#{he just wants to hear Francis talk dirty}

[ncroissant]

switch! doppelgänger francis mosses x dom! gn! reader x sub! francis mosses

summary: double-teaming the real francis with doppel! francis

wc: 1.4k

content warning: nsfw, cock can be viewed as a strap, nipple play (personal fave), throat-fucking, blow jobs, hand jobs, dirty talk, doppel francis is referred to as doppel, wrist burns, tied up francis

author’s note: hellooooo my lovelies !! here is the long awaited fanfic that will hopefully satiate everyone’s preferences from the francis mosses poll yesterday (so i'm a pathalogical liar bc the way this was just sub! francis...) i plan to write many, many more sub! francis content because i cannot imagine him any other way. hope you guys enjoy this :) not proofread, minors please dni !!

“hhGHK-”

“can’t hear you that well down there, francie. speak up f’me?” you smile devlishly, tilting your head to look down at your crotch. francis knelt there with brusied knees, sucking your cock, stroking what he couldn’t fit with two hands.

another francis emerged from behind you, chuckling at his dupilcate’s pitiful state. “is that what the francis of this world is really like? a milk delivery man during the day, then a pathetic little whore who chokes on cocks back at home?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“c’mon, use me too. i would never whine like this while suckin’ on that…” his fingers trailed down your v-line to the base of your cock. “i’m different from this loser…” he pouted, placing his chin on your shoulder, giving you a pleading look.

“m-mmnMPFH, g-GHK!” francis moaned, the vibrations shooting through your cock. he was whiny, but that’s what turned you on the most about your desperate little boyfriend.

you chuckled, gripping at his hair to make him look up at you. “don’t forget to look at me while i fuck your throat, francy,” you instructed as he nodded as best as he could with tears pricking his eyes. the look he gave you was so priceless, his mouth stuff full with your fat cock and drool dripping down his chin.

“yeah, but my dirty boy takes my cock the best,” you praised, making doppel frown. you thrusted your cock deep into francis’ throat, hitting the back of his throat every time you made even the slightest movement.

his eyes rolled back at the thickness and length of your cock, as he exhaled through his nose heavily. he felt his hands drifting down to his bulge, humping the carpet underneath.

you noticed, finally knowing what to do with doppel. “actually, i need you to take care of my needy little boy down there…” you shot francis a glare, shaking your head in disappointment. he whimpered at the action, his eyes widening with tears immediately streaming down his cheeks.

you pulled him off your cock, his saliva connecting to the tip. “haagnh…” he mewled out, his tongue still stuck out, waiting for a sweet treat. “c-cum on my tongue, please…” he begged, placing the tip of your cock on his tongue.

“such a needy boy. always wanting more than what you’re given, huh?” you tutted, grabbing your middle of your cock to tap it roughly on his tongue. he could only moan, feeling his hips shake in anticipating.

“that’s why i have him. to help me discipline you,” you pulled at doppel’s bow to tug him closer, untying it in the process. “c’mere francie. up on my lap,” you patted your lap, holding a hand out for him to get up.

he followed suit, stumbling over his feet a bit, but ultimately sitting on your lap with his back pressed against your chest. his cock was aching in his stupidly tight pants, begging to be let free. his face flushed at the sight of a very different, yet similar version of himself in front of him.

“doppel, c’mere sit on francie’s thigh,” you motioned him over, straightface. you, on the otherhand, begun to tie francis’ wrists above his head with the tie you had previously acquired. doppel obediently followed your instructions, sitting on one of francis’ spread thighs.

“w-what’re we doing?” francis stuttered, feeling exposed despite being fully clothed.

your arms looped around his body, rubbing his nipples through the fabric of his shirt. he jolted. “just punishing you,” you smiled, giving doppel a look. he quickly caught on, unzipping francis’ pants, palming him through his underwear.

your pointer finger tickled at his sensitive nub, while the other hand pinched at his already hardened nipple. francis’ weak spot was his nipples. the way he reacted when you even grazed his nipples made you want to bend him over a bucket and squeeze them until milk came out.

“o-oooH! hnnghh…w-why through my s-shirt?” he whimpered, jutting out his wet lower lip.

you gave him no response, flicking at his buds with your nails, making his arch his back. “gHK! y-you’re too, mnGHHK, rough!” he exclaimed, his brows furrowing. you loved to twist and tug at his nipples.

it was his fault for wearing such a tight uniform shirt. he was just asking to have you toy with his neglected buds that always poked out from the slightly nudge from the shirt fabric. your hands grope his chest, fingers rubbing over them quickly.

doppel wasn’t neglecting francis’ cock either. he was playing lazily with the wet spot on francis’ underwear that leaked pre-cum. it stuck to his pointer finger when he dragged it away, making doppel chuckle at his copy’s sensitivity.

“feel good, francie? squirmin’ so much, hm?” you placed your chin on his shoulder, watching the way his lips shaped into an “o”, mewling at the way you played with his perky nipples. you’d tug on one, flicking the other one quickly.

“g-good, HNGH, o-oghhh...s-so gnhh…” he could barely get a word out, lewd noises just falling out of his lips. you stopped teasing his nipples before slowly unbuttoning his uniform shirt.

doppel wasn’t taking francis seriously, stroking at a pace he thought was slow, but inhumanely too quick for francis. “human dicks are so small. you pleasing anyone with this tiny little guy, huh?” he teased, making eye contact with francis. “oh look, more pre-cum spilled out!”

francis felt how wet his cock was getting, covered in dopel’s spit and his own pre-cum. when he thought he only had to focus on doppel, your hands came back to grope at his chest. you could now visibly see the pink plushness of his nipples.

