um…” Brett subconsciously rubbed at his freshly healed hand.

“I’m low on uh…I think I used my abilities too much today and I need to go see…”

Olek: "Oh." He didn't know how to feel about Brett's circumstances. Reminded him too much of Bo's predicament, and everything that followed. His master must have really changed to allow this relationship to flourish. Good? Bad? It wasn't that simple.

"I... should have..." he gestured to his face, "...sooner."

Brett: He’d never thought about disappointing his cat, and he really hoped that having to give that answer hadn’t done it.

Brett shook his head. “No, please don’t be sorry. You couldn’t have guessed how I’d react. Expecting me to faint was a fair assumption to make.”

Olek: At least he took it in stride. That made him laugh, light and bubbly.

Brett: Brett couldn’t have fought his smile if he’d wanted to. Olek’s laugh was so cute. It made him want to—

His eyes widened.

How often did he kiss and cuddle Olek? How many times had he done it today alone? There wasn’t a day that went by without Brett babying him and now—

“Does—does it bother you how affectionate I am? I’m so sorry if it’s ever made you feel uncomfortable.”

Olek: Brett's widening eyes widened his own, though not with worry, but playfully mirroring his expression, smile still warm on his features.

"If I didn't want it, you'd know." Playfully, he swiped a manicured hand over Brett's chest.

Brett: Yes, he supposed that was true. Olek had never been shy about letting them know when he didn’t like something. Still, he didn’t quite know how to feel now that he’d seen Olek’s human face.

Would it bother Bo? He’d never said anything but…

“Oh god, you’ve seen—” Everything. Olek had seen absolutely everything.

Olek: Fingers came up to his lips, trying his best not to laugh, and failing gloriously. It was nice seeing Brett like this. Better than what was happening minutes ago. This was much better.

"Your secret's safe with me. All of them."

Brett: “Oh god,” Brett repeated, chucking helplessly as he covered his quickly reddening face with his hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He wouldn’t be stepping out of the bathroom without wearing at least a towel from now on. Olek didn’t need to see all that.

Olek: Maybe Brett needed a little reminder that it really was alright, and the man before him really was just as accepting as the cat he had known. He reached out, wrapping long pale fingers around Brett's wrists, bringing them away just far enough to press a warm kiss between his eyes. A gesture so often done with nuzzles and licks just yesterday. Feel familiar?

Brett: If he needed any more evidence that the man before him really was Olek, how okay Brett was being touched by him proved it beyond all doubt. This man who didn’t like to be touched by anyone but his nearest and dearest didn’t feel the slightest unease or discomfort being touched and kissed by Olek.

Why should he when Olek gave him kisses just like that one all the time?

Brett smiled as some of his shyness dissipated. Very familiar indeed. “You know, I was really happy the first time you did that. It felt like you’d finally accepted me.”

Olek: "You treat my master so well." His voice was nothing more than a whisper. Their conversation was private. Not even for Woodstock's oblivious ears. "You're not a mage, but you're mine, too."

A glance was given to the clock stove, to the tuna forgotten on the counter.

"He'll be home, soon."

Brett: “I try my best.” Hearing that had warmth blooming in Brett’s chest. It was nice to hear someone he loved laying claim to him in such a gentle way.

“You better eat that tuna before I get scolded for spoiling you. Unless…do you not want to see Bo in this form?”

Olek: And, there it was. Did they have time to talk about this? He looked at the clock again. His chest caved with an exhale.

"I can't."

Brett: “You can’t? Are you not allowed to?”

Olek: Thank his lucky stars this wasn't a curse he couldn't discuss. Those were far too common!

But, he needed to be comfortable talking about this, so he took to the counter and crossed his legs.

"When he left," he gestured long ago, "Ol - I said to him, don't go. Bad feeling," he patted his stomach. The more he spoke, the more his amalgamation accent came shining through. "He said I was paranoid, emotional. I said he never listen to me, and called him hjerteløs. We wouldn't take back words. I said 'Olek's not speaking to you until you apologize!' and then, he said 'never!' and we curse," he pointed between himself and the door, where Bo would eventually return.

"And then he didn't come home. And he... didn't come home. And then he comes home and he's... not... him."

Brett: Brett’s heart broke a little more with every word Olek spoke, for both him and Bo. To think that Olek had correctly sensed something would happen. To think that maybe if Bo had listened then none of what he’d gone through would’ve happened.

It was a nightmare that never seemed to end, even when they thought it had. Poor Olek had never even gotten that small comfort.

The height of the counter wouldn’t deter Brett from hugging the man sitting on it. He was tall enough to reach and glad for it.

Olek: He saw just in time to uncross his legs. Coming from the ghoul, he knew this sympathy to be genuine. His back hunched, arms draped over Brett's shoulders. With the weight of his cheek buried in his hair, he closed his eyes. He felt he should be comforting him, not the other way around, so he did.

"It's all right. I thought... I thought one day, he would remember. It's... boring, waiting. But... I thought you'd be scared."

Brett: Brett didn’t know what it said about him that feeling blood on his skin scared him far more than seeing a cat turn into a man. Probably that he’d seen too much.

“I think we’ve all hoped that he would, someday,” he said softly, rubbing Olek’s back. “But I think, at this point, we have to make peace with the fact that those memories are gone. Who Bo used to be doesn’t exist anymore. There’s only the man he is now.”

He sighed and hugged Olek a little tighter. “Would you like me to talk to him? To tell him what you just told me and that I saw you in this form?”

Olek: That was a statement he'd never heard before. Eight years, and he had missed the part where someone had said that. The curse was broken, but that didn't mean his memories weren't in a jar somewhere they could break. Maybe they were, but no one was looking. Maybe.

But this Bo... didn't know him at all.

"I first saw him when he was nine. He was crying. I thought, that's too young to be so lonely. So, I waited. It didn't get any better. He's still... " my boy.

He nuzzled into Brett's hair, if only to prevent tears.

"Ok," he said wetly, "Yes."

Brett: If there was a jar, it was probably Bo’s journals. They were all his husband had of his old life. His old memories.

But Brett was certain that if a way did exist for Bo to recover everything he’d lost, that Bo would either find it or find someone who could.

Brett’s heart broke again for that lonely little boy.

He nodded. “He’s still that kid to you, right? You see him and see your Bo.”

Subconsciously, Brett had begun swaying back and forth ever so gently, almost rocking Olek. “I’ll help you get him back. I promise.”

Olek: All this time, at least Bo had someone to hold him, to take his hand when he wanted to throw something, to weigh him down against sleepwalking. To be there when he couldn't with hands and voice and power.

He was nigh immortal. He would continue on long after Bo's death, but he had missed eight years of conversations, of usefulness. It had been fine, under the assumption one day Bo would remember the man on the train. He didn't have every ounce of information. Now he had a little more, and it stung.

"He's my boy," he agreed, forcing himself to sit up. "But he's not a child. He's my favorite person. I can tell him everything, but... he won't want it."

Brett: “No, he’s not a child. But accepting you, accepting this?” He gestured at Olek. “Means getting another piece of himself back. He’s a smart man. Even when his anger gets the best of him he can still think. You owe it to yourself to try. And I owe it to you, too.”

Olek: "You owe me?"

Brett: Brett nodded. “For taking care of the person I love most. For never giving up on him. For listening to me ramble every day. For putting up with me.”

Olek: He was shaking his head before he finished. "Olek doesn't put up with you," he said without hesitation, without thinking, even. "Olek loves you."

Brett: Olek was getting another hug. An even tighter one this time.

“I love you, too, fluffy baby.”

Olek: The familiar snorted, and buried his face in Brett's hair again to bury some of his laughter. Hearing that in human form was even sweeter. Maybe Brett wasn't thinking, either.

Brett: Brett definitely wasn’t. But even if he was thinking, he’d have done the same thing. ‘Fluffy baby’ was Olek’s nickname regardless of what form he was in.

“Go on and eat your tuna. Bo will be back any minute.”

Olek: Eating in this form was a luxury these days. The only money still in his pocket were kroner. He hadn't studied every intricate detail of American dollars to perfectly conjure, yet.

He took a piece of tuna between his fingers and tilted his head back. Perfect flavor.

"My favorite," he sighed. Bliss. "Bowls of rice and fish and fish eggs. Nothing better."

Brett: Brett made a mental note of that. If at all possible, he wanted Olek to be able to have his favorite meal as often as he could.

That heavily depended on whether Brett would be able to get through to Bo, but he refused to be pessimistic about that.

“I’ll get you some fresh fish more often. Would be a shame to live in a fishing town and only have access to the canned stuff.”

Olek: "I've done," what was the word? "...gateforestilling downtown." He felt in his pocket, pulling out a small wad of wrinkled kroner, dropped on the counter. "When I want another taste, or bored," he smiled.

The front door rattled, buttons pushed and a woman's voice announcing Bo's entrance. A smart house, just like the last, and the last Brett would see of Olek as he immediately shrank, dropping the last piece of tuna he had pinched in his fingers.

And just like that, the forest cat was sprinting upstairs.

Brett: “Do you—” Before Brett could get the question out, the electronic lock was heralding Bo’s arrival and Olek was gone. He’d moved so fast that Brett half expected him to leave a little cloud of dust behind.

“Hey baby,” Brett called to his husband, shoving the money in his pocket and tossing the last little bit of tuna to Woodstock.

Bo: Keys and wallet were tossed in the black bowl near the door. Shoes softly clacked from the floor to the white rug, to the kitchen limestone. Today was a suit. Already adjusting his tie when he laid eyes on his husband.

A cursory glance later, "Busy day?" barely a questioning inflection.

Brett: Brett was smiling before Bo even walked into the kitchen. His mage looked like a million bucks, but then he always did. “Very busy and very tiring. One stupid thing after another. Yours?”

Bo: "I paid your vampire a visit." He had kept this secret under his tongue for weeks. Was high time to explain. "Invested in his business." And exchanged points of interest. "We've had a conversation about his situation, yours, mine. The town is continuing to grow. Touching base was necessary."

Brett: Brett blinked at his husband. "You did? When?" It couldn't have been today, Guildias had said he was busy. Or maybe what he had been busy with was this meeting with Bo? Although if that was the case, wouldn't he have told Brett?

Whatever the case, this certainly wasn't information he expected to be getting today. He didn't quite know how to feel about it.

"Did it go...well?"

Bo: His tie was pulled away entirely, folded, and placed on the kitchen counter. He could smell seafood but didn't see seafood. Where was his cat?

"Of course." He wasn't the tongueless child Guildias had met years ago. When he spoke, it was with authority now.

"You look tired."

Brett: It didn't go unnoticed that Bo had only answered one of his questions, but given what was in Brett's plans, he didn't think it would be wise to push. Besides, asking when Bo had gone to see Guildias was only for his own curiosity.

Brett nodded. "I am. It was a very long, very chaotic day. What would you like for dinner?"

Bo: Something comforting, he thought. What was the most comforting thing Brett could make?

"Soup and sandwich." By sandwich, he meant open-faced, filled to capacity with just about anything and everything from the fridge. He couldn't remember the details of Norwegian childhood, but certainly the cuisine still resonated.

"Are you going to tell me about your day?"

Brett: “Coming right up,” he said with a smile. “Is potato and leek soup okay?” As for the sandwich, Bo would be offered a choice between rye and whole wheat bread.

He nodded. “Which part do you want to hear about first? Speeding lady, meth head, or the teenager who woke up with penises drawn all over his face?”

Bo: "All in one day?" The city really was growing. Or deteriorating. He didn't know which. Probably both. Growth and deterioration were probably bedfellows.

He took to the stool nearest his husband.

"Did anyone hurt you?"

Brett: “Yep, alllll in one day. Started the day with the speeding lady.” He shook his head. “Tourists.”

Time to wash and chop vegetables for soup.

“Nope, no one hurt me. Not even the meth head, although it helped that Peabody and I went after him together. We got worn out but there were no injuries. Unless you count having to smell the guy on the drive back to the station.”

Bo: Bo nodded once, satisfied to know Brett hadn't needed to heal and conceal an injury before his return. Wouldn't have been the first time, but now he was in the habit of asking.

"I don't miss the station," was a lie.

Brett: “The station sure misses you,” Brett said with a grin, paying closer attention to the knife in his hand this time. He didn’t want a repeat of a little while ago.

“Two people in particular.”

Bo: "There's only two people ever there," he smirked.

Brett: Brett beamed at his husband. “And they both miss you a whole awful lot. Come and have lunch with me tomorrow. I don’t have to go out on patrol.”

Bo: "Fine," he said, softly. The station was generally avoided these days for no other reason than memories. A rare precious thing, but he didn't appreciate the man he was when riddled with a killing curse.

You're the only reason I'm here, he thought.

"Do you need me?" in the kitchen.

Brett: He shook his head. “Go and shower and get changed. Dinner won’t be long, I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”

Bo: Back from the stool, then, taking his tie with a heavy hand.

"I have something I want to discuss after dinner. Ideas for the house. Spells," he said, disappearing from view for the stairs.

"God ettermiddag, Olek," heard seconds later.

Brett: “Okay, we’ll do that. I’ve got something to talk to you about, too.”

The greeting to Olek made Brett smile. With any luck, Bo’s relationship with his familiar could be fully repaired and they’d have the comfort of their bond in its entirety. He wanted that for both of them so much.

Bo/Olek: Brett’s statement followed him up the stairs and to the shower. Olek leapt from his arms onto the tightly made bed of black and white, turned three times, and collapsed with a familiar comforting chirp.

The Etherite stared, wondering why, if what he had written was true, he had only mentioned Olek once in his journal. He stared, and the cat stared back.

His shower was long and searing. His thoughts were static and independent.

"What did you want to talk about?" Bo called from the top of the stairs.

Brett: When Bo returned, soup was simmering on the stove and the fridge was being raided for sandwich ingredients.

There had been basically no time between his conversation with Olek and Bo coming home, so Brett had barely had any time at all to think about how he was going to broach the subject. But maybe that was a good thing. It left less room for overthinking and worrying.

Sincerity was the only viable way forward. Sincerity and optimism.

Brett looked toward the stairs when he heard his husband’s voice and smiled, taking a deep breath.

“Olek,” he said simply. “I talked to him today.”

Bo: "You talk to him every day."

Bo turned the corner in black silk pajamas, hair still damp and nearly reaching his eyebrows. He was well overdue for a haircut.

Brett: He nodded. “I do, yeah. And usually when I talk to him, he’s a cat. Today was different.”

His voice was level, his demeanor calm. They could’ve been talking about absolutely anything.

“Today when I was talking to him, he turned into a person.”

Bo: A lot was going on behind Bo's stillness. The kind of stillness that usually followed deadpan seething and perhaps something broken. Words behind teeth when dealing with the unenlightened. Brett was neither an annoyance nor ignorant. The stillness was for himself, because what followed Brett's words was... nothing. Not a single tickle in his ear canal.