“looks like something might come out if i squeeze hard enough, right francie?” you whispered in his ear, rolling your fingers around the bud.

“same thing on my end,” doppel chimed in, rubbing his thumb over francis’ slit.

francis shivered at the thought, feeling his high come at lightning speed. the way the tips of your fingers would flick at his nipples combined with doppel’s inhumane strokes made the poor boy explode.

“ooonghhh, ‘m c-cumming soon, mmngh! HGK! c-cumming!” he bursted into doppel’s palm, collapsing into your arms. your movement slowed slightly, but you continued to flick at the tips of his nipples.

doppel took note of this, playing with the slit of his dick, playing with the foreskin. “human stamina is so pathetic. surely you’re not done now?” doppel leaned down, lapping francis’ cum with his monstrous cum.

“UGHK? i-i jus’, hic, came…hnnn…” he cried, tears streaming down his cheeks, feeling his aching tip burn. regardless of his pleads, he still rutting his cock into doppel’s mouth for additional friction.

“show me what your pretty chest looks like now, francie,” you ordered, as he puffed out his chest for you to see properly over his chest. you hummed deciding to untie him so he could give you a real show.

his wrists were red from shaking against the restraints so you pressed chaste kisses against the burns. “that’s not how you show me, is it?” he shook his head, shaking from the way doppel was sucking his dick.

francis’ fingers stretched the skin around his nipples, properly showing you the puffiness of his teased buds. he looked up at you with his fingers strewn across his chest with a teary-eyed expression.

“such a perfect boy f’me,” you praised, ruffling his locks. “so good that you can take another hour of teasing before taking my cock, right?” you grinned, your hands finding their rightful spot on his chest.

‘e-EUGH! yesyesyes…i can take it, hngh!” he nodded furiously, his hips shaking like a dog in heat.

“good boy,” you nodded, sticking your fingers into his already open mouth. you and doppel had a long night ahead of you.

taglist: @lordragamuffin

[agaypanic]

hii ! can i request francis wilkerson (mitm) x fem!reader smut whos really shy with intimacy and francis just guides the reader gently with fluff aftercare?

Lights On (Francis Wilkerson X Reader Smut)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: You’re not used to being intimate, so Francis makes sure your first time with him is extra special.

A/N: inspired by lights on by shawn mendes teehee i feel like this could be better but whatever

CW: p in v sex, loss of virginity, praise kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation/exhibitionism/voyeurism, soft dom!Francis maybe ??, kinda talks you through it

***

You weren’t used to being so close to someone. At least not physically. Yes, you had your fair share of partners, but you had never gotten that far with any of them. The lack of action eventually drove them all away, leaving you heartbroken.

Francis was different, though. You thought that after so much time together, he’d be annoyed that you hadn’t had sex with him yet. But he was nothing but kind and understanding, never pushing you or trying to guilt you into anything. When you were finally ready, you knew Francis would make it all worth it.

“Hey, Francis?” You called out to him as you made the bed. The two of you had been living and working at the Grotto for a few months now, and it was absolute bliss.

“Yeah, babe?” He responded, coming out of the bathroom. 

“What’s on your schedule today?” You asked your boyfriend as he fluffed and repositioned your pillows. He let out a puff of air as he thought.

“Not much. I think a few horse rides and taking care of the stables, and then Otto let me have the rest of the night off.” Francis walked around the bed to get to you, resting his hands on your hips. “Why? Did you wanna do something?” He asked as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“I have the night off too, so I was thinking maybe we’d get some dinner from the restaurant and have a night in. What do you think?” You tilted your head to the side at the end of your question, and watched Francis grin down at you.

“I think that sounds perfect.” He responded, kissing your lips. “I can’t wait.”

***

You had been thinking about tonight’s possible events all day. You were a bit surprised you got any work done. You were trying to decide on a good way to tell Francis that you were ready. Of course, you could just come out and say that you wanted to have sex with him. But being so blatant seemed a bit nerve-wracking.

When you got back to your room, you kicked off your shoes and went to the bathroom mirror. The labors of your workday were evident; your clothes were somewhat ruffled and dirty, and your hair was a bit messy. So you decided to take a shower and freshen up, the warm water relaxing the dull ache in your muscles and putting your mind at ease.

“Y/n?” You heard Francis call out as you stepped out of the shower. “I’m home!”

“Just a second!” You shouted through the door. You patted yourself dry, putting on a loose shirt, which was probably Francis’s, and underwear before stepping out of the bathroom.

You watched Francis empty a bag, placing the different takeout boxes from the Grotto restaurant on the table. Hearing you walk in, he looked up, and a smile immediately graced his lips.

“Hey, cutie.” He said, closing the small gap between you and putting a hand on your hip. “How was your day?” He asked after giving you a kiss.

“Better now that you’re here.” You responded, resting your hands on Francis’ shoulders. “I see you brought dinner.”

“Yeah, I was helping set up the tables for dinner, so I figured I’d grab our food when I was done.” 

Francis gently pulled you to the table, pulling a chair out for you. When you sat down, he took the chair next to you and opened the boxes, helping serve you first.

Dinner was filled with delicious food and light conversation. You were grateful when Francis started on a long story about something that had happened during one of his horse rides today, because it distracted you from the nervousness you had felt throughout the day. There was something about Francis that just washed away whatever nagged at you, making you calm and content.