His husband wasn't lying.

"That's ridiculous," he heard himself say anyway. "He's never..."

Brett: Brett was braced for anger. For confusion. For flat out denial. He was ready for whatever his husband’s reaction might be and intended to meet it head on.

He nodded. “I was surprised, too. I almost couldn’t believe it until he reminded me he was a familiar. Makes sense that a magic cat can turn into a person.”

There were times when Brett let his voice become soothing and gentle to comfort Bo but this wasn’t the situation for that. It was liable to make it worse.

In cases like these, he made sure to speak calmly and rationally and answer every single question he was asked clearly because that was what his husband required to process things.

“I know he hasn’t. I asked him why he’d never shown himself as a person to me and he told me it was because he didn’t want to scare me. I also asked him if he’d ever shown himself to you and he told me he hadn’t since you’d reunited with him because he can’t.”

If given the go ahead to explain, Brett would repeat the story that Olek had told him about his last conversation with Bo.

Bo: What made anything out of Brett's mouth from this moment forward complicated was hearsay. He was telling the truth, his truth. It could have been a lie, but it wasn't in his belief, so what was Bo supposed to do with that?

How could he feel sorry for something he couldn't remember? He didn't possess that amount of sincerity for anyone.

His eyes closed. And then, a scoff.

"When we weren't around... he could have written a note. He could have said something in the fucking door cam if he really wanted. And I'm supposed to - I'm supposed to believe that?"

Brett: “I don’t know if the door cam would be a viable option since he can’t show himself to you, but if he did write you a note, would you believe it?”

Without his memories, Bo had absolutely no reason to believe Olek’s story. All they had to pin their hopes on was whether he’d believe and listen to Brett, and there were no guarantees there.

“If I asked him to write you a letter or I don’t know…recorded his voice so you could hear his explanation from him, would you be willing to listen?”

Bo: Bo held his hands out. The typical stop signal when teetering on a razor's edge. He leaned himself against the wall, staring at the floor. It wasn't Brett. No... No anger with his husband.

It was that small part of himself that refused to believe he had cursed someone unintentionally. Or it had been intentional, and then, what happened to him days later...

That small part was metastasizing rapidly.

"How many people can lie to you. To you?"

Brett: Brett nodded and stopped. He was pushing it. He could practically feel that he was pushing it. The fact that he’d managed to relay Olek’s entire story was already a major accomplishment, and he was grateful to have done that much at least.

The rest was in Bo’s hands.

“Not very many,” Brett said quietly. “I’m a cop. I’m a ghoul. It’s hard for an average human to lie to me but I’m not infallible. Someone who really knows what they’re doing could get one over on me.”

Bo: "Does it sound..." He couldn't ask that. He couldn't ask if it sounded like something he would have done. With the first uttered words, reality came down heavy on his shoulders, visibly sagging.

Brett: He didn’t know what Bo had been about to ask, but he could guess.

Does it sound like something I would’ve done?

Brett went around the counter to stand before his husband, close enough to offer comfort and touch should Bo desire it.

“Do you remember what I used to tell you on days when your curse really got to you or you had an outburst?”

Bo: The duel of his personality, wanting to swat Brett away, while reaching out to press the tip of his fingers against his husband's chest. Not a push, but to feel his strength. His pillar.

He shook his head. In this moment, he couldn't recall anything in his attempt to imagine what Olek looked like on two legs.

Brett: “The person you used to be isn’t the person you are now.”

Brett wanted so badly to pull his mage into his arms, to soothe and comfort him, but he’d never given in to the impulse before and he wouldn’t now. Bo needed a pillar so an immovable pillar he would be.

“Even if you had all your memories, you still wouldn’t be the same person. The big, awful things that happen to us shape us but the little mundane things do too.”

Bo: "You've heard every journal. How can you say that? I've always had big, awful things. This is the longest I've not been... used, or cursed, or..."

Brett: “You’ve always had the little mundane ones, too. And I’d be willing to bet that Olek was the source of a lot of them before you met me. The big, awful things aren’t all that you are, Bo.”

Bo: "You want that?" he whispered. The way Brett made it sound, Olek... was his Brett. Was he that selfless?

Brett: “I just…don’t want you to close the door on potentially getting back someone who’s cared about you and loved you for so much of your life and hasn’t stopped. I understand that it’s hard to apologize for something that you don’t remember, and you don’t have to make a decision right this second, but I think you should really think about it.”

Brett gave his husband an eternally soft smile. “I want you to have all the love you possibly can.”

Bo: Pressed fingers slid down Brett's chest, reaching out for his hand to grasp. If it was a desperate hold he wouldn't admit it.

And neither of them knew, upstairs, sitting on the top step, was a man-shaped familiar, elbows on his knees, picking at his thumbnail with his teeth.

"What does he look like? I'm not - I'm not apologizing to a cat face." He wanted to picture a human face.

Brett: Bo would easily find his husband’s hand, warm and strong and ready to hold his, just like always.

“Tall,” was the first thing that came to mind as Brett recalled Olek’s appearance. “Over six feet. Pale. His eyes are brown with a little bit of green. Hair’s dark and longer than both of ours, and there’s some lighter brown and blond in it. He has a sweet face. Sweet smile.”

Bo: "You like him," wasn't a question. Brett wouldn't regard anyone as fondly without merit. Bo was obligated to thank him, no matter anything else. The familiar had been there in his absence. He could only imagine the state he would have found Brett in without his assistance. Another peek into the familiar he had known and possibly loved.

Fingers curled tightly.

"I'm going upstairs."

Brett: “I do.” It was Olek. How could Brett not like him?

He nodded and gave the briefest kiss to Bo’s hand. “Okay, baby. Dinner’s almost done. Want me to bring you a tray or call you when it’s ready? Whatever you want.”

Bo: "I'll be back." Appearing upstairs or calling had the potential to break his concentration. He had no idea how long it would take for him to face the familiar. He couldn't pretend this wasn't his fault. The longer he dwelled on the number of years under a curse compared to his own, the heavier the guilt burdened his shoulders. His death curse had lasted just over a year. The familiar's burden had lingered since May of the same year.

Every emotion swelled with every step to the second floor. There at the top of the stairs was his cat. A hundred questions accumulated. Why hadn't he tried to write a letter? Why hadn't he tried for Brett sooner? Caution, Brett had explained. His husband wasn't that skittish. Why didn't Olek lock him in that day, and spared them both this pain?

Was it pain? Was that the ache in his chest? No, it was anger. Or both. Many days he went without knowing the difference between hurt and rage. What had his familiar ever done to help? Why did he omit him from the pages of his journal?

Instinct told him protection. Not once did he write about Brett. Not his progress, not his love and care and therapy. In case someone were to read about him. The pages were selfish, possessive, loving.

The forest cat followed behind his retreating figure. Brett would hear the master bedroom door slide shut. Left unlocked.

Minutes passed in silence stretching beyond an hour. And then a crash.

Brett: Respecting Bo’s wishes, Brett remained downstairs and finished preparing dinner while his husband took what Brett assumed to be some time to gather his thoughts. He’d received a lot of information that had no doubt brought up a lot of emotions; it was normal for him to need a second or two to digest it all.

When the soup finished without Bo’s return, Brett cleaned the kitchen and fed Woodstock. When half an hour passed and he still hadn’t appeared, Brett started a load of laundry and turned on the TV.

Only when he heard the crash would Brett rush upstairs.

Unlocked or not, he knocked on their bedroom door before he entered.

“Bo? Are you all right?”

Bo/Olek: The crash had been a vase of Bo's design. Made of snowflake obsidian, once the home of various white flowers dried years ago, now lay shattered by the wall leading to the bathroom.

On the floor at the foot of the bed was Bo, curled in the fetal position, face hidden, shoulders tight, sobbing like a child as mute as he'd once been.

Cradling him was Olek, long and human, lip bleeding, arms around his master's shoulders and head.

It was Olek who looked up, smiling despite his fractured jaw and split lip, eyes like glass.

Thank you, he mouthed.

Brett: Brett might’ve wondered how someone could smile when they’d clearly just taken a hit, but he understood the sentiment perfectly. If he had spent years not being able to hold and talk to someone he loved, they could shoot him and Brett knew he would smile because he finally had them back. That’s how he imagined Olek was feeling at this moment.

He nodded at the familiar and smiled before stepping back out, closing the door softly behind him. Olek and Bo had been without each other for a long time; they needed some privacy.

#The Silent Treatment chapter #brettmparker #bonowicki #olek

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oh-surprise-its-me · 8 months

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Ron/Chris. I had this thought if younger jake is anything like older jake then we know he was for sure a trouble maker. imagine little jake getting into trouble and chris getting called into the school for a meeting

Oh he’s fucking crazy at points. But his dads don’t care they love him. Anyways, they always said if he was going to fight and had a good enough reason they wouldn’t ever be mad.

Chris knew agreeing to Jake taking karate was a terrible idea. Not because Jake would not like it. No no. He’s now punched a kid in the face.

Jesus, Chris is going to be gray by the time this kid is out of middle school.

When he goes inside to speak to the principal he sees Jake sitting in the hall, he crouches next to him, “hey baby you okay?” Jake nods, “fine. Nose hurts.” Chris kisses his head, “I’ll be back, stay.”

He walks into the office. Chris is tired. He just came off shift, it was a 24 and he just wants to go sleep. His hair has ash in it and he smells like smoke.

“Mr. Seresin! Hello so sorry to meet you for the first time like this.” Chris gives a small smile to the man. “What did he do this time.” He shakes his head, “fought a kid in the yard unprovoked I’m afraid. That’s at least a week suspension.”

Chris blinks. Something is off. “He wouldn’t do that.” “Now I know we want to believe the best in our kids-”

Chris cuts the round man off. “No. He wouldn’t do that. What happened. And don’t make me call him in here. He’ll say it in front of you.”

The man blinks, he clearly wasn’t expecting this from the only openly gay firefighter in town. “Your son has issues Mr. Seresin. He’s yelled at this kid before. Last week he lit a trash can on fire.”

Chris smiles “yeah because he wanted to prove the teacher wrong about the flammability of a tennis shoe. He proved her wrong.”

The man leans back in his chair. He looks at Chris for a second. “The issue is your son sir.”

Chris is over it. Ron will make fun of him later but Jesus Christ. He stands up and goes to the door, “Jake hon come here.”

Jake gets a gleeful look in his eyes. “Yeah dad?”

Chris sits back down and Jake sits next to him. “Tell me what really happened.”

Jake stares at his principal while he says this, “Mark called me a slur. Called you one too and said you should burn in the next fire you go into. So I hit him.”

Chris looks at the principal, “oh really?” Jake nods. “He tell you that it was his kid?”

Chris get the smile that Ron lovingly calls insane.

“So. My son is verbally abused. My life is threatened? And nepotism happens in this school? Well. I think that’s the last we’ve seen of you Mr. Shoemalker. Good day.”

Chris stands and Jake flips the principal off. Chris pretends to not see it.

They get back to the car and Jake slams into his legs. “Woah kiddo it’s okay. I’m not mad. Your papa is going to get a kick out of this though.”

Jake sniffs. He holds on tighter. “Can I sleep with you tonight. I keep seeing you dying if I close my eyes.”

Chris winces. He knows their jobs are hard on Jake. “Yeah baby of course you can.”

Ron is there when they get back. “Pa! I hit a kid!” Ron catches Jake and swings him up onto his hip. He’s getting big for that trick but Ron will never not hold his kid. “Is this something I should be proud of or apologizing to your dad for getting you lessons.”

Chris kicks off his other shoe in the hall. “Both.” Ron leans and kisses him. “Was it a fair fight?” “Yeah!”

Ron kisses Jakes head. “Go take your dog out to play.” “But-” “Jake I wanna talk to your dad.” “Okaay.”

Jake runs out the door with the mutt he calls Donkey after him. Chris collapses into Ron’s arms. “Long 24?” Chris laughs, he tosses his arms around Ron’s neck. “Your kid hit someone because they said I should burn in a house fire, and called him and me a slur.”

Ron blinks. “Good for him. Fuck that kid.” Chris kisses Ron, “yeah I’m gonna see if we can get the new principle removed it was his kid and he wanted to punish Jake.” “Want me to talk to him?

Chris’s hands tighten in Ron’s hair. “No stay away. He’d report you so fast. I’ll get the guys at the station to file complaints with me.”

Ron rocks Chris, he slides around him so they can watch Jake out the kitchen window. “Our kids a bit of a shit.” Ron laughs, “yeah but he’s so clearly ours that it makes sense.”

“Love you.” “Love you more.”

#ron slider kerner #chris seresin #ron slider kerner x chris seresin #young jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #slider x original male character #slider is jake's dad au #Jake was a menace but most people loved him #I love writing about them please ask more #mac writes top gun

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eatingmyownwiener · 4 years

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What do you think the signature scents of Ash, Eiji, Sing, Shorter and Yut-Lung would be?

ash probably doesn't have a signature scent bc he wants to go unnoticed most of the time (that time where he's at the hospital and that woman goes there to kill him; he tells max that she doesn't smell so that she doesn't leave a trail behind). but when he's with dino he probably has some kind of scent that gives a vibe of innocence (like fresh fruit) but still smells awful bc it's expensive.

eiji has the sweetest scent. he smells like marshmallow and orange blossom + his hair smells like lemons. eiji makes ash use his perfume when they go to live together until ash finds his signature scent: rosemary (which eiji loves and whenever he hugs ash he can't help but sniff his neck)

sing is a vanilla guy. boring, i know but vanilla smells really good and it gives me a impression that only babie boys would use.

shorter smells like food. he doesn't wear perfume bc he forgets to put it every morning, but the scent he brings from the restaurant pleases everyone and he just turns more into a snack + his mohawk has the scent of cotton candy bc eiji bought him a bottle ^^

yut-lung smells expensive. he'd buy the most expensive floral perfumes so that when he enters a room everyone will know that yut-lung lee has arrived. i believe he'd go with jasmine.

#i'm just imagining eiji hugging ash #then sniffs ash's necks and then just kisses it #banana fish #thank you for the ask #ask #anon

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alcinadimitrescuwu · 3 years

Text

Welcome to the Family, Boy (Alcina x Fem!Reader Fanfic)

First thank you all for your support for my first Dimitrescu fanfic. I truly appreciate it and all the support this community has given me on. Let's go on to the next one, shall we?

Premise: After a long and stressful week, your wife Alcina wants to help you let off some steam. However, your amorous activities are cut short by an unexpected surprise.

Warning: blood. There are some steamy scenes in here but nothing explicit, so it's mostly safe for work.