When you were finished eating, the two of you cleared the table. You flopped down on the bed and stretched your limbs.

“So, what do you wanna do?” He asked, looking at you curiously before sitting on the bed next to you.

Now was your chance. You sat up slightly, leaning on your elbows as you looked up at Francis.

“Well…” You started, turning to lay on your side and rest your head in your hand. “I had an idea or two.”

“Oh, yeah?” Francis mirrored your position. “Such as?”

“I…” You suddenly became distracted by Francis’ lips and how close his body was to yours. You pressed your legs together, which didn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend. He arched an eyebrow, urging you to continue. “We could have sex.”

Francis stared at you briefly, processing what you had just said. He bit his lip, scooting a bit closer to you.

“Are you sure?” He asked, and your heart melted at the fact that he wanted you to be a hundred percent confident in your decision. You nodded. “Are you sure you’re ready? Because we don’t have to.”

“I want to.” You said with finality. “I’m ready. Unless you don’t wanna have sex. I mean, in that case, obviously, we don’t have to, but I’ve been thinking about it for a long time an-”

You were glad that Francis cut off your rambling by wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into a deep kiss. You moaned into it, letting him guide your body to rest against the pillows on your bed before hovering over you. The hand that didn’t hold him up started to slip under the hem of your shirt.

“Is this okay?” He asked against your lips, and you nodded furiously. But that wasn’t enough for him. “Want you to say it, honey.”

“It’s okay.” You responded immediately in a whine. “More than okay.”

Now having a satisfactory answer, Francis’ hand left feather-light touches on your skin as it went along your side and up to cup one of your boobs. He started tweaking your nipple, and he swallowed the whiny moan you had let out.

“You like that, baby?” Francis asked, his lips leaving yours to kiss down the column of your neck.

“Uh-huh.”

“Want me to take this off?” He asked, toying with the hem of your shirt. You nodded and sat up, helping him tug the article of clothing off and over your head. Now almost entirely bare, Francis stared at you with hunger. “God.” He breathed out, diving in to kiss and grope at your chest, which you happily welcomed. “You’re so pretty, baby.”

Francis has said this to you before. Not a day went by without him complimenting you in some way. But the way he had said it now, voice deep with lust, left you wet and aching. You tried to close your legs together to soothe some of your neediness, but Francis noticed your reaction and smirked up at you.

“You like it when I call you pretty?” He cooed, and you nodded. He grinned, kissing your tits before trailing slowly down your stomach. “I’ll bet you’ll look even prettier when you’re stuffed full with my cock.”

“Francis.” You moaned. You grabbed his shirt, tugging at the fabric. “Can you take it off?”

“Of course, baby.” He uttered softly before kissing your lips and sitting up on the balls of his feet. As he fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, he looked at you, eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint. This meant he had an idea, and you were beyond curious about what it was. “You know what you can do while you wait?”

“What?” 

“You can touch yourself.” The casual tone in Francis’ voice made your breath hitch. “Wanna know how to make you feel good. You can do that, right? Be a good girl and get yourself off for me?”

You squirmed at the ‘good girl’ title, desperately wanting to hear more of that. Hesitantly, one of your hands drifted down your body to your aching core. You wished it was Francis’ hand instead of yours, but yours would do for now.

“You don’t have to be shy, honey,” Francis said reassuringly, pressing a kiss to your knee as he tugged off his button-up and belt, leaving him in jeans and an undershirt. “You can do it.”

Francis’ words gave you the push you needed to pull the seat of your panties to the side and graze over your clit. Begging for stimulation, the delicate touch made you twitch and sigh. Francis’ watchful eyes didn’t help with your heavy arousal.

As Francis got off the bed to tug off his pants, two of your fingers gathered your wetness, spreading it up to your clit before plunging into your pussy. You sighed in relief as you started to finger yourself, movements speeding up to a rhythm that made you writhe around on the bed and throw your head back in pleasure. 

Francis’ cock hardened at the sight of you, making him groan. Standing in his boxers, he started palming himself while watching your movements. It was like he was studying you, memorizing the pace of your fingers thrusting in and out of yourself and how you rubbed at your clit with your other hand.

Eventually, your movements started to falter, your hand growing tired of the fast motions. Hearing a whimper fall from your lips from the lack of stimulation you needed, Francis crawled onto the bed.

“Need help, baby?” He asked.

“Please.” You mewled, letting Francis grab your wrists and pull your hands away from between your thighs.

Francis’ finger prodded at your entrance, slowly entering you to get you used to his touch. You groaned, moving your hips to try to quicken his pace. Getting the message, Francis started fingering you at the same pace that you had previously, soon adding a second finger.

When his thumb began rubbing at your clit, you jolted.

“Oh, Francis.” You moaned, the coil in your stomach quickly tightening. “Francis, I’m- I’m gonna…”

“Come on, pretty girl, you can do it.” Francis coaxed, gaze constantly switching between your legs and your face. “Come for me, Y/n. Come on my fingers.”

As if those were the magic words, you snapped. Your orgasm overcame you, and you groaned and babbled as your legs shook from the immense pleasure. Francis kept up his pace to ride you through your climax. When you came down, he slowed to a stop, removing his fingers and licking up your arousal until his fingers were clean.

“Was that okay?” He asked, staring at you with a serious look. The question made you giggle.

“More than okay.” You replied. 