As you climb the stairs to your bedroom, you heave a great sigh. It’s been a long and stressful week. Daniela had caused a small fire in the wine cellar basement by knocking over a lantern when she had gotten a little too eager for a feeding. It was eventually put out, but the corpse was burned in the process. Alcina had been furious at the waste of resources. It had taken a full day to get rid of the ash, but the basement was clean. Well, as clean as it could be. Aside from the wine cellar, Alcina didn’t seem to care much about cleaning up the basement. Well, it was over now. Now you just couldn’t wait to curl up next to your wife and get a good sleep.

You arrive at your doorway and hear Maria Callas singing “Casta Diva” from within. You smile. Your mutual love for opera was one of the first things you discussed as you were courting. Before you reach your hand to knock at the door, you hear Alcina call, “Is that you iubirea mea?”

“Yes, dear,” you reply. You stretch your arms behind your head. “Oh, I just can’t wait to get into bed-” Your voice cuts off as you see what your wife is wearing. She is wearing a black peignoir and as she stands up, she casts it off to reveal a black and red lingerie set.

She smiles wickedly. “I can’t wait to get into bed with you either.”

You don’t move. You can only stare. Her scarlet lips match the exact shade of the lingerie. Without any sleeves, you see her muscular arms and you blush as you recall what those arms feel like wrapped around you. Her legs are on full display as well with a red stocking clipped to a garter. They reach up to your shoulders and you have spent many a time nestled in them with your head on her lap. You open your mouth to reply but find nothing coming out.

Alcina pouts and puts one hand behind her on the bed. “Come, pet,” she purrs, beckoning you with a red fingernail. “You’re not going to stand there all day, are you?”

You don’t say anything. You cross the space between you and your wife in three steps and launch yourself over into her waiting arms. The scent of her perfume is overwhelming and you breathe it in. You close your eyes and kiss her chin, her laugh lines and finally her lips. She laughs through the kiss and holds your head between her hands. “Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Don’t talk,” you rasp, your voice full of desire.

She smiles. “All right, draga mea. No talking then.” She kisses you deeply and you weave your hands through her locks.

She picks you up and carries you across the room, kissing all the while until you reach the wall. You lean your head on the wall behind you and wrap your legs around her waist. “I’ve needed this, my love,” you whisper against her lips.

Ding dong!

You hear the doorbell resound through the castle. You break the kiss and fix her with a quizzical expression. “Were you expecting anyone?” you ask.

She shakes her head quickly. “No. Could be a solicitor. Could be a vampire hunter coming to put a stake in all our hearts.” Her golden eyes are glazed over with desire. “Right now I couldn’t care less at the moment.” She nuzzles your neck and you sigh. She breaks away and looks at you, an unasked question in her eyes. She’s hungry. You nod your consent and she pulls away your nightgown to bear your neck and shoulders. She pulls you close and bites your neck and feeds on the blood pooling around your neck. You feel her neck working against your chest as she drinks. You take pleasure in every gasp and moan she makes. You feel pleasantly light-headed by the time she pulls away with a satisfied sigh.

Ding dong!

Alcina groans and bares her teeth in anger. “It’s getting too late for this!”

You caress her jaw. “Dear, maybe we should answer it. It could be an emergency.”

She shakes her head impatiently. “It’s probably some snot-nosed kid playing a prank.” She lifts your chin with a finger and gives you a seductive grin. “Don’t focus on it right now, pet. Right now is about you and me.”

“You’re probably right-” She stops the rest of your sentence with a rough kiss, opening your mouth with her tongue. Her hand travels up your leg and her hand making contact against your bare leg gives you a pleasant chill. Her hand rests on your thigh and she pushes you up against the wall again while using her nimble fingers to unhook your garter.

Ding dong! Ding dong! Ding dong!

Alcina gives a frustrated growl. “Damn it to hell!”

“Darling,” you say gently petting her arm as a signal to set you down. “If it were kids, they’d be bored and have gone home by now. I’m going to check who it is.”

Your wife crosses her arms and gives an adorable pout. “Fine. Do what you want.”

You adjust your nightgown and wipe any leftover blood and lipstick off your neck. As you walk to the door, Alcina gently puts your dressing gown around your shoulders. You catch her hand and give it a kiss. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just need to get dressed.”

You smile at her. “Very well, darling.” As you turn to leave the door, Alcina catches your shoulder and whispers huskily, “And after we get back, we will most certainly get back the lost time that nuisance has stolen from us.”

You blush furiously and kiss her goodbye. As you walk down the stairs, you hear the doorbell ring again. Once, twice, three times. “Yeah yeah, I’m coming. I’m coming.” You grasp the brass handles and with a great effort manage to open the doors wide. You’re jealous of Alcina in moments like these. She could open the doors with such ease that you forget that each door weighed hundreds of pounds.

You are surprised to see Heisenberg holding something wrapped in cloth. You can’t help but smile when you see Heisenberg. Heisenberg and Alcina may be like oil and water, but the two of you liked each other almost instantly. He told you once that “anyone who could put up with that bitch for more than 20 seconds must be a good person. And you have to put up with her for life!”

Heisenberg returns your smile. “Hi, hon.”

“Hi Karl. How about you come in and warm up with a nice cup of tea?” You stand aside to allow him in. “Come on. It’s freezing out there.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, honey, but I really can’t stay long. Is your ball and chain around? This question concerns her too.”

“Heisenberg,” you hear your wife’s drawl. You both look to see her descending the stairs. There is no evidence of your amorous activities as she has on a fresh coat of lipstick, is fully dressed and her hair is pinned perfectly in place under her hat. “To what do I owe this rather unpleasant surprise?”

Heisenberg clenches his teeth. “Believe me, I wouldn’t come here unless it was an emergency.”

“Then what is it?” Alcina asks as she puts her left hand on your shoulder. You reach up to cover it with your own. “Out with it, and be on your way. Some of us would rather be in bed right now.”

Heisenberg notes your kiss-swollen lips and a hickey already starting to form on your neck. “Yes, I suppose some of us rather would.”

Alcina’s eyes flash and she grits her teeth. “Heisenberg, I swear-”

Heisenberg puts up a placating hand while he holds the bundle with his other. “Ok, ok. I’ll cut to the chase then. Sheesh, do you have any sense of humor?” He unwraps the bundle to reveal a mewling French bulldog. It can’t be more than a couple weeks old.

As you place your hand on your heart Heisenberg continues. “I found him outside of his house. Whole damned family was slaughtered. He needs a place to stay. I thought this might be the best place for him.”

You look at your wife with pleading eyes, but she gives a sharp, “No.”

“Darling-”

“No.” She glares at Heisenberg. “Why can’t you take him in? Maybe it would be an opportunity for you to learn some responsibility for once in your cursed existence.”

You see Heisenberg roll his eyes behind his sunglasses. “Yes, and I’d be responsible for him being torn apart by Lycans. I’m not taking him in. It’s not safe for him there.”

You take your wife’s hand in yours. “Darling, please reconsider. We can’t turn the poor thing away. Besides, our daughters would love having a d-”

She immediately puts a hand over your mouth. “Don’t say it,” she warns, looking furtively around the foyer.

“What?” you ask against her hand. “Dog?”

Almost immediately your daughters, Bela, Cassandra and Daniela materialize from their fly shrouds. They zero in on the dog and Cassandra takes him out of Heisenberg’s hands and the other two crowd around her and begin cooing to it, and letting it sniff and lick their fingers.

Alcina covers her face with her hands. “Now you’ve done it, love.”

The girls look up from their ministrations to the dog and as one rush over to your wife, carrying the dog over with them. They begin speaking up all at once. “Mother, please can we keep him?” “Mother, look how cute he is!” “Mother, Cassandra’s been hogging the dog all this time and it’s my turn to hold him!”

“Enough!” Alcina’s voice booms around the foyer. She puts two fingers in the space between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. She sighs aloud. “God, I need a smoke.” She turns to her daughters and with a long suffering sigh says, “Fine. We’ll keep the little mongrel.”

All three daughters erupt into cheers and you can’t help but smile indulgently at them. Daniela runs over and throws her arms around your neck in jubilation. “Maman, did you hear that? We get to have a dog finally!”

“Yes, dearest, I did hear that.” You drop a kiss on her head and she scampers over to take the dog which Cassandra begrudgingly hands to her.

Heisenberg grins and reaches in his pocket. “I have some food and a water bottle for him,” he says, handing you the aforementioned items. “The Duke should have some more, but that’s all I have right now.”

“Thank you Karl,” you say, reaching over to scratch the dog behind his ears. “We’ll take good care of it, won’t we girls?”

“Yes, Maman!” they all answer in unison.

“I’ll be off then!” Heisenberg turns to leave but not before shouting over his shoulder, “And I think he should fit in pretty nicely around here, especially since the Lady of the House is such a bi-”

In an instant, Alcina has him off the ground and has her claws extended only a few inches from his neck. “Heisenberg, did you want to finish that sentence?” she asks sweetly.

You can’t help but laugh. “Let him down, my love. It’s not worth getting so riled up this late at night”

“Fine,” she says and sets him down not too gently. He brushes himself off and glares at Alcina for the rough landing. She just flashes a smile and you notice that only her middle finger is extended in claw form. You look at your daughters, but they are too busy with the dog to notice the obscene hand gesture.

“All right, this time I’m really off.” he says, turning around and walking towards the castle gates.

“Girls, what do you say?” you prompt.

“Thank you, Uncle Karl!” they chorus. Bela snatches the dog and runs upstairs, vanishing in her bug shroud. The girls run after her, Daniela yelling down the hall, “No fair! I wasn’t finished with him yet!”

Alcina closes the doors and leans against them, sighing. “I just hope this wasn’t a mistake.”

You take her hand and kiss it. “Nothing we can do about it now, my love. Come on, let’s go to bed. It’s getting late.” The two of you hold hands and once you arrive at your shared bedroom, Alcina immediately locks the door, pulls you close and fixes you with a wolfish grin. “Now where were we, draga mea?”

“I thought you said you wanted to smoke first?” You laugh and wrap your arms around her neck.

“Ah, iubirea mea,” she say picking you up again and giving you a sloppy kiss. “Cigarettes always taste better after sex.”

You kiss her as you unbutton her dress and she puts her hand in the same spot on your thigh as before, this time successfully unhooking your garter. You bite her lip playfully and she gives a little growl of pleasure.

The moment is interrupted by a knock on the door and you hear Daniela’s voice, “Mother? Maman? The dog peed all over the carpet in Bela’s room!”

“Only because you led him there!” you hear Bela retort.

Alcina leans her forehead against yours and starts swearing in Romanian. You give her a kiss and pat her hand before you see to your daughters.

#lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #re8 village #re8 fanfiction #lady dimitrescu fanfic #lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina x reader #alcina x maiden #lady dimitrescu x female reader #bela dimitrescu #karl heisenberg #daniela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu

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shangchiswife · 2 years

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Hello idk if you're taking requests for this but I love this new ship I'm seeing and if possible could you maybe do a doc ock x tasm!Peter x reader where they help her deal with chronic illness/pain maybe? I've been miserable all week from pain and am basically bedridden most of the time bc I can barely sit up without being in immense pain in my back and neck and could use a little fluff haha. Thank you!

hey love, i'm so sorry you've been feeling that way. i really hope this helps and that you enjoy this! also please let me know if i wrote anything wrong because i'd hate to offend anyone by writing something wrong. anyways sorry for the slight delay btw <3

summary: you are in a lot of pain and doc ock and peter help you feel better

doc ock x reader x tasm!peter

warnings: none

word count: 758

You laid in bed, tears coating your cheeks as pain struck your back like a never-ending whip.

This was how it was like. The entire week. Constant pain and agony.

It was only two months when your doctor had told you that you had to be bedridden most of the time due to the illness you were diagnosed with.

Before you had started crying you remember your boyfriend Peter breaking down into a sob while your other boyfriend Otto's face had paled and his grip on your hand had tightened.

They loved you so much and it hurt them to see you in pain.

Now you were left alone at the house while Peter was off being Spiderman and Otto had gone to the store to run a quick errand.

You longed for them to come back because whenever they were around they would distract you from the pain you were experiencing.

A gentle sob escaped your figure as you longed for your boyfriends to come back and wrap their arms around you whispering sweet things in your ear.

While you waited you flipped through channels, trying to take your mind off the pain you were experiencing.

At that moment you heard the door swing open and the thudding of footsteps.

Your heart beat happily.

They were home.

Peter slid over on the ground so that he was present in the doorway, almost slipping on the floor in the process making you let out a small chuckle.

He was still dressed in his Spiderman suit which showed off his toned upper body. His hair was sticky and there was a small patch of ash on his face.

"Hi angel," he smiled as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Hi," you chirped lifting your head up.

Peter cupped your cheeks and then kissed you making sparks fly throughout your entire body.

"Where's Otto?" you questioned, cocking your head to the side.

"Already tired of me, huh?" he asked shaking his head lightly with a small smile on his face.

"It's not that...you just stink," you said honestly as Peter's eyes widened and he stretched one of his arms out to sniff his armpit.

"Ew, you're right, showering right away," he said placing another quick kiss on your lips before darting over to the restroom and shutting the door behind him.

"Wait where's Otto?" you called out to the brown-haired boy but the only response you were given was the shower turning on.

"I'm right here my love," you looked you see Otto come in the doorframe wearing his signature red turtleneck.

He knew the turtleneck was something that you loved to see him in so he wore it often just to please you.

His tentacles started whirring wildly and flew towards you with excitement.

You laughed as the four tentacles cuddled against you.

"Hello boys, were you on your best behavior for Otto?" you cooed as you pet two of them causing them to spin wildly with excitement.

Otto approached you and planted a gentle kiss on your cheek and then plopped down on the bed beside you.

"How are you feeling?" he asked his eyes dark pools of concern.

"I'm feeling much better now that you both are here," you smiled sincerely as Otto took your hand and kissed it.

"So what were you watching?" Otto asked before a loud crashing sound came from the bathroom and Peter filed out, his hair clinging against his forehead.

"Good lord, boy!" Otto put a hand over his chest while you laughed.

"I was worried I was missing cuddle time," Peter stared at the two of you with his big brown eyes before going beside you and putting his arms around you, his wet hair touching your neck.

You wrapped your arms around him and kissed him on the head making Otto knit his eyebrows.

"Hey, I'd like to be included!" the older man protested as he too wrapped his arm around you.

"This is the highlight of my day, it was so horrible but now I'm so happy, thank you guys," you smiled at your boyfriends who looked up at you with pleased expressions.

Their ultimate goal in life was to make you happy.

"We love you Y/N, so SO much we just want you to always be happy and content even if life isn't so great," Peter said while closing his eyes.

Otto grunted in agreement while also shutting his lavender lids.

You laughed softly before taking their heads and putting them closer to you while you too proceeded to shut your eyes.

They made you so happy.