“Are you sure you still wanna-”

“Yes.” You interrupted. “Please, Francis. I want you so bad.”

Francis took a deep breath, thoroughly aroused by your begging. He reached over to his bedside table, opening the drawer to pull out a condom from a pack that he had bought so he’d be prepared if you ever decided you were ready. Opening the foil wrapper, he shoved off his boxers, and you watched his dick spring up, finally free from its confinements. You gulped when looking at the size of him, but still kicked off your panties with eagerness.

Once the condom was rolled on, Francis settled between your legs and looked up at you.

“I’ll go slow. If you need me to stop, just tell me.” You nodded, and he raised his eyebrows, clearly wanting a verbal answer. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Grabbing himself, Francis swept the tip through your folds to gather your wetness and spread it with his hand before pressing to your entrance. With one final look for confirmation, Francis slowly pushed in, his free hand grabbing yours.

You inhaled sharply. The feeling was a bit strange; filling and pleasurable, but with a slight sting of pain. But you didn’t want Francis to stop. 

When he buried himself to the hilt, he stopped, wanting you to adjust to him. He planted constant kisses on any skin he could reach, mumbling praises to you that made you wetter.

“Francis.” You said, and he lifted his head from your shoulder to look at you. “Move, please.”

Slowly, Francis pulled out until just the tip was in. Then he started thrusting in and out of you at a light pace, eyeing your expressions to make sure you weren’t feeling anything other than pleasure.

“Faster.” You whined, arching your back as Francis quickened his pace. 

“Doing so good for me, baby.” Francis groaned, nipping at your chest. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping at the nape of his neck to try to ground yourself. “Such a good girl.”

You moaned loudly, hoping that any neighbors or people passing by couldn’t hear you. But then again, if they did, you wouldn’t care. You were too wrapped up in the feeling of Francis filling you to the brim, making you feel things you’d never felt with another person.

“You look so pretty.” He mumbled, watching his cock disappear inside of you and feeling you flutter around him at the compliment. “Feel so good.”

“Feels so good, Francis.” You groaned. A hand went down to rub at your clit, and Francis knew that you were close. He gently removed your hand to replace it with his own.

“Come when you’re ready, Y/n.” He said, free hand gripping your thigh. 

Once again, the pleasure swirled inside of you until you couldn’t take it anymore and snapped. You let out a guttural moan, this orgasm more powerful and overwhelming than the last. Your pussy squeezed Francis’ cock tightly, and soon enough, he came as well, spilling into the condom.

When Francis stopped his thrusting and laid on top of you, the room was filled with heavy pants as the two of you caught your breath. 

“You did so good, baby.” Francis praised you, pressing a few quick kisses to your cheeks before kissing you on the lips. “How was it?”

“Perfect.” You muttered with a blissed-out smile, clearly exhausted. 

“I’m glad.” Francis grinned, lifting himself off of you. 

He pulled out of you, making you pout at the sudden lack of fullness. He went into the bathroom, soon coming back with a damp washcloth. Gently, he wiped you clean, pressing a kiss to each of your knees. Then he threw the cloth into the hamper, going to the dresser to grab clothes for the both of you.

Now dressed in another one of his shirts and some shorts, you curled into him as he lay on the bed next to you. 

“I love you, Y/n.” He whispered into your hair, stroking your back.

“I love you too, Francis.” You replied softly, soon dozing off.

***

Malcolm in the Middle Taglist: @rattilol

[riseofamoonycake]

Artwork

♣️ Pairing: Human!Choso x Paintress!reader

♣️ Warnings: Mention of angst

♣️ Notes: this is what happens when you study art and you decide to know more about Francis Bacon.

One night is enough to fall in love with Choso: even if you don’t know him yet, all your artistic cells start vibrating as soon as … ― who? Who is introducing you to each other? It doesn’t matter now ― introduces you, and you see in that boy with a tired and reserved expression, and such a silent but powerful energy, the universe and the reality you have always aimed for. You don’t talk much to him in those hours; but you observe him for a long time, there in the penumbra in which he is immersed, distant from the others and beating like a heart that no one knows ― but you can hear it, you see it clearly in front of you like dawn at the end of the winter solstice, and your thoughts unroll like fabric, your fingers tremble with the desire to tighten around a brush and throw all your sensations on a white canvas, unable to really understand why.

The spring is enough to realize the influence that Choso has on you; years later, people will say that was the year in which your art began to express in its full strength, originality and intensity, but only you will know the precise moment in which it all began. On the night of the change, at the end of the evening with friends, Choso takes you to your apartment almost by chance; he shares the road with you mostly in silence, listening to you talk about the Caravaggio exhibition for which you spent a fortune and embarked on an almost sixteen-hour journey, to then look at you with his deep dark eyes and ask only a curt, whispered question: «Why then, if everything in your life is so full of color and meaning and affirmation, are you here with me?» There is no answer to this ― at least, not verbal; because as soon as he leaves you in front of your house, you rush inside, run to the studio and without even undressing, regardless of the new coat and the state it will be in afterwards, you start preparing the colors, grabbing the first canvas you find and then another and another, dipping the brushes until you get to the heart of the color and starting to paint without brakes, panting, almost crying, breathing with difficulty in the freezing room, feeling the heart give way, open up, blow up. Creating a work of art is like making love, you once heard a professor whispering at the Academy, in the end you are never the same as before, you die and reborn different. It is a carnal, bodily and mental act, sacred and dirty at the same time, which involves every part of us, tears us inside, floods and consumes us. And if it doesn’t drive us crazy, then it’s just a smeared canvas and unimportant sex.