#otto octavius x reader #peter parker x reader #tasm!spiderman x reader #doc ock x reader x peter parker #doc ock x reader

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celestialmilfs · 2 years

Text

Divine Glory

Song: The Husk │ Rings of Saturn Lyrics

Character: Mother Miranda Word Count: 2,659 Warnings: Medical experimentation, lab whump, body horror, unhealthy relationships (though with Mother Miranda i think that’s like. a given) Genre: Whump, Hurt/Comfort

Description: ”We are going to be the harbingers of a new world, my love. An Eden of our own making.” Her words drip fanaticism, utter lunacy, but the way she stares at you, certain as a rock, unmoving even in the raging waves of the sea – It’s enough to make you believe her. --- It’s time for you to receive a Cadou parasite of your very own.

A/N: I took some high key creative liberties with both the surgery and the Cadou for reasons of a) gross and b) fun. Enjoy! (There really is comfort at the end, I promise, it’s just going to be a bit of a rough ride first)

”It is time, my love.”

The words chill you to the bone, uttered in the cold morning light as easily as asking for sugar. The food in your mouth turns to ash. A tension seeps into your shoulders, a pressure so deep and unrelenting it makes your spine go ramrod straight.

Miranda sniffs at the change in your demeanor and tuts. ”Now, now, darling. We’ve talked about this.” She places her hand on your arm, the soft affection of the act rendered meaningless by what she’s asking. ”I know you have your reservations, but we are serving a greater purpose. It requires sacrifice.”

You nod, but can’t bear to look at her. You can already feel cold sweat beginning to gather on the back of your neck. ”It still frightens me.”

”My dear,” she whispers, and places a kiss in the middle of your forehead. ”That’s perfectly understandable. I do not judge you, and neither does our god. But if we are to ever become greater than ourselves, we have to take the risk. You know this.”

”I do,” you say, though the fear turning your legs into jelly doesn’t think the same. ”You will be there the whole time?”

”Of course.” Miranda croons, and reaches across the table to hold your chin in her fingers. ”I would never abandon you at your time of need, my love.”

The words flood you with heat, and you try to ignore the pressure building in your abdomen. Now’s not the time. Miranda chuckles, tilting your head to the side to expose your neck. ”Needy?”

Your cheeks turn an embarrassing red as you nod. Miranda laughs; a dark, velvety sound that only further increases the heat in the room. She presses her face into your neck and inhales. The whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

”Perhaps once we’re finished. A success will be ample enough reason for celebration, don’t you think?”

You nod, and forget to breathe again.

”We are going to be the harbingers of a new world, my love. An Eden of our own making.”

Her words drip fanaticism, utter lunacy, but the way she stares at you, certain as a rock, unmoving even in the raging waves of the sea – It’s enough to make you believe her.

That’s her real power, supernatural abilities aside.

She stands up.

”Let us go,” she whispers, and offers you her hand.

You take it.

Miranda finishes strapping you to the table and crosses the room, nervously talking to herself as she gathers everything she needs. Your wrists and ankles are bound with leather and even though they’re pulled tight, tight enough for the edges to dig into your skin, you take comfort in the fact that it could’ve been worse. It would have been, if you were anyone else.

You can see various implements shine in the light as Miranda places them on a steel tray, arranged in a straight line, not an inch out of place. The lump in your throat grows.

”Is there truly no chance for an anesthetic?” you ask, feeble hope flickering in your chest despite your best attempts to stomp it to death.

”We’ve been over this, darling,” Miranda says with a sigh, her tone flat like she’s talking to a petulant child. ”Your chances of survival are substantially higher if you remain awake through the process. The divine gift will enter both your body and mind, and you must be aware to accept it.”

You shiver, though whether it’s the cool temperature of the room or your building nerves, you aren’t sure. Miranda slips her hands into a pair of rubber gloves and places the tray, now neat and in perfect order, on a trolley sitting right by your head. Pressure settles in your chest, slipping inside with ease, and your pulse starts to beat increasingly louder in your ears. You involuntarily twitch, wrists fighting against their bindings.

”How much will it hurt?” Your voice is small, pathetic compared to Miranda, resolute and firm, unwaveringly sure of her ability to see her mission through. She smiles to herself and places a hand on your cheek. The rubber of the glove feels uncanny, eerie even. Her thumb caresses the top of your cheekbone, soft as a feather.

”Very much.” Miranda says the words like a prayer. Your breath hitches, and her pupils grow just a little bit wider as her gaze slithers over you, top to bottom, taking you in with a ravenous hunger. She brushes hair away from your eyes and takes a shuddering breath. ”How beautiful you will be.”

You lean into her touch eagerly, desperate to drink up her affection. Something to think of while.. Well. Miranda smiles and removes herself from you to leave the room – only for a moment – before she returns with a curious jar in her hands. Inside is a black mass, twitching in clear liquid. It almost looks like it’s trying to get through the lid. You can’t help shivering. Miranda’s fingers glide across the smooth glass adoringly, her nails dragging against its surface like a lover’s touch. You can feel bile rising in the back of your throat, bitter and burning.

Miranda places the jar on the trolley gently enough for it to barely make any noise. You watch the creature inside spasm erratically and when your stomach roils, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing even. When you dare to take another peek, Miranda is looking down at you from above, standing still as a statue as she takes in your frightened image. She lowers herself down to you, bringing her forehead to rest against yours, and kisses you gently, like the fragile little thing that you are.

”It will be over soon, my love,” she whispers, ”I swear to be quick.”

You nod, and one traitorous tear slides down your cheek. Miranda wipes it away, and offers you one final smile.

”Are you ready?”

You doubt you could ever really be.

”Yes.”

Miranda’s lips spread into a smile. She grabs something from the tray: a dark blue rubber object, that she uses to nudge your mouth open. ”So you won’t bite your tongue,” she explains, and you let her place it between your teeth. You instinctually swallow a few times, trying to get used to the feeling.

Miranda stands still for a moment, taking deep breaths, her eyes intently set on you. She’s praying, you realize. Praying for you. You wish you could reach over and sink your fingers into her hair, tell her that you’ll be okay, that you’ve been through worse, that you’re stronger than this. In the end, you can just watch as she rapidly mutters words of protection under her breath. After a good few minutes she relaxes, and her expression turns into cold, unfeeling steel.

”Let us begin.”

She reaches for the tray and picks up a dark green bottle. Clear liquid comes pouring out into a cotton swab – disinfectant, you assume. Miranda wipes your arm with it, all the way from your wrist to your elbow. The smell is so intense it makes your eyes sting.

She picks up the scalpel and without hesitation, without a word of warning or comfort, slices into your arm.

You scream around the gag as the blade cuts deep, drawing blood like water from a drenched towel. You can feel it pouring down your arm and dripping to the floor, hot and sticky and thick like tar. You beg, no, you pray that you remember as little of this as possible. God, let there be nothing left in your memory when all is done.

Miranda doesn’t bother soaking up the blood, and switches the scalpel for the jar. It opens with little resistance. The thing inside latches to her hand with tiny little tendrils that weave their way around her fingers, the mass of the creature’s body curling into her palm like a helpless animal seeking safety. The back of your throat is burning with the taste of sick, but you swallow it down.

Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.

She brings it closer, fingers running lovingly across its back like it’s a – a rabbit, or a tiny little mouse, a harmless creature of a very different god than the one about to devour you. You start to fight your bindings, thrashing against the unyielding leather, and a litany of muffled, nonsensical pleas slips past your gagged lips as Miranda approaches. She either doesn’t bother listening or doesn’t hear you at all as she lowers the creature to you. It trembles, as if excited, and slides out of her gloved hand and under your skin.

You finally vomit.

Sick coats your mouth and nearly slips down your windpipe, sending you into a fit of wet, choked coughs. Miranda glances at you, eyes honing in on your mouth – a quick check on your breathing – before she returns her attention to the incision, and the moving mass inside it, completely unfazed.

”Please!” you cry past the gag, but your begs for mercy are met with silence. High pitched and feverish, your breath rushes out of you in terrified hyperventilation. Something thick, something pulsating slides and shifts within you, slips inside your veins, settles around sinew and finds a home in the empty spaces between your cells.

It burns.

God, how it burns.

The edges of your vision blur, dotted with black. Something divinely alive courses through you with such fervor that it’s going to burn you to ash. The world around you spins like a carousel, the ceiling of the lab turning into a cloudy puddle of unidentifiable colour. Your heart races in your chest, so fast you’re sure it’s going to explode and leave behind a black hole, a hungry portal of something unspeakably wicked. Sudden surges of energy send convulsion after convulsion through you, throwing your body into seizures, shock after shock after shock.

The world is on fire and you’re about to be reduced to ashes. You’re nothing but a speck of dust in a house fire, a singed stain in the ceiling. Not even nearly enough to contain the sheer power attempting to find a home inside you.

Every single beat of your heart ruptures something inside you, small bursts of magma melting you, eating through you, feasting. You beg for it to stop. You can’t breathe. There’s nothing left to breathe with, you think, except bloodied pulp, a wet mass of flesh.

”..me back..”

A voice, somewhere beyond the thick cotton walls of your anguish says, though you’ve long since forgotten who it could be.

Your head snaps back when your spine cracks. Tiny needles prick and poke, ripping from the inside out, trying to dig their way through and out into the sunlight. The world is consumed in overwhelming heat, so hot you can’t begin to fathom it, and oh, how it burns you. Everything you know is fire, scorching, sizzling fire, and it hurts, god, how it hurts-

Silence.

Your eyes open, sharp as ever, and you take in Miranda’s underground lab; the smell of disinfectant mixed with the iron tang of blood, instruments thrown across the room in panic, the sounds of sniffles and ragged breathing.

”Come on!”

Miranda is towering above you, hands held over your chest as she slams them down with all her strength. You expect to feel your ribs break, but instead it’s like a firm handshake, a bit of light pressure.

A cough rattles out of you, weak and broken. Miranda’s head whips around to look at you, and you can’t help noticing the tear tracks under her eyes. You go to touch her cheek, but to your confused dismay, the leather strap is still covering your wrist.

”My god,” Miranda whispers, and scrambles over to you. She pulls on your jaw until you open your mouth, and pulls out the gag before rushing to open the restraints. Her fingers tremble so hard that she can barely get the buckles open.

You brace yourself, and try to turn your head. You could swear the bone had been crushed, smashed to pieces, but it moves without issue. You look down at your arm, but there’s no wound in sight. All that’s left is a faint scar that could be weeks old by the looks of it.

Miranda gets the final strap open with a curse and immediately pulls you into her embrace, her hands clinging to the fabric of your soaked shirt like a lifeline. The way she’s trembling makes you want to take her hand, to tell her that you’re here, that you’re alright.

”I thought I’d lost you,” she mutters with a whimper, and holds you even tighter. You let your head rest on her shoulder. Miranda sniffles and continues: ”You were so incredibly brave.”

Your face crumples.

”I know, my darling,” Miranda says, her fingers – ungloved fingers, soft and tender – running through your hair. ”It’s alright. You’re safe.”

It’s really over.

The sob tears through you with such force that it would knock you over if Miranda didn’t have such a firm hold on you. Your already sore body protests with every exhausted cry, shockwaves coursing through you like the tide. Miranda presses your head back into her shoulder, and you nuzzle against her neck, trying to convince yourself that you’re here, she’s here with you, that you survived.

”It’s all over now,” Miranda whispers and gently rocks you back and forth. ”I couldn’t be more proud of you.” She presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and you whine, wordlessly begging for more. She laughs gently and obliges, letting her nose rest in your hair. ”You did it.”

A wet laugh runs free, a disbelieving joy as you’re faced with the impossible truth that you lived, that you actually came out the other side still breathing. You can barely believe it. Miranda takes your face in her hands and looks at you, really looks at you.

”How could any god refuse someone like you?” she asks, and kisses your nose, your cheeks, your chin, and your forehead, peppering you with her devotion, her care, making sure that you’re short of drowning in it. No less would ever suffice. ”My love, there is no force strong enough to stop us now. We are undying. Immortal. Eternal.”

You want to agree, you want nothing more than to show her what this new power of yours can do, but your head is so heavy, and the lights are so bright. Your attempts at movement are only met with an exhaustion so deep it’s about to swallow you whole.

”But first, I think,” she says, when your head droops. ”Rest.” She slides one arm under your knees, and another beneath your back, and picks you up as if you weigh no less than a sack of flour. You squeak, startled at how easily she lifts you, pounds of pure deadweight. Miranda laughs softly. ”Did you really think I’d let you walk?”

You consider shaking your head in reply, but the fabric of her robe, bloodsoaked and filthy, calls you towards it like a siren song, so you follow it and let your head rest against her chest. Miranda coos at you and kisses the top of your head before letting you rest. She takes a few tentative steps onwards, and when you don’t display signs of discomfort, she settles into a steady pace in the direction of your shared bedroom. The bright lights are replaced by flickering candles and lamps lit with oil, easier on your recovering eyes. You glance upwards to see Miranda watching you, her eyes shining with adoration.

”The things we will do, my love,” she says, and kisses you carefully, as if the slightest bit of pressure could break you. Her lips are chapped and torn, but right now they feel as much like home as anything. ”They will be unspeakable.”

You smile.

#Mother Miranda x Reader #Whump #Resident Evil 8 #Hurt/Comfort #Resident Evil Imagine #Reader #Mother Miranda #Mother Miranda/Reader

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inkykeiji · 3 years

Text

hope you don’t stop running to me, cause i’ll always be waiting

character: dabi | todoroki touya - raver!dabi

genre: extremely sentimental fluff + smut with a sprinkle of angst

notes: okay so essentially, this is raver!dabi, but like the piece isn't really focused around that. the piece is about this all encompassing, ravenous love the reader feels for him, and it really borders on unhealthy obsession; it's about how he's the happiest she ever sees him at raves, but it's bittersweet because he's so fucking high, and it kind of contrasts his love for raves and drugs with her love for him | title cred: cinema by benny benassi ft. skrillex and gary go

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, size difference, drugs, obsessive unhealthy relationship, extreme codependency, manipulation if u squint, minimal prep, a sprinkle of degradation

words: 6k

synopsis:

And he’s so fucking breathtaking—striking sapphires and stunning smile more spectacular than any piece of art you’ve ever seen, the combined melody of deep grunts and trembling groans rattling around behind his ribs better than any piece of music you’ve ever heard, endless words streaming from his swollen ruby lips lovelier than any piece of fine literature you’ve ever read.

He’s walking art, talking art, living, breathing, feeling art—and he’s all yours.

There’s nothing he loves more, no where he feels more at home, more at ease, more himself, than at a rave, you’re absolutely sure of it.

He sniffs them out like a hound, manages to find them no matter what city or country he’s in; loves them indiscriminately, regardless of how big or small they are; and drags you to each one he attends. Because he’s addicted to every single thing about them—irrevocably hooked on the pounding music that throbs like a beating heart, the marvelous colours that sear through the venue like vibrant flares of blood, the pretty pills and dazzling tabs and soft, soft powder—it all turns the party into a living entity, breathes life into the crowd, intoxicates him like nothing he’s ever felt before; and he’ll never be able to get enough of them, enough of how they make him feel, how they make him forget.

But he wants you there with him every time.

Sometimes, he’s hauling you into dingy basements full of wispy smoke and blaring speakers, staticky as they thrash out beats over a crowd, atmosphere saturated with sweat and the sickly sweet smell of hard candies. Others, he’s pulling you along on a lush field or cracked concrete tainted with brilliant flashes of crimson and violet, through thousands and thousands of people adorned in spiky fur and holographic latex until he finds the stage he’s looking for.

You don’t mind, though, unbothered by the pulsing music and the glistening crowds. You don’t mind, because this is your only chance to get these fleeting little glimpses of what true, pure happiness looks like on him—and you’re fucking addicted to it.

This weekend it happens to be a two-day-long EDM festival, set up far away from society in a large grassy meadow, embellished with wildflowers that dot the tangled jade strands with pops of pastel pinks and yellows and ivories—and it’s enchanting, whimsical, almost surreal in a sense. You can feel it, the atmosphere that drapes the masses of people scattered across the rolling hills, an energy unlike any other that envelops the patrons and lulls them into a state of soothing bliss.

He loves it. You love him.

And you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to accurately explain what the feeling of accompanying him to a rave is like; you don’t think the words even exist—the essence and aura, the feelings that swirl around in your chest, fuzzy and fluttery and fierce, transcending any and all languages. Because they’re something bigger, something better—they’re something higher, something stronger, something more than any word could ever describe.

No, there’s no way to define it, to portray it, nothing to encapsulate or summarize it, the genuine happiness that encompasses him, the way his pinched and stern features finally, finally relax, a special, gentle type of carefreeness seeping through the permanent mask of trepidation irrevocably sown into his strong face. It’s beautiful, mesmerizing to watch as they morph, the way his lips transform before your very eyes, from a firm, thin line into a loose, easygoing grin, sharp eyes liquefying as his lids droop a little, thin ring of sapphire outlining gaping onyx pupils, voracious in the way they observe, inhale, devour everything, blown and massive from whatever he’s high on—E or coke or acid; possibly a mixture of all three. You aren’t allowed to have any, of course, but it’s okay.

It’s okay, because as cheesy and stupid as it sounds, you’re high off of him—off his smell, spicy cinnamon and sweet campfire, laced with just a hint of Marlboros; off his taste, mint and smoke and sugar; off his touch, large hands caressing the natural curves and contours of your body, calloused fingertips rough and ragged as they drag across your soft flesh, skin pebbling with each graze.

It’s intoxicating, the way it invades your senses, overwhelms your receptors and has you yearning for more. It’s dumbfounding, the way your mind goes numb with him, infused with thoughts of DabiDabiDabi as he seeps and soaks and stitches himself into the tissues of your brain.

And you’ve never seen him more content than he is here, high out of his mind and entirely absorbed in the music, embraced in it like it’s a protective blanket, like it’s the arms of an old, treasured friend, like it’s home. Bitter acid creeps up your throat, blends with his saccharine spit ever-present and saturating your tongue, the thought that he’s only truly, genuinely, substantially happy when he’s high off his ass at a festival procuring a muted, blunt ache in the middle of your chest, dull blades that dig and burrow into your beating heart, shoved a little deeper with each bubble of laughter that escapes his lips.

Nevertheless, you can’t ever bring yourself to put an end to it, no matter how much it hurts him, hurts you both, because he looks so lovely, so elated—and you just can’t bear to take that from him, to take that from yourself.

Because he’s so fucking pretty like this, hair undone, careless and free as fluffy tufts of black bounce and sway with his movements, sticking to his temples and his neck—and he almost looks soft like this, strands of onyx hanging in his eyes and curling around his ears. Because happiness looks so good on him, so gorgeous on him, with those bright smiles that span his face, across his cheeks from ear to ear, and those stunning sapphire irises that glow with pleasure, contentment, bliss—and you wish, wish so desperately that you got to see it more often, that you had the chance to experience it without the drugs steadily coursing through his system, that they weren’t necessary, mandatory, in manufacturing these emotions.

But you’ll take what you can get. And he will, too—because you both love watching, both love feeling him this ecstatic, this relaxed, all his anguish and trauma forgotten, those chains that shackle him, that weigh him down and confine him, disintegrated by the synthetic emotions, burnt to ash just for a night or two.

And so, you aid, you help, you enable—because while you’ll take what you can get, you can’t ever get enough, either, eyes wide and unblinking as they place a pretty pink tablet stamped with a heart on his tongue, entranced by the way his lips close around your fingers and suck. And it’s so fucking hot, a rush of warmth flooding between your thighs and furling tightly in your belly. His eyes are shining as he stares at you, stuffed full of so much love it nearly hurts, and you want, you want, you want.

It isn’t long before drug induced euphoria is rushing through his veins and colliding with the constant, steady bass oozing from the speakers, vibrations travelling through the grassy earth beneath him until they reach his feet and flood his body. He tells you he can feel it in his chest, in his heart, in his very soul, seeping into his bloodstream like the sweetest poison, forcing a pleasant buzz through his limbs.

And it’s the best—it’s better than anything he’s ever felt, anything you’ve ever felt, hands roaming across bodies as music pours from the mammoth speakers, tracing soft lines and hard edges, fingers committing them to memory through touch alone; foreheads knocking together as he giggles into your mouth, as you suck his laughter from him and let it bloom in your chest, bright and buzzing and full of him, so full you feel as though you may burst; tongues dragging against one another as you both lick either side of a heart-shaped lollipop, sticky crimson candy sparkling in the waning sunlight, before he pushes his gum into your mouth, endless huffs of amusement spilling from one throat into another as you pass it back and forth—a game of sorts—smiling into the messy, slippery kisses, lips sliding and slurping and sucking.

Colourful beads embellish his arms, slender wrists and sculpted forearms peaking through the gaps, plastic droplets smacking together delicately with his movements. The brilliant colours are vibrant in contrast to his smooth skin, ivory tainted gold by the August sun, to later be painted by the lively splotches of aquamarine and lilac and lime and fuchsia as the lights dance through the night sky, spraying across the crowd.

His body glistens under the setting sun, varnished in a thin layer of sweat, gleaming droplets decorating his skin, catching in the beams and glittering like tiny diamonds. Strands of inky hair cling to his neck and white cotton hugs his torso, outlining the firm muscles of his back, the plains and contours that glide almost gracefully under scarred skin and soft fabric with each of his movements.

He’s a horrible dancer; truly, but he makes you giggle—which makes him giggle, large hands finding your waist and tugging you towards him, forehead bowed to yours again as he stares at you, cavernous pupils flitting from each of your features—your eyes, your cheeks, your mouth—with his lips slightly parted, as if he’s in awe. Tiny thumbs run over his clammy cheekbones, and his eyes close briefly with the motion, body swaying a little as he leans into you, further pressing his forehead into yours. His molars are grinding again, you can feel it, the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his jaw under soft, tender palms, and you tsk softly.

“You need another lollipop, Daddy,” you tell him, and although you’re practically shouting over the music, it feels like your whispering, wisps of your adoring voice caressing his skin, curling around him and sopping into his flesh, warming him to the core of his soul. Little fingers are pressing into the hinges of his jaw as you speak, their gentle touch instantly diffusing the tension, and he nods.

The whine that catches in his throat when you pull away is one of the sweetest, most valuable sounds you’ve ever heard, and it makes your chest flutter, eyes flicking up to look at him through your lashes with a beaming smile. He’s still leaning towards you, slowly falling forward, a magnet drawn to magnetite, and you love it, you love it, you love it.

“You look so fucking cute in your tutu, princess,” he’s chuckling as you root through your tiny bag for more candy. And you can tell he really means it, a dopey smile decorating his face, eyes shimmering with mirth, with drugs, with love.

A giggle slips past your lips, hands smooth down the tufts of tulle adorning your waist as you shyly murmur your thanks, his own smile growing. Lidded sapphires float around your body, slow and belated as they take inventory, words unhurried and sluggish as they tumble from his mouth.

“I-I should…Uh, I should put some sunscreen on my baby, sh-shouldn’t I? Don’t want your shoulders or that pretty face of yers to burn, y’know,”

You really don’t need to—the sun’s sunk halfway below the horizon by now—but you indulge him anyway, would never be able to deny him a fucking thing.

It’s fumbling, clumsy and messy in his inebriated state, but it’s still so cute, so considerate, so caring, rough hands slathering the thick cream across your skin, rubbing in awkward, blundering circles—and it sends sizzling sparks shooting through your bloodstream, alighting your entire body with a blaze that is so specifically him.

The sky turns from coral to navy all at once, and then you’re clasping onto him tightly, hugging your body to his as hands roam, as fingers tangle and tug and tow, as lips latch and lick. Salt mixes with his usual taste, tongue tingling with it as it laps at the dips of his collarbones. The sharp smell of sugar stings your nose, and you inhale deeply, face nuzzling against his damp neck. He smells sweet, like sunshine and burning hickory wood, like a summer breeze grazing freshly washed linen, carrying with it a sprinkle of cinnamon.

And you can’t stop, powerless to your urges and void of all control as you nibble at the column of his throat, as you suck the prettiest galaxies of violet and periwinkle into his flesh, as the tip of your tongue traces the jutting bones at the base of his neck, over and over and over again until they’re saturated in thick layers of your gleaming spit.

Because he’s fucking delicious, and it’s never enough—will never be enough, regardless of if you spend hours kissing, until your lungs are burning and your jaw is aching and your mouths and chins and cheeks are coated in each other’s sticky saliva.

Because you’re fucking greedy, needy, hungry, limitless in how much you desire, more and more and more.

Because even when he’s pounding into you, it still isn’t ever enough. You want to consume him the way he consumes those pretty little tablets, want to breathe him in and hold him in your chest, in your heart, in your soul, forever. Not all of him, you promise, you swear, you’ll settle with just a piece—just a piece you can carry around everywhere with you, always. It’s the worst addiction you’ve ever suffered, it’s the sweetest heaven you’ve ever felt, it’s the only semblance of home you’ve ever known—you’ll keep chasing that high he gives you forever, keep chasing him as he chases drugs, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

And eventually, eventually it becomes too much to bear, just as it does every single night, this seething desire that roars and rumbles within you, rattling the cage of your ribs as it demands more. Eventually, it has you yanking on his arm, both hands clasped around one of his, shrill begs and pleads beginning to claw their way up your throat.

Strong hands manhandle you against him, a thick thigh slotting between your own, and you whimper, burying your face against his neck. With such a large crowd, and such thunderous music, and so many people higher than the clouds, no one can tell what you’re doing; no one can tell how naughty you’re being.

He knows exactly what you need, exactly what’s got you so restless, pressing his muscled thigh into your core and chuckling at the instant moan it procures.

“Daddy,” you mewl loudly against his ear, curled fingers giving another tug on his t-shirt, cunt already grinding steadily against his thigh. “I need you,”

He snickers, the sound vibrating against you, head tilting curiously and lips molding into a cocky smirk. “You need what, baby?”

And the whine that breaks in your chest is absolutely pathetic, bottom lip jutted out into a deep pout, grinding against his thigh becoming more erratic, more urgent. You hate that he’s gonna make you say it, face crumpled up in adorable irritation—his favourite expression on you, you’re sure, his smirk growing into a grin as a growl rumbles in your chest.

“Your cock,” shimmering eyes, glazed with want that reflects the flashing lights in their glassiness, stare up at him, blinking twice in enticement. “Please?”

He hums in thought as he pretends to think, to consider, as if his leg isn’t pressing further and further into your core as you aimlessly hump it, as if his cock isn’t already hard and pressed up against your hip and throbbing through his jeans, as if he isn’t grinding against you in infinitesimal motions, little gyrations of his hips that almost feel subconscious instead of intentional—as if he can’t help himself.

“Daddy!” you squeal, barely audible over the heavy bass, eyebrows scrunched in the way they always do when you don’t get what you want. “Now!”

Normally, if he wasn’t higher than the full moon hanging in the sky and flickering stars scattered in uneven clusters around it, such a bratty request would’ve earned you a hefty punishment—something that would’ve left your skin raw, cunt abused, and completely unsatisfied—because bad girls don’t get to cum, now, do they?

But tonight it only makes him laugh harder, cooing about how fucking cute you get when you’re all needy like this, like it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever witnessed, cobalt eyes shining with delight and adoration as he laces his fingers through yours, pulling you along behind him as he weaves in and out of the sea of bodies.

But the car’s too far, you’re whining as you trail behind him, a deep pout carved into your face, eyebrows knitted so firmly they weave creases into your forehead. I can’t wait, Daddy, I can’t wait!

And it’s true—you can’t wait any longer, you need him inside of you this very instant or you’ll fucking combust—a deprived addict vying for their favourite vice; a raving, ravenous fire that burns bright and blistering in the pit of your tummy, constantly starved for him.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before, this intense, insatiable craving; one that has your thighs clenching so tightly it’s painful, that burns through your veins and scalds the insides of your stomach, that has your blood bubbling and nerves buzzing, whole body feeling electric in his presence.

It’s a gnawing urgency, one that tears at the pit of your belly and roars in your chest, filling your ribcage until it feels like it’s about to burst, until it has you choking on botched gasps of air and his name, nails digging into his hand as you tug on his arm, pleading, begging, needing.

It’s going to devour you from the inside out if you don’t get what you want soon, if it isn’t fed with what it wants soon, expletive filth spilling from your lips in frenzied little huffs as Dabi tries in vain to drag you to the car—please, Daddy, I feel like I’m gonna die, need your cock, Daddy, need it right now, right now, right now, fill me with your cum, Daddy, I’m so empty without it; warm me with your cum, Daddy, please, please, pretty please, I can’t wait!

Such sentiments, woven together between threads of high whines and broken gasps, evoke a dark snarl ripping through his chest, his true persona cutting through the manufactured euphoria for just a moment—and then you see him, you see your Daddy, you see your home, blazing in his glassy eyes as he whirls around on you and crashes his lips to yours, large hands splayed on either side of your face, nimble fingers gripping your head so tightly it hurts.

But the pressure is welcomed, little hands pawing at his thick belt again, pathetic and desirous, and the sheer force has you stumbling backwards, feet catching on your own ankles as the two of you tumble to the ground.

“You are such a fucking brat, y’know that?” he’s nearly moaning between kisses, lips never leaving yours as he spits the words into your mouth, hips snuggling into their favourite spot between your thighs.