And in your head, and with your hands, throughout the night you make love countless times and give vent to the spirits of your world; so much so that when the morning comes and you finally stop, exhausted and out of breath, you can hardly believe that you have been able to create what the sun is lighting up, still dripping with color and your tears. And each work can only bear one name.

«Do you really want to come with me?»

Choso turns to look at you for an instant, inscrutable and measured as always, then nods and looks back at the paintings you have done, neatly displayed in the art gallery that has been collaborating with you for years. «You mentioned your desire to travel to Europe and America, to see the works of your favorite artists… and I simply found it interesting. If you go there, and if you want, I could go with you.» A pause, then his calm voice resumes speaking: «I still don’t understand much, but I shouldn’t have any problems with an expert like you.»

You stand behind him, speechless, then blush hard and look away. «It will be a long journey, which will last months... and it won’t be easy. Think about it», you murmur, trying not to feel the anxiety build up and hold off the many thoughts that have started racing through your head like galloping horses. You and him alone in the major temples of art; you, him and the works you have always admired from afar... a dream ready to come true, but also to become fragile, trembling, an illusion.

«I’ve made my decision. Now it’s up to you whether you want to go alone, or want me for company», he murmurs, taking a step back and looking at you one last time before moving his gaze to the next work, seeming not to notice the blush on your cheeks and the eyes wide open, incredulous, slightly absent. You don’t speak, already knowing where you will arrive; and he keeps silent, without interrupting the words that overlap inside you or upsetting what you are feeling.

… And again, Choso surprises you a little, and mostly confirms what you saw in him.

As you predicted, the journey turns out to be long, through countless cities, museums, collections, art expositions and sensations. There are so many stories, countless shapes, styles, uses of color, entire decades and centuries of art unfolding before you and empowering your imagination; and profound words with which you describe them to Choso, who observes everything and, you realize it right away, becomes both even more taciturn than his usual, almost disturbed, and even more obsessed than you by the paintings he has in front of ― especially by the darkest and most tormented ones ― so much so that he ends up being the one who remains in the halls for hours, chained to the works before him, forgetful of everything. After each experience, his questions are endless; and this, if on the one hand it pushes you to smile, on the other it makes you silent too. «Choso… is something bothering you?», you soon start asking him, hoping to try to move him at least for a moment, at least with a word; but beyond when he asks you for interpretations and explanations, he never replies, he doesn’t even look at you. There is no room in his mind for you now ― so you think; and it is only at the end of it all, in the last museum you visit, that Choso holds you back. «Y/N… why do you artists have so much power and are you so scary? How can you peer so deeply?»

You look once more at Francis Bacon’s painting in front of which he has been standing for almost an hour, and you realize that he is not seeing it, but beyond; far beyond what one might think, and that can be explained with little. «Sometimes we don’t want to, you know; sometimes, bringing back what only we see, or that we have the courage to face, is the only way to get rid of our demons, to exorcize pain and help others. When the world forgets that we all feel the same, we remember.»

«And in your case? In your case… what is it?»

Without thinking twice you hug him from behind; you wrap your arms around his waist and just rest your head on his shoulder, but you don’t even have time to notice what you have done that he takes your hands and holds them tightly. «In my case it’s a bit of this…», you murmur indicating the painting with your chin, then turn around and push Choso to do the same, and look at the art work opposite it: triumph of gold and red, orange, summer, light. «… And a little bit of that. I was lucky enough not to experience what many artists had to suffer, yet…»

«Yet life knocks on anyone’s door, bringing colors you don’t expect.»

You are surprised for a moment by the words Choso has just uttered, so wise and precise, then you nod and smile sweetly; neither of them shows any sign of letting go of the other. «I think you will become a good art critic, if you continue like this», you finally comment, chuckling, «and above all, you will remain the good person you have always been; you will remain human, and you will never be alone.»

Choso doesn’t reply anymore, and you let him think, feel in silence. You wouldn’t trade this moment for anything else in the world, not when this is your moment, the artwork you create.

«Why do you say that the critics have not understood anything about your art exhibition? The works that you consider minor are simply beautiful! They’re not original and mind-blowing like the ones you create now, but…»

You listen to Choso’s words, busy watching you paint with a grimace and arms crossed on your chest, and you glance at him. Since he made that journey with you, the boy has started to open up more and more: you didn’t force anything, you just let art work its magic and make him find the best way to get to you, and you waited on it. You suspect that there is a lot that he still has to reveal to you, but you are not afraid of this: investigating, experimenting and bringing to light is your job, with patience and gentleness you will succeed.

You let him talk, then you answer quietly. «Because critics enjoy saying and reiterating that I immediately revealed myself as one of the most brilliant souls of my time, the last beacon of ancient, old and modern art, and the gateway to the new…», you quote, intentionally marking the words in a stilted voice, «… and none of them has yet realized that, actually, my paintings don’t have a soul. The older ones, at least.»

«But why? They are bright and elegant like you, they are well-kept and do not lack originality. What is missing?»

You take a deep breath, then stop and turn all the way to him. All the stars that are not yet in the sky are reflected in your eyes, and more are added when you smile and open up honestly: «You, Choso. You were missing in my life... you weren’t there yet.»