“You love it,”

“A spoiled little bitch,”

“Y-Your fault,” you giggle into his mouth, a large palm colliding with your ass half a second later, knocking a yelp from your throat, a pitiful little squeak that he readily swallows down.

Calloused fingers twist in the lace of your panties and he yanks, holes materializing in the delicate fabric, lithe digits hooking through them and unceremoniously jerking the ruined remains down your thighs. It’s graceless, movements inept and cumbersome in his attempt to remove them from your body, stubbornly refusing to break your kiss, hovering body supported by one hand and his knees. The material finally snaps, fingers tearing through it, like fire blazing through intricate spider webs. A whine catches in your throat and he laughs darkly, tongue lapping at your neck, your jaw, your mouth itself, drenching you in sugar-infused saliva.

Lips part immediately, eagerly, ready to greet his tongue with your own, and he huffs another chuckle into you, breath scorching as it floods the cavern of your mouth, and God, he’s got himself such a good girl, such a good slut, doesn’t he?

The words are mumbled out, slick lips gliding against yours, a little slurred and stuffed full of sticky spit as massive, rough hands run up your thighs, grabbing healthy handfuls of your flesh and squeezing.

A sharp gasp escapes from your throat, hips instinctively bucking against his from the sudden pain, and he laughs, deep and sinister and reverberating against his ribcage.

You can feel the dull thud of the music in the distance, bass burrowing its way into your chest, pulsating beat slithering through the pliant earth and oozing up through the dirt against your back. Magnificent glows of azure and amethyst blanket the festival in their embrace, bleeding into one another before they morph into and emerald and magenta, haloing the grounds and all of its inhabitants.

But all of those colours, the almost ethereal beauty of the party itself, is nothing compared to the sapphire gazing down at you, the ivory skin that almost glows against the grass and the pines and the night sky, the fluffy onyx tufts your fingers tangle in.

Teeth sink into his plush, scarred bottom lip and you suck harshly, taking it into your mouth, the tip of your tongue toying with it, laving over the supple flesh and dousing it in your saliva. A snarl clatters around in his mouth as he pulls his lip from between yours, teeth scraping against it in the process.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you’re chanting, muffled by his mouth, muddled by his tongue as it aggressively pushes against yours. “Need’a, need’a,”

The words snag in your throat, evaporating into ghosts of the sentences they were supposed to be, fading into pathetically breathy moans.

And it’s hard to think, when you’re like this, when you’re ensnared in him, consumed by his touch and smell and taste, tongue shoved so far down your throat you’re choking on it, brain gone numb—dumb—from it all, incapable of knitting together words and forming a sentence. Instead, your hand snakes between your bodies to cup his cock, a loud moan hitching in his chest as he immediately grinds against your touch.

“Want,” you mumble, groping at him and forcing a whimper from his chest. “Now, now, now,”

“So fucking needy,” he’s teasing, none of his usually heat to his voice, peppered with moans and the sweetest giggles as he rests his forehead against yours. Reaching down, two slender fingers prod your hole, giggles fading into groans as his eyes shut. “Soaked, huh?” he asks, voice strained, your head nodding almost ferociously in response. “Always drenched for me, aren’t you, my babygirl,”

But you’re too impatient to be properly prepped, to be thoroughly stretched out, impetuous legs kicking and squirming from underneath him, whining and pleading for him to just fuck you already!

They’re uncontainable, the words barreling past your lips, high and cracked and rapacious as you beg—beg for him to fill you up, to make you feel whole again, to stretch and shred and slash you to pieces, to put you back together, part by painstaking part, to complete you.

And he’s practically keening at the sentiments, hips rutting ungracefully against your soft palm, cock twitching through the denim of his jeans.

“Alright, baby, alright,” he’s hushing you, words slurred, heavy and unhurried despite his frantic actions. “Daddy’ll give you what’ya need,”

“Wanna ride,” you nearly wail, little fingers clawing desperately at his broad shoulders, fingertips sinking into his flesh through the thin cotton.

“Ch-Christ,” he nearly chokes on the curse, head nodding in choppy movements as he allows you to push the two of you over.

Because, well, baby gets what baby wants.

Or, at least, that’s what he’s telling you as you straddle him, lilt void of its normal derision, replaced with a kind of admiration.

Nails dig into the toned, smooth planes of his chest as you sink down on him, an involuntary hiss escaping gritted teeth, features scrunching in a cute wince. A hitched expletive escapes his throat, lidded eyes falling shut as his head lolls to the side, angular jaw on display.

The stretch is a welcome one, feels like home, so familiar it’s almost comforting, little cunt throbbing as you split yourself open on his cock.

Cool, refreshing air rushes into your lungs the moment he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snugly against your cervix, and that ache, that addiction, that animal tethered to the very core of your soul is immediately satiated, immense pressure deflating and the strain on your ribs easing up.

It feels perfect, feels right, feels whole, and suddenly, you’re alive again, intense sparks shocking your system as they sear through your veins, invigorated and revitalized.

It doesn’t last long though—it never does.

Because you’re just as famished, just as voracious, just as avid as that entity birthed from obsession and addiction inside of you, satisfied only for a moment before you need more.

It isn’t slow, isn’t sweet or soft, because neither of you can take that right now, neither of you need that right now. And the very moment he bottoms out, the minute you feel him nudging against your cervix, your hips begin to rock forward, rough hands finding their usual place on your hips, aiding you in your motions as he bucks up, falling into an instantaneous rhythm together

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’s panting out, bleary eyes watching you as his words knot on his languid tongue. “Bounce on m’cock, princess, bounce on it,”

The earth is firm beneath your knees, but you can still feel those faint vibrations travelling though the dirt. Blades of grass tangle themselves in inky tufts as his head falls back, neck arching, jade strands in a sea of black.

He’s so much louder when he’s this high, deep guttural groans rumbling in his chest, broken whines catching in his throat, growled out curses tumbling from his saliva slicked lips. Drool leaks from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin, and you long to lick it up.

“You always look so pretty, s-so perfect taking my cock,” he’s babbling, voice soaked in awe, pupils blown and shimmering as they gobble up your reactions, your expressions—every little sound emitted from your throat, ripped raw and wrecked from the column; every little twitch of your features, the way your lashes flutter and eyes roll back with each roll of his hips; every little shake and shiver and shudder, tiny jolts of electricity, of him, exploding through your veins—calloused hands sliding up and down your thighs in a clumsy caress. “F-Fuck, princess, so gorgeous,”

You should be quiet—really, you should both be quiet, fucking in an open field and committing such a heinous act of public indecency.

But you’re powerless to stop the mewls and cries from prying past your lips, and he’s hopeless to quell the steady stream of words flowing from his own, increasing in pitch and frequency with each gyrate forward, with each rut and rub and grind of your hips.

“Feel good, Da-Daddy?”

And he’ll never understand how you sound so fucking sweet, so fucking precious, as obscene words flow from those pretty lips, punched out of your chest with each rock of your hips, core of your body intimately skewered by him.

He doesn’t answer, can’t answer, words dissolving into a fractured moan as he nods vigorously.

“Want you to cum, D-Daddy—ah—fill me up, please,”

The grin that splits his face is nothing short of spectacular—it’s nothing like those sharp smiles he gives his enemies, or those smug little grins he gifts his friends, or those tiny lopsided smirks that grace his lips when he’s teasing. No, this smile—this smile is only for you; a gentle quirk of his lips, parted just enough to see those gleaming pearly teeth, fluid as it stretches and wobbles with his ragged pants and snapping hips. It’s almost overwhelming, the emotion pouring from that single, simple action alone, has your chest stuttering and eyes blurring, knowing that this is something special, that this is something that is yours and yours alone. And this smile—this smile is genuine, true happiness. This smile cuts through all of the drugs and anguish and rage, shining bright and beautiful as it beams up at you.

He’s walking art, talking art, living, breathing, feeling art—and he’s all yours.

You’ll never get used to this, you swear to God. Such amazement will never cease, makes fucking him a religious experience every single time, always so astoundingly exquisite. You’ll never get used to the way those dark growls claw their way up his throat, vibrating in the column. You’ll never get used to the way your name sounds on his tongue when he’s just about to cum, all pitchy and broken and punctured by hitched breaths. You’ll never get used to the way his thick eyelashes flutter, unfocused eyes rolling in his skull just a little—never fully enough to hide that brilliant sapphire from you—right before he stuffs you full of hot sticky seed.

And you never want to.

—

This is your favourite part, has always been your favourite part, will always be your favourite part, every single time. It’s terribly selfish of you—you know it is, know it’s awful and greedy and so, so obsessive—but you love it, love it as much as he loves the drugs and the music and the ostentatious lights.

Because he clings to you when he’s coming down, nuzzles his face into your very touch, practically purrs out his admiration for you as you pat his damp face down with an old t-shirt, brushing back the stringy strands of sweat-drenched hair from his forehead.

Because you’re his protection when he’s coming down, swathing him in your love, in your gentle caresses and your tender venerations—his very own guardian angel, keeping him from plummeting into the concrete and shattering into a million pieces, cradling him in your soft wings as you ease his feet back onto this earth.

Usually it’s scary, he’s telling you that night in the backseat of his car, eyes still glazed, breathing slow and shallow. Or, it was. It was scary, coming down without you—but not anymore. Because you’re here now. You’re here with him, and you take such good care of him, and he loves you, he loves you so much, he loves you more than anything on this planet—or any others.

He used to feel nervous, he’s babbling on as tiny fingers press into tight, coiled muscles, rubbing the tension out of them in small circles. Used to have memories… he trails off then, and you don’t push, never push, just humming your acknowledgement softly, whispered affirmations falling from your lips as palms smooth over his cheeks before caressing his hair, pulling mewls from his throat as he arches into your touch.

Bleary sapphires stare up at you, glittering in the dim light flittering through his car windows from the flickering lamp posts. He’s tired, he tells you suddenly, face somber, sober, but he can’t sleep.

“I know,” you murmur, petting his hair again. “Just try to relax,”

He is trying, he promises, vigorously nodding up at you, eyes wide as if they’re imploring you to understand.

But words keep spilling from his mouth—involuntary, automatic, reflexive—unfocused eyes staring up at the roof, then darting around the car slowly, distractedly, like there’s a million other thoughts surging through his mind—you can see them, swimming in his eyes, tainted with paranoia, with fear, even though there’s a steady stream of presumably unrelated words flowing from his throat.

He talks about anything, everything, nothing—all at once. He tells you about the festival as if you weren’t there, and you let him ramble, unable to stifle the small smile that forms on your lips. Because it’s cute, and he’s still so excited. He tells you how pretty you look, tells you about how good you ride his cock, how irresistible your cunt is, how much he loves stuffing it with his cum.

And throughout it all you nod and hum and coo, just like you always do, just like you always will.

And it’s nights such as these, at four and five in the morning right before the sun begins to creep over the horizon, navy sky fading into a faint amber glow the only indication that it’s coming—that you are careless with your words, that you are more honest than ever before, because you know he won’t remember it—or, if he does, he won’t bring it up until he’s high like this again.

Because his being high provides this limbo, this purgatory for the both of you to be open and raw and vulnerable under the guise of drugs, with the knowledge that you can always backtrack, always claim not to remember or that you said no such thing, if you ever need to.

You don’t ever need to, but the option’s there nonetheless, like a buffer of sorts—a buffer for him to be raw and real, a buffer for you to be less cautious, to be more reckless and let the words stream from your lips without fear of consequence or punishment; a shield for both of you to use against such susceptibility.

It’s become an unspoken agreement between the two of you, a pass. And that’s what makes these nights the best.

And you will always consider yourself one of the lucky ones, one of the privileged few that are allowed, permitted, approved to experience him like this—to watch that well-worn mask of apathy melt from his face as drug-laced happiness bleeds and burns through it.

It hurts, sends sharp spears searing through your chest, embedding themselves in the depths of your fucking soul, because you can only imagine what true happiness would look like on him.

Maybe it would be too much, you want to trick yourself into believing, desperate to find excuses for the drugs and the artificial euphoria, to sanction this type of behaviour. Maybe he would be too beautiful, too bright, too brilliant if he were truly happy—maybe he would burn out too quickly, if he were too happy, like a shooting star that flies across the indigo sky, sparkling and sizzling and stark in it’s stunning, gorgeous and ethereal and much too short lived as it fizzles out into nothing, into darkness and emptiness, only a moment later—gone forever.

And you suppose, if that were to be the case, that you could selfishly accept this fate—if only to keep him here with you for just a little bit longer. You could help him shoulder the crushing weight of that torture, that agony, that suffering that he’s constantly carrying, spine straining under it, if it means that you get to be with him for more, for longer, for eternity. You could handle that, if it means you get to be greedy, if it means that you get to have him, on this earth, living and breathing and beside you.

Still, you hope, very much so, deep down at the bottom of your heart, that he will one day find that true, genuine, sincere happiness that he deserves—and that it will stick, not just for a moment, for a few fleeting seconds, but for a while, for forever.

He’s quiet when you tell him this. He probably won’t remember it come morning, too high to remember much of anything, but he’s so honest when he’s like this, fucked up out of his mind, and words leak from his lips without his permission as he tells you, grave and serious, that he has…in you.

And you suppose…You suppose he’s right; happiness isn’t exactly a person, or a place, or an object—happiness is a sentiment, an experience, a collection of memories, adventures, evocations.

“Happiness is...it’s when I’m with you,”

#dabi x reader #dabi x you #dabi smut #bnha smut #todoroki touya #todoroki touya x reader #waaaAAAAAAAAH #ever so slightly nerve-wracking hahaha #this is EXTREMELY sentimental you have been WARNED #it's also supposed to feel almost suffocating or overwhelming #bcoz ur reader yk #okay ANYWAY ENJOY #tw drugs #tw toxic relationship #tw daddy kink

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dcbutinamrev · 3 years

Note

“Look me in the eyes and repeat what you just said.” 👀👀

Ask and ye shall recieve!

~~~

Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton sits down at the aide-de-camp office with a grunt. He tries to remain his focus on his tasks at hand, completeing more corrospondences for General Washington, shuffling through Lafayette's rough drafts and occasionally checking any spelling errors as the Frenchman is still learning the American language. But he couldn't help but feel his eyes tick up towards the narrowed staircase a few feet behind him. His chest fills with fire, ready to burst.

Hamilton forces his eyes back down towards his papers in hand, yanking the quill near the new aide-de-camp, James McHenry, who was recently added to Washington's staff not long ago. A few days ago perhaps and Hamilton must admit it is a surprise, indeed, that he's caught up with the routine quite quickly. As quick as Laurens.

Hamilton scowls and shivers at the thought of Laurens, his words--hurtful words--echoes through his mind as he clutches onto the quill tightly. He presses his lips together and bites his tongue behind clenched teeth in hopes it would hold back the low growl cojming from the back of his throat. His fingers curl tighter around the stem of the quill as the tip scratches Washington's name near the bottom of the corrospondence.

"Hamilton?" a voice says, snapping him out of his thought. A Southern voice, might he add. It's not as distinct as Laurens' but Hamilton can hear a twinge of the South in the man's voice.

He ticks his eyes towards his peripheral, his brows furrowing together to form a crease in his forehead and swallows hard when he sees Richard Kidder Meade seated beside him with a worried expression upon his face and a hand clamped onto the Caribbean's shoulder. Hamilton relaxes at Meade's touch but still is somewhat tense.

"Kidder..." Hamilton sighs as he runs a hand through his dark red hair and puffs out a breath, his freckled cheeks puffing out as he does so.

Meade smiles softly as he pulls the wooden chair beside him out and slides on down next to him. He folds both arms over his chest and leans against the edge of the table with his head tilted to one shoulder. He presses his lips together, pondering what to say next before finally clearing his throat and leaning back, somewhat relaxed.

"Are you alright, my Little Lion?" Meade says affectionally. In all honesty, Hamilton loves it when his dear friends call him their little lion, especially by Laurens.

Hamilton sighs audibly through his nose, setting his quill down after signing his corrospondence. He shakes his head. "No. I...well...perhaps...."

"Perhaps?"

"Yes...it's just..." Hamilton shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairs where Laurens still remains in the bedroom where they shared their last argument. A childish argument, Hamilton thinks. One of Betsey and one of his roles as a soldier and him insisiting I be locked up here like a woman.

"Alexander?" Meade tries again.

Hamilton sighs, finally explaining, "It's Laurens." A pause. Hamilton glances up at Meade, expecting him to question him but thankfully he doesn't. Hamilton continues. "He...he...he and I...we had argument..."

"Oh..." Meade says softly. Hamilton nods.

"Yes." A pause. "I just don't understand him, Kidder. Can't he see how much I care for him? As much as I care for her? As much..."

"Her?" Meade prompts, quirking an eyebrow, though he has a feeling he knows who the "her" is.

"Betsey," Hamilton says, taking a small sip of his coffee before setting it back down. A loopy grin on his face as he sees his beloved newly wedded wife before his eyes, her dark eyes on his, entrancing and almost like a bottomless pit, her dark hair--dark as chocolate--loose around her shoulders. Her pale blue dress down to her waist... "My wife..."

"Ah," Meade says, pating Hamilton's arm. "I'm sure he understands. He knows how much you care for him."

"Yes, but..." Hamilton sighs. "It's..." He glances back up at the stairs, his expression of what was once anger now disappiated into softness. "It's complicated, Kidder, between us." A short pause. "You wouldn't understand."

"I know," Meade says. Hamilton whips his head over his shoulder towards Meade with surprise, his face paling and his blood goes cold. Meade chuckles, causing Hamilton to frown with confusion and tilt his head to one shoulder. Meade, however, continues chuckling and and pats the redhead's shoulder. "I know. Oh, trust me, Alexander, I know. I know love when I see it."

Hamilton swallows but Meade only returns the expression with high, arched eyebrows. Hamilton glances back up at the stairs and instantly scoots his chair back, his chest squeezing as though a hand were clamped around his lungs.

Perhaps there was one.

Hamilton fumbles over the flaps of his buff blue Continental coat as he stumbles his way up the stairs towards his and Laurens' shared bedroom. He slams the door open rather ungentlemanly and marches two steps forward before slamming it shut behind him. He sees Laurens plopped down at the desk where Hamilton would usually work into the late night hours if he had extra work to finish, scribbling something onto paper.

"Stop," Hamilton says, catching his breath, breathing sharply in and out.

Laurens surprising stops without a protest, the tip of his quill hovering above the parchment. Laurens doesn't say anything.

Of course, he doesn't.

He's waiting for an answer. He's wanting Hamilton to answer.

"Stop it, John," Hamilton huffs.

Laurens lowers the quill scarily slowly yet gently as well and cranes his neck of his shoulder to glance at Hamilton before him, both eyebrows high and a small smirk of amusement? on his face.

"Oh? And why should I, Hamilton?" Laurens says. "You've made your point very clear."

As soon as Laurens turns around in his chair, Hamilton rushes forward and instantly dropping down to his knees and grasping both of Laurens's hands in his. Laurens freezes, his eyes narrowed at the paper before him and breathes in slowly, his breath hitched at his throat and holds it in place.

"Enough of this, John," Hamilton whispers, reaching out to tuck back a loose stray honey colored hair behind his ear. "You know where my heart lies."

"And it lies with that woman!" Laurens hisses, barks loud enough to be mistaken as a dog.

Hamilton flinches but tries to remain calm and steady. He never takes his eyes off his beloved Laurens' even though Laurens may take his eyes off of Hamilton himself, avoiding his gaze entierly. Hamilton shakes his head.

"No," he says, catching Laurens' attention. "It lies with you as well."

Laurens opens his mouth to protest but Hamilton promptly cuts him off.

"What is wrong with me loving another as much as I love you?" Hamilton whispers.

"That's not how relationships work, Alexander. You've never been in a relationship with anyone besides me. Haven't you? You don't know what heartbreak is like."

Hamilton feels his lips twist into a tight scowl and scoots foward onto his knees so he's in between Laurens' legs, his hands still clutched into his. He gives it a firm shake as he snarls, his eyes eyes twitching, "Look me in the eyes and repeat to me what you've just said."

Silence.

"I have experienced heartbreak throughout my childhood, John," Hamilton explains in a quick, hushed voice. Almost like a snake. "My father abandoned me when I was ten. My mother died because of an illness the doctors couldn't treat while I survived. My cousin committed suicide not long after my brother and I moved in with him. My brother, the only person I had left, was seperated from me. A hurricane destroyed my fucking home. Demolished it. Burned it to ashes! Killed thousands and thousands of people...innocent people...John."

A pause.

"So don't you dare tell me what heartbreak is like, I know what heartbreak is like."

"That's besides the point," Laurens growls. "That's different. I'm not talking about that. If you would just stop blabbering and just simply listen."

Hamilton growls low, yanking his hands off of Laurens and standing upright, placing his hands on his hips now. "Well then perhaps you should do the same."

Laurens pushes himself up from the chair and towers over Hamilton, so Hamilton has to shrink slightly. Laurens folds his arms over his chest.

"You did the exact same thing he did," Laurens growls as he shakes his head, blinking his eyes. His voice cracks, causing a spear to go through Hamilton's heart. "Claimed you loved me. Say that you loved me. And I thought you were mine, you said you were mine! I...I wanted..."

"And you are!" Hamilton whimpers, cupping both of Laurens' stubbled cheeks in his palms. He searches the blonde's face, his eyes ticking back and forth quickly. "You are, John! You are mine and you always will! I love you...so much...just as much as I love Betsey!"

"No!" Laurens snaps. "You stated yourself there was no one you loved but her!"

"I had to say that, John! I had too!" Hamilton cries. "We were surrounded by the others! You know..." Hamilton pinches the bridge of his nose and huffs out a breath, trying to calm himself. "John...I love you..."

"No," Laurens says instantly. Hamilton sniffs and glances back up at him. Laurens rests a strong hand onto Hamilton's freckled cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away a stray tear Hamilton didn't realize had escaped. Laurens smiles, though the anger and annoyance is still clear in his bright blue eyes, and leans down to press a kiss to the edge of Hamilton's mouth, his nose nudging against his cheek. "You should be married." Hamilton lets his eyes flutter shut as Laurens pecks his earlobe and whispers, "For both of our sakes."

"Jack--" Hamilton begins but Laurens cuts him off with a sudden kiss.

Hamilton hisses sharply through his nose, taken aback and completely off-guard. He lets his eyes slip closed and slowly lifts both hands up to squish Laurens' cheeks together while Laurens lets his hand slide down Hamilton's sides and grip his wrist, pulling him close so his chest nearly touches the blonde's.

Laurens tilts his head, trying to find a perfect angle, letting his lips trail down the side of Hamilton's neck and up his jaw. Hamilton grips Laurens shoulders to keep himself steady as he tilts his head to the side to allow Laurens room. Laurens, however, gets a little greedy, needy and slams Hamilton against the closed bedroom door, pinning his arms to the side as he kisses the redhead's lips, his knee nudging agianst Hamilton's inner thigh, causing Hamilton gasp sharply with surprise. Laurens grins with triumph, the corners of his lips quirking up.

"John..." Hamilton gasps against Laurens' rough, yet soft rosy pink lips. "John!"

"My apologies," Laurens sighs as he pulls back, pressing his forehead against Hamilton's. "Do not leave me, my dear boy."

Hamilton hums, a small smile on his face, slowly opening those breathtaking deep blue eyes. Laurens' heart flutters and his breath hitches in his throat when he sees flecks of violet in those deep ocean blue irises.

"I won't leave you," Hamilton promises. He pauses, furrowing his brows in thought as he scratches Laurens' light stubble with his fingers. "But..." Laurens raises both eyebrows, gesturing him to continue. "You have to promise me not to leave me as well."

Laurens breathes in sharply. A curt nod.

"I promise."

That will be a lie.

#asks #ask liz #prompts #fics #ficlet #requests #writing #liz writes #melissa!#lams #historical lams #alexander hamilton #john laurens #hehehe suffer <3 #angst #amrev #read more

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justfanficccc · 2 years

Text

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK

VII Song of Songs

Father Paul x Reader

Riley Flynn x reader

NSFW content

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine; he grazes among the lilies.”

- Song of Solomon 6:3

The next week is dull, since you have made yourself comfortable here for the time being you decide to start cleaning your dad’s old room and bagging up his old clothes for charity. There are some dirty things still sitting in the hamper, you pull a shirt out and hold it close. It still has his smell on it. Beer, sweat, and cigarettes. It should make you want to gag but this is the first time in months you've smelled him. You used to hate the way he smelled when he would hug you, his breath always smelled like coffee and Newports. His ashes sit in a small box on top of his dresser, no urn. Just a black box. You wouldn't know what it was if it didn't have the small white sticker with his name on it. You were supposed to be the one arranging the burial of his ashes. Anne can't even step into his room without breaking down so you decide to take on the task. She hasn't asked yet about what you have planned, she probably isn't ready yet and wants to keep him in the home as long as she can. Even if it's just dust in a box. Still holding the shirt you let out a small sniffle as you grab the box and hold it tight. “I'm sorry dad, I wish things were different. I wish I hadn't disappointed you.” You keep his shirt secretly and hide it away in your room, stealing small sniffs every once in a while when you miss him. The scent slowly fades.

By the end of the week, you have nearly finished and are feeling burnt out. Emotionally and physically. You think you'll head over to Flynn’s place and see if you can catch Riley. It’s Saturday so he's probably home.

“Do you ever wonder if nuns, and priests like…you know.” You make a crude gesture with your hand.

“Why the hell would I know?” Riley blurts out laughing and gives you a disgusted look.

“I mean I don't know! I just feel so bad for them, like maybe if Bev just like rubbed one out…” Riley interrupts.“Ya if she knew how maybe she wouldn't be so angry all the time.”

You both fall back onto the sand laughing hard until your stomach hurts. It's dusk, the sky is a dark blue, the stars are just barely coming into view. You both seem to like this, just laying there in silence for a while quietly enjoying each other's company. Once the sun finally sets you sit up still enthralled by the night sky.

“Do you think we ever go back, up there I mean?” Riley sits up listening to you carefully.

“How do you know that's where we came from in the first place?” He asks

“I don't know…something about it just feels like home.” You whisper.

Before you can process what is happening Riley's hand is cupping your cheek and pulling you close to him, his eyes open watching you react as your lips press together softly. You want to pull away at first, knowing you aren't interested in him romantically but you kiss him back. He's attractive, smells nice. Maybe this will keep your mind off of Paul for a little bit. His hands are gentle and kind, moving slowly up your shirt as he kisses you deeper. He sighs into your mouth.

“You don't know how long I've wanted to do that.” He smiles at you and you feel yourself blush. You have always thought he was good-looking but never really interested in him. You press into him hard wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him sweetly as his hands explore your body. “We need to go somewhere else, we could get caught.” He says breathlessly into your mouth. You pull him back to you, not listening, just wanting his touch to drown out your thoughts. He pulls back again watching as you eagerly reach for his belt. You quickly unzip his pants and feel him in your palm. His breath hitches as he feels your grasp. You work quickly as you pull him out of his boxers. His tip already dripping just from your touch. You feel yourself becoming hot as well, he's eager for you. He wants you, and that is exactly what you need right now, someone who wants you desperately. His head tilts back in pleasure as he lets out a quiet hum. He's like putty in your hands, you can feel the pulse of his cock. You shush him as you press your lips to his neck. After a few seconds, he pulls your hand away, lays you down onto the sand now straddling you, and pulls down your jeans and panties in a swift move. He tries to bury his head between your legs but you squeeze not really interested in that right now. Pulling himself back up he presses himself against your opening and pushes himself inside, you aren't nearly as wet as you were last Sunday. You lay there as he pumps himself deep inside, his full body weight on top of you now. He whispers sweetly in your ear as he works. He feels good, his warm breath in your hair, his hands softly caressing your face. “You’re s-so fucking p-pretty.” He croons as he shoves himself into you over and over. He finishes quickly, squirming a bit as he lingers on top of you. He pulls himself off of you and stands up looking around. You both dress yourselves again and quickly shuffle off of the beach. Walking hand in hand now in silence he glances over at you a few times trying to see what you are thinking. You notice but don't want to talk.

“Well, this is my stop.” He says standing in front of his house, hand scratching the top of his head.

“You sure you don't want me to walk you home?” He asks wearily.

“I'm a big girl, I can handle it.” You let go of his hand and smile quickly before turning around and heading down the street. Instead of heading home, you wander through the town slowly, breathing in the cold salty air.

You end up at the convenience store, they don't have many options so you go with your tried and true on a night like tonight, vodka. It’s cheap and smells like nail polish remover, it reminds you of high school parties. You usually don't smoke, you used to sneak some of your dad's cigarettes back when you were younger and share with your friends, but tonight you get some to take the edge off. You push the bottle into your sweater to hide it away as you walk home.

It’s a small clearing behind the church, you used to come here with Riley and your sister sometimes as kids. You pull out the bottle and take a few big swigs, then fumble in your pockets to find the lighter you had brought from home. You spark the end of the cigarette, the smoke hitting the back of your throat and traveling down into your chest, as you exhale you fall back and lay down with a muffled thud.