The boy’s eyes widen and he looks away as he blushes, as he always does for some time, and you can hardly help laughing as you return to your painting. There are truths that sting your tongue, pawing to come out, and in the end you let them go, because you have held them back for too long and it is been days, weeks, now that you are tired of keeping them at bay. «Because while I was painting, you weren’t here, making love to me.»

«… What?»

You don’t deny anything, even if this time it is you who blushes; and when the young man takes you by the shoulders to turn you around, you are ready to poke a clean brush at his face, making him jump in surprise but not flinch. «Careful, this one has the ability to trap people», you murmur to him, and he backs away slightly in response, looking into you. «You… have you always considered me so important to you?»

You advance calmly, the brush extended towards him, until he stops and decides to let you touch him; and then you run it over his forehead and cheeks, trace the profile of the nose and caress the mouth with slowness, vague sensuality and a pinch of mischief. «You live inside the brightest and happiest part of my soul, Choso», you whisper reaching towards his ear, gently sliding the brush along his neck, collarbones and chest, up and down on his heart as when you are intent on creating and your hands respond by themselves to the forces of the mind ― and of love, «and this is why with all my soul, dark and bright at the same time, I ask you… do you want to make love with me and to be my masterpiece?”

[kaimaciel]

*drops engport au in your mail box* 18th century duke Arthur and painter Afonso who he commissions all the time.

Arthur coming to his gallery like "Francis has this huge painting framed in his dinner room, would you be available to paint the walls of my living room so I can shut that frog's mouth?"

Afonso who was painting his pet rooster like a renaissance angel "sure let's do it"

Kinda tells a lot about Arthur that he picks the guy who's painting his rooster! 🤣

I can see Afonso as a azulejo painter and Arthur his basically commissioning him to paint his walls with all his great feats!

Like these:

Afonso gets to work but needs Arthur to explain to him what moments from his life he wants to paint. So they spend a lot of time together, talking, getting the room ready, Afonso painting each tile carefully.

As time goes by, and they get to see more of each other (Arthur taking off his jacket, Afonso takes off his dirty shirt with paint), they begin to lament the end of their days together once the walls are ready. Arthur never had anyone listen to him like this and Afonso feels appreciated and needed.

However, Afonso also can hear how Arthur talks about Francis. He knows that undernearth all the rivarly and hate, there's desire. Arthur doesn't just want to surpass Francis, he wants to impress him too. It breaks his heart.

So he decides a clean cut is the best solution. When he finishes the walls and Arthur marvels at his work, he grabs his payment, thanks him for his patronage and leaves.

"Wait! You're just leaving?" Arthur asks.

"Is there anything else you want?"

Arthur's face goes deep red. "No. Thank you for your hard work."

Afonso lowers his head and walks away, but just as he reaches the door, a pale hand grabs his arm from behind.

"Stay," Arthur whispers, burying his head against Afonso's back.

[luvkun4]

How about Fitzgerald from BSD with K, D and (maybe) W

MY BELOVED FRANCIS, I HAVEN’T TALKED ABOUT HIM IN AGES 😫 also, i did a full nsfw alphabet for him on my old blog but everything i say here is gonna be different from that bc it was from a while ago & i don’t remember what i wrote lmao

nsfw alphabet headcanons

D (dirty secret): Franics is into public sex — or rather, semi-public sex. he’s the type that gets what he wants, and if he wants to have sex he will (with your consent ofc) make sure it’s had, regardless of the location. obviously this doesn’t apply to super public areas with a bunch of people around — though he’s not opposed to touching you under the table at dinner. he’s more likely to want car sex, or drag you to the bathroom of the restaurant. of course, he has yet to tell you that he fantasies about this, therefore it’s nothing more than his dirty secret.

K (kinks): just to list a few: tiny size kink, choking, breeding, daddy kink, and orgasm control.

• size kink & choking go hand in hand — he just loves the way his big hand looks wrapped nicely around your throat. and the way your pulse quickens under his touch make his dick twitch. his fingers are long & thick, and he adores seeing you squirm when they’re knuckle deep inside you. also his dick is above average to say the least and hearing you whine every time he pushes it in your tight hole drives him crazy.

• Francis is a family man !! if course he has a breeding kink. while it’s wholesome at times, there’s other times when he wants to fill you up simply to say he did because you belong to him. it asserts dominance in his eyes, to breed you and say that you’re bound to him for life now that you’re carrying his child <3

• he actually never thought he’d be into being called daddy but boy is he. it’s the tone you say it in, all whiny & needy while he’s balls deep inside you. it drives him insane and definitely triggers that breeding kink of his.

• orgasm control is a big one. he wants you begging for permission to cum so he can deny a little longer. very much enjoys edging you and having control over your body in that way.

[kanmom51]

Hello kanmom

I'm going through a big dilemma right now. I'm from a conservative country and this whole being gay or gay relationships are new for me. But the thing I see between jikook is love which is so pure and something not everyone is lucky to have. So I'm very much supporting them not minding whether it's right or wrong.

But as I said, I'm coming from a place where everyone surrounding me thinks it's something against nature, should not happen or is worst than crime. They don't know about Jikook but when being gay is brought up all thinks it's a joke and something not worthy enough and they are not the level of the superior straights. My very educated friends, my parents and almost everyone thinks so.

When they are being homophobic I sometimes react and they feel offended saying 'why am I too concerned about some person not at all connected with me'. I'm feeling offended not because I'm attached to the person they are making fun of, but because of Jimin and Jk. I love them very much and I know people will similarly judge them and makes fun of them which makes me so sad. After hearing this from many places now I'm feeling like ' am I the wrong one here ?' Is it really as bad as people make it to be and judge them to be. Am I too blinded by Jimin and jungkook to not to see the negative side of being gay.