“What the hell am I doing.” You almost laugh at your own misery.

“What the hell am I doing!” You yell. You sip the bottle again while laying down. At this point, you are feeling the alcohol's effects your head buzzing a bit and your face feeling hot.

You sit up clumsily lighting another cigarette. You look up and into the distance, you see the church steeple.

“Oh sorry Jesus I forgot you can hear me,’’ you say slurring your words, and point at the church with the hand you're holding the bottle in.

You puff the cigarette and then use the bottom of your boot to extinguish it.

“Fuck it.” You say as you stand up wobbling. You get one more good sip before leaving the half-empty bottle on the ground.

“I'll be back for you friend, don't worry!”

Walking to the church was not a great idea, you are barely able to keep yourself from falling during the few minutes it takes to get there.

You grip the railing tightly as you walk up to the doors, your boots sound heavy on the stairs.

“Hellooooo,” you say in a sing-song voice entering the old building.

“Sorry I didn't bring any to share” you giggle as you saunter down the aisle talking to the crucifix as if Jesus can hear you.

“But I thought since y-you made water into wine it would be fine.” You hiccup.

“I'm pretty sure there's no rules about being fucked up at church, right?.” You flop yourself into the pew at the front of the alter. Splaying your arms wide settling them on the back of the wooden pew, your legs outstretched. You want to scream, yell at the statue in front of you for making you feel so dirty and guilty. Ever since you've been here it's all you have thought about.

“Envy, drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God.” A dark, warm voice echo from behind you. Cutting off your train of thought.

“Galatians 5:12.”

You don’t even flinch, you'd known he would be here prepping for mass tomorrow. You watch him as he steps into your view.

“I mean I get the whole e-envy and drunkness being a sin but orgies? C’mon, that’s just kink-shaming.” You hiccup again.

“You should go home, Bev is nearby I can have her walk you-“

“-fat chance in hell.” You choke out, interrupting him.

“Actually I came here to talk to the big J.C. Father, we have some stuff to settle.” You say mischievously as you lay back into the pew.

“You need to leave.” He finally says sternly. But his eyes tell a different story and you notice. He looks helpless and worried. Instead of deterring you his sad puppy eyes only make you want to misbehave more.

“I have seriously been thinking about all of this lately, it's really starting to mess with my head” You point around in a circle.

He brings his hands to his face pinching between his eyebrows, he's getting irritated.

You flip around clumsily now laying on your stomach, your elbows resting on the hard seat of the pew, hands holding up your head. You bend your knees and swing your feet in the air.

“Father?” You say almost singing. He’s silent, still pinching his brow.

“Father,” You say sweetly, as innocently as you can now curling your pointer finger to summon him closer, with a devilish look in your eye.

“Please, stop.” He breathes heavily and takes a step back. Hmmm, struck a chord did we? You think.

“Don't what? Don't call you that?” You stand up slowly trying not to stumble and inch closer to him your eyes now locked on his. Now only inches away you can smell him again and it is intoxicating. “I thought you liked being called that Father, or do you prefer…my Shepard?” You stop right in front of him, your chest almost pressing against his abdomen, you look up at him, your eyes begging him to bend you over the pew right now and take you. If you were sober you'd feel bad about this, but you ache for him. Your need for him is too hot and strong to care now. His breath catches as you loop your finger around one of his belt loops and pull him closer to you.

“Please.” You whimper into him, now completely dropping the whole attitude you had a minute ago. “Please, ill do anything Father, please” you press your chin against his chest as you look up at him, his hands still at his side awkwardly he's practically vibrating trying to hold himself together. His eyes soften as he watches you plead.

Finally, he pulls his hands up to your face, gently rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs.

“My lost little lamb.” he plays with a lock of your hair that has fallen onto your face.

“You don’t know what you are asking me.” He sighs and presses a long kiss against your forehead. You shut your eyes, they start to tear up.

“Let's get you cleaned up.” He says rubbing your shoulders now, it feels like he's trying to comfort you like you would a child, and it's humiliating. He pulls away, you want to stand there and disappear as his body leaves yours, you can feel the buzz wearing off. You oblige and follow him into the storage room of the church and out the back door. He helps you walk as you stumble to the rectory.

You sit on his small couch he starts the shower for you, you don't like people taking care of you, seeing you so vulnerable. He emerges from the bathroom and holds out a hand in front of you. You look up at him desperately. You take it and follow him into the bathroom.

“There are towels here and I-I think the shirt will fit.” He points at a pile of clothes sitting folded on top of the sink. “You just call out of you need anything.” You nod and watch as he walks out of the door. He leaves but notice he keeps the door cracked. You undress letting your boots fall to the floor with a thud. Once you are fully bare you step into the shower. As you wash your body you keep your head under the cool water trying to sober up as much as possible. You can't even tell if you’re crying at this point, you feel disgusting. You had just slept with Riley earlier tonight and now you were naked in a priest's home, very classy. As you finish up you look down at your feet noticing the water is tinged pink. “Are you kidding me?” You reach your hand down to check if you've started your period but there's nothing, it must be coming from somewhere else.

You step out of the shower and wrap your body in the soft towel he left for you. You’re leaving a trail of blood as you search the bathroom cabinets for bandages.

You hear a knock. “Everything all right in here?” Father Paul asks from the other side

“Yeah, Im bleeding. I dont even know where from honestly, do you have bandaids somewhere in here?” You hear the doorknob turn quickly. You pull your towel closer to you as he pushes his way into the bathroom.

“Are you hurt?” Father Paul grabs your arm hastily searching for the wound. He must see the large tattoo on your arm as he's looking but doesn't seem to care.

“No, no I'm ok. I don't even know where it is honestly I didn't know I hurt myself”

Without a beat, he guides you into his room quietly, basically forcing you down onto the bed.

“I’m fine. Seriously I can't even feel it” He doesn't seem to hear you as he reaches for your other arm to check it. Not finding anything he kneels down onto the ground pulling your leg up by your ankle he diligently searches you for the cut. You can't help but feel your stomach fill with butterflies, his sweet eyes gliding across your body. You never imagined this is why he would be on his knees in front of you.

“It’s not too bad, stay here.” You do as your told and stay still as he leaves to find a bandage. You look around his room. It’s exactly how you would have imagined, dark and boring. He returns and gets back into a kneeling position focusing on your leg. Gently he wipes away any blood with a cloth and dries the area. Then places a large Bandaid on the cut.

“Thank you.” You say sheepishly. Now basically sober you start to feel embarrassed as he stares at you. You pull the towel tighter around yourself.

He gets up noticing your shift in mood and grabs the t-shirt he left for you.

You change into it after he leaves the room and can't help but feel cozy as his shirt wraps around you, it smells like him. You rub the tattoo on your arm happy that he didn't say anything.

“What were you doing there, tonight?” You spin to see him leaning in the doorway of his room his arms folded over his chest.

“Well, I guess if I’m honest I had really just wanted to run into you. Maybe to confess some stuff. Hell maybe try to get my faith back. I-I don’t even know anymore.” You sit down on his bed your fingers nervously playing with the fabric of the blanket.

“You could have just asked me.” He says quietly.

“Asked you what?”

“For confession.” He answers.

“I don’t even remember how.” You mutter softly.

Paul shifts his weight and slowly comes and sits on the bed next to you.

“Well, first you would start with the sign of the cross, and then say. ‘Forgive me father for I have sinned ’.” he prompts as he waits for you to repeat him. You look at him almost amused. “I don't know I mean we aren't even at the church“ He knows you’re stalling,

“Go on.”

“Fine. Forgive me father I have sinned.” You say huffing as you do the sign of the cross quickly.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“I don't remember, it's been years” you scratch the top of your head ashamed.

“It’s ok” he places a hand over yours

“Ok, well…” you breathe hard as you think how much you want to share.

“I have been awful to my family, my sister is always upset with me.”

He nods, understanding “family can sometimes be hard to get along with, as long as you ask forgiveness I'm sure she will understand.”

“Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, for good. So I drink or do stupid, reckless things to try and take the pain away.” You look to him for support.

“What else do you do to take away that pain?” He asks, his eyes looking worried.

“Well…I” you stop, not sure whether to tell the whole truth of what happened tonight, you don't want him to know what you did with Riley.

“I did something that I think I will regret.” You look away and take your hand from his you don't want to dirty him with your sin.

“I think I made a mistake. And I know this mistake will hurt this person eventually. I didn’t mean to, it just happened” He looks at you, questions flying through his head.

“You think what happened at church was a mistake?” He places his hand on your bare thigh, his touch lighting up your core. He doesn't understand, you weren't talking about that, honestly, you thought that last Sunday was just a strange misunderstanding, that he may just have been a little too friendly.

“No Father not-not that not this.” You look at his eyes, wide and questioning. His brow is furrowed and his forehead wrinkling.

“I did something…sinful-” your words linger on your tounge.

“-with someone else. He was so sweet to me and I was so-” You stop to think about your words.

“I was confused, I needed to feel something, so desperately hungry to feel something.” He presses his hand harder into your thigh now gripping you, his touch switching from comforting to something else entirely. Is he angry with you? His grip tightens even more now, pulling your leg towards him. He brings his head closer to you slowly his mouth is so close to your ear his breath tickles you.

“You were hungry?” He asks now whispering into your hair you can feel his eyelashes as he blinks against your forehead.

“I needed to feel touched, to feel wanted. It was almost painful, the want that I felt.”

“Painfully hungry?” He asks now pressing his face into yours. Your breathing quickens as his hand moves up your body, one rests behind you on the bed propping him up the other coming up around your clavicle. His long fingers curl around the base of your neck gently. He rubs the side of it with his thumb tracing your pulsing vein.

“I would have helped you, given you what you needed” he coos into your ear as his hand moves to your cheek, pulling you gently so your nose touches his. His eyes are staring into yours but his eyelids are low. His gaze has changed from loving and comforting to animalistic and possessive.

“I-I didn’t want to ask that of you. I still don’t want to ask that of you. I shouldn’t have come-” He shushes you and strokes your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. You whine at the contact, your hips buck instinctively as he teases your mouth.

“Was it Riley?” He breaths heavily his voice trembling as he closes his eyes, he sounds so upset. You want to beg his forgiveness, you never wanted Riley, you just needed to feel something.

“I didn't want him, Father, I wanted you, I thought of you.” He kisses you softly at first his lips pressing chastely against yours his other hand presses into the small of your back.

“my little lamb” he whispers into your mouth and you unravel, you pull yourself on top of him straddling one of his legs. He sits still, his legs spread apart, feet on the ground. You press yourself onto his thigh rhythmically and reach down feeling him through in his jeans. “Father, Please. I need you.” You reach for his belt but he grabs your wrist and pulls your hand to his face. You don’t mind, you are perfectly fine just rubbing yourself pathetically on him like this. Even if it's all you get from him you'll be happy. He reaches around you pulling his shirt off of you, leaving you only in a bra and panties. You almost don’t even notice him unclasping your bra as you grind on him, you feel your clit pulsing as you rub into him. His hands gently trail down your body, softly groping all of the soft parts of you he can.

“God made you so perfectly.” He whispers into your shoulder, you pull him closer and tangle your hands into his dark hair. “Can I-can I take these off father?” You ask him quietly with your eyes closed still thrusting yourself into him. He doesn't answer, simply guides you off of him softly and kneels in front of you. He looks up at you with his big brown eyes and scans down to your soft stomach, eye level to him. He places his warm hands on your hips before turning you around and slowly hooking his fingers into the band of the lace panties and pulling them down, he rests his check into the warm curve between your ass and back. He pulls your panties to his nose “You smell heavenly.” You blush, never having anyone compliment you on your scent before. His free hand runs over your curves delicatly squeezing your softness. Once he finds your wetness his breath quickens, he stops and swiftly sits back onto the bed stuffing the thong into his pocket, he's keeping them. He pulls you back into him, your back now flush with the front of his shirt the back of your head sits on his broad shoulder. As you begin again, sliding yourself onto the harsh now soaked denim he pulls you closer one hand curled around the front of your neck and the other resting on your hip. You whine and squirm against him as he whispers quiet praises into your ear.

“Does it feel good, my sweet girl?” He murmurs softly into you, smelling your hair.

“Yes, F-father. So good.” You pant as you writhe against him. You can see his white collar out of the corner of your eye, his Adam's apple bobbing as he speaks.

“How good does It feel my little lamb? Is this what you were so hungry for?” His fingers grip your hips tighter now pushing onto himself helping you rock back and forth. His cheek now resting on your temple, watching you hump him he lets out a soft hum as your thigh brushes him through his pants.

“Father. Please, please don't stop.” You can feel it building in your legs as they start to tremble, he takes notice and steadies you with both strong arms, pushing his leg further into you.

“Tell me, sweet girl, is it Divine? Holy?” You push into him you feel the hot sticky pressure bubble in your stomach you let out a hum and almost cry as he kisses your shoulder.

“Jesus Chr-Paul please let me.”-you beg him reaching down to his pants you notice a small wet spot where you had been teasing him with your leg. Did he finish? Just from this? You are ripped back from your thoughts as he pulls your hand away again, gentle but stern.

“Thou shalt not take the lord's name in vain.” He whispers into you, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He’s being serious.

The mixture of guilt and pleasure pushes you over the edge you feel yourself explode, you close your eyes as tears fall down your cheeks, tiny flashes pop like fireworks behind your eyelids as you come down from the most intense orgasm you've ever experienced.

“thy love is better than wine” you sing out as your body falls into his, you feel him kiss you sweetly as he holds you here like this. His tender fingers comb your hair. The feeling of regret and confusion starts to take hold of you as you realize what you have done, what you both have done. You don't want to look at him, worried he will tell you to leave but you open your eyes and see him staring down at you. His face is not guilt-ridden or full of regret at all, he seems unphased as to what just happened, as if breaking his celibacy vow meant nothing.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers caressing your cheek. You hold onto the moment for as long as you can, you can't help but feel the need again. “No more, don't be greedy,” you think to yourself. He lays you down softly onto his bed and tucks you into his blankets. If you were in your right mind you'd have already left, ran home, and showered yourself clean. But the bed is so warm and you are tired and sore. As you try to fall asleep you keep your eyes on the back of him, watching as he undresses, his fingers moving slowly as he unbuttons and pulls off his shirt exposing his arms. He thinks you have gone to sleep, he takes off his undershirt and unbuckles his pants, and carelessly kicks them to the ground. God, he is perfect, tall and lean, not too muscular but you can see his shoulder muscles and biceps flex as he moves. He almost catches you as he turns, grabbing the towel you had used before him he leaves heading into the bathroom, as he turns on the showerhead you hear him singing hymns quietly.

“Come as you are, that's how I love you.

Come as you are, trust me again.

Nothing can change the love that I bear you.

All will be well, just come as you are.”

You know the song from church and hum along quietly as his voice lulls you to sleep.

#fanfic #ao3 #father paul hill #midnight mass #monsignor pruitt #priest kink #slow burn #strangers to lovers #fiction

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