If there was nothing wrong in being gay then why most of population is against it ? If it was the same love in gay relationship then why people feels digusted by it ? I really don't know.

Hello anon. I feel for you. And I understand the struggle you are going through.

This is not an easy subject to talk about. And this post, it’s gonna be a little on the heavy side, readers be warned.

For the sake of this ask alone I will be talking about homosexuality and only homosexuality.  

I will also want to open by saying that perceptions are changing anon.  Even if they haven’t started to in your neck of the woods, they are in many other countries.

There are many religious people that do think differently, that don’t perceive homosexuality as a sin.

Pope Francis has weighed on it, saying that he thinks that same sex couples should be allowed to have recognized civil unions:

"Homosexual people have a right to be in a family...They are children of God and have a right to a family. Nobody should be thrown out or made miserable over it...What we have to create is a civil union law. That way they are legally covered.”

Sadly, even after saying the above, nothing has been done to change the church’s official position that homosexuality is a sin.

I'm not a religious person, never have been. I believe that the basis of religions may be positive, well some of it: love thy neighbour, respect your parents, be a good person, but the religious establishments, the power they seek and possess over the people, that is so wrong, in my opinion.  

And the views against homosexuality, well that comes exactly from those places. Control and power over the people.

Homosexuality anon, is part of nature, and happens in many species of animals. Homosexuality, attraction to men, is not a choice, it's something you are born with. 

There are so many articles and papers written by actual scientists on the matter.  All you need do is google it.

And it most definitely isn't a sin or dirty or wrong. It's just different. Being attracted to men rather than women is different, different than what most men are attracted to, as part of natures plan for procreation. And human society deeming it as wrong, as sinful, not allowed, well that is part of said control I was talking about - a man shall not waste their sperm, which is meant for procreation.

We find this in the bible, the holly book that set up the rules and laws for a new GROWING society, the Hebrews. There was kind of a logical reason for setting said rules in place. When you are trying to build a society, you want it to multiply and grow. 

And having to set said rules, laws, well that kind of teaches you something else anon, something that we can also find in art and writings from said period and after - homosexuality, m/m sex, it was something that was definitely happening at the time, if there was a need to outlaw it.

Setting these laws was not only to ensure procreation and growth of the society, but also to set them apart from other cultures and societies at that time.

The bible, Judaism, well that was the first of the 3 monotheistic religions and their beliefs were the basis for Christianity and Islam.

People think it’s a sin, say it’s dirty, because that’s what they have been told for so many years.  

And please don’t get me going on the sexual abuse, including by men of the cloth (from every single religion) towards young boys.  Men that have no problem to abuse their power and abuse young innocent children.  Same men that will stand up and in the sermon call out homosexuality.

Let’s talk about the 10 commandments, the 10 basic laws god gave upon humans, the 10 commandments that both Jews and Christians should abide by are:

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

Remember to keep holy the Sabbath day.

Honor your father and your mother.

You shall not kill.

You shall not commit adultery.

You shall not steal.

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife.

You shall not covet your neighbor’s goods.

These are the 10 big no-nos. Of which too many people, religious people, people that call homosexuality dirty and wrong and a sin, disobey. They steal from others, they cheat, they lie, they covet, omg do they covet what isn't theirs.

Another no no, one that finds it’s place in the bible, is that a man shall not waste their sperm (hence homosexuality being a sin).  But masturbation is most definitely considered a sin as well.  How about that?  How many of said men calling homosexuality a sin haven’t masturbated during their lives?

And yet, all these ‘sinners’ find it in them to bare judgement over 2 men that find love in each other?

2 consenting adults, regardless of their sex, being together, doing whatever they are doing together, without hurting anyone else - why is that a sin?  Why is that wrong or dirty?  

There are things that have been done in the name of god, that are beyond wrong or sinful.  Witch hunts, the crusades, the inquisition...

Me saying that those speaking in the name of god aren’t always right.  

So, to sum this nice little Ted talk, religions deeming something as wrong doesn't necessarily make it so, ahm. There are many rules and laws created by said religions that are being questioned now days, some accepted, some not.

And now to you being the odd one out, the one that thinks differently than the others, that's not an easy cross to bare (and I am using that reference on purpose here).  But you see, being the odd one out, the one to call out on society doing something wrong, while everyone else is doing that said thing, or everyone else believes otherwise, well, that most definitely doesn’t make you wrong.

There have been so many people over history that have stood up, called out cultures, societies, the religious establishment for their wrong doings.  They were the odd ones out, but history taught us that even though they were alone or in a minority, at the end of the day they were right.

Galileo - he paid with his freedom for it.  But he was right, not the church, not the majority.  He was considered a heretic for his views, his beliefs, that turned out to be the actual physical truth.

So anon, you being the odd one out, you being able to see that love is love is love...that might make you the odd one out, but it most definitely does not make you the wrong one !!!

[mjolnir-steve]

Holly Jolly Husband

Frank Adler x fem!reader

Word count: 2515

Summary: You and Frank ship up to Boston with Mary to visit your mother-in-law for the holidays. Unfortunately, you get snowed in, but that doesn't mean you and your husband aren't able to get a little hot and heavy. 😏

Warnings: smut (18+ only!!!!!!), some cursing, breeding kink, unprotected sex (m/f), tiny bit of fluff, sprinkle of corny jokes

Author's note: This is my second entry for @stargazingfangirl18, @navybrat817, and @drabblewithfrannybarnes’s Happy Hoelidays Challenge! I'm thrilled to be sharing this and happy that I've managed to write two fics for this challenge, a total of three fics in one month (a new record for me). 🥰

Thank you so much to Iva (@beefybuckrrito) for beta-reading this, making me laugh, and letting me blather on about my own breeding kink (oop!), especially when it comes to cranky Frankie. We all have to thank Thevy (@the-sal-del-mar) for the elaboration on nipple play and suggestions for reader's dirty talk. 🥴

(Dialogue prompts are in bold!)

-

Evelyn Adler was on your last goddamn nerve. It was your first Christmas with Frank after getting married in the fall, and you somehow ended up spending it snowed in at your mother-in-law’s home outside of Boston. Frank suggested that you and Mary join him in wearing ugly sweaters to dinner, insisting that he “had no idea” his mother required formal wear for the party she hosted on Christmas Eve.

From the moment you arrived that morning, Evelyn made you want to scream. She paid no attention to you or Frank until the two of you would try to sneak away for a moment. Then all of a sudden, she just needed Francis to check something with her car or she simply couldn’t allow you to attend the party with your hair looking like that. In a house as large as hers, you thought it would be easy to lose her, but she was always hot on your heels, deceptively saccharine insults at the ready.

For whatever reason, Evelyn stipulated that gifts be exchanged on Christmas Eve, after dinner and before dessert. She showered Mary with presents, including a desktop computer and several mathematics textbooks that were now out of print. Mary was elated, and you hoped that Evelyn had gotten at least one comparably nice gift for her son. To his (completely expected) dismay, Frank received two custom-made suits, one black and one navy. However, you were delighted, anxious to see how your newly minted husband looked in the expensive material.

“Thank you so much, Evelyn,” you smiled, hearing him mumble something about gotta be fuckin’ kidding me under his breath as your hand ever so slightly crept up his thigh.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Evelyn rushed to the other side of the tree, retrieving a small, but beautifully wrapped box. She handed it to you, and upon feeling its weight, you hoped it was the new Bluetooth speaker you’d asked for. Knowing your mother-in-law, it was probably some expensive tchotchke, but you were surprised she’d gotten you anything at all.

You untied the ribbon carefully, wanting to save it to make a headband for Mary. You removed the wrapping paper to reveal a plain, white cardboard box. You smiled at Evelyn as you opened the box, gasping at her audacity when you found a large scented candle similar to one you’d purchased recently at Target. And of course, it wasn’t even a scent that you liked, rendering the thoughtless gift useless, too.

Frank clocked the tic of your jaw and the new tension in your neck, your tendons straining as he willed the steam not to escape your ears when Evelyn grinned and asked if you liked your present. He decided to defuse the situation before the bomb inevitably burst, taking advantage of Mary’s preoccupation with working on problems in her new Moleskine notebook with her rose gold and pearl Montblanc fountain pen.

“Honey, will you come upstairs with me for a sec? I think we forgot something. Come help me look?”

You looked at him in confusion before you noticed the slight nod of his head toward the staircase.

“Oh, right! Let’s go check. Thanks, Evelyn.” You flipped her off behind her back as you passed, making Frank chuckle and give your ass a light smack as you walked ahead of him.

As soon as Frank closed and locked the bedroom door behind you, you launched yourself into his arms, screeching into his chest.

“Your mother is actually insufferable, Adler. I cannot understand how you came from her.”

You walked in circles around the room, waving your hands so wildly that you began to resemble an air traffic controller. “It would have been better if she just didn’t give me anything. Do you see how calculatedly insulting she is? You know this already. I know you know this.”

You pulled at your hair as you rambled, your husband sitting at the edge of the bed and listening as you let it out. “She bought a ten-year-old a thousand-dollar pen! Who the actual fuck spends that much money on a pen, Frank? For a TEN-YEAR-OLD. I’m tempted to throw the candle through the front window like a brick. That’s all it’s good for since it smells like shit.”

Frank chuckled as he listened to you. He hated that you were so angry, but he’d be lying if he said his dick hated your passion in the moment.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. We shouldn’t have even come. I just didn’t want to disappoint Mary. She wanted to see the snow and I should have said n-”

You walked over to him and pressed a finger to his pouty lips, one of your favorite features of his. “You have nothing to apologize for, babe. And I’m not going to get an apology from the person who owes me - us - one.”

His hands found your waist, thumbs brushing back and forth in the pattern he knew instantly soothed you.

You ran your hands through his thick, messy hair, pulling his face to your belly. “Frankie?”

“Mhm.”

“Just promise me when we have our own children, we’re not going to do this shit.” His grip on you tightened. “We’re going to buy them normal presents. If they end up being geniuses like Mary, then they can do math with a mechanical pencil from the drugstore like everyone else.”

He pressed a kiss to your stomach before leaning back to look up at you, his normally bright, sky blue eyes now darkened like a hurricane was coming, and you were in a fucking rowboat with one oar.

But he let you continue, slowly standing up as you rattled on. “And if Evelyn wants to spend the holidays with her grandkids, she can come to Florida. I’m not dealing with her nonsense when we have little ones running around. I don’t need her immaturity on top of ev-”

You yelped as Frank backed you up into the wall, pinning you there with his thick thigh between your legs. “So children, huh? Like… more than one?”

You rolled your eyes at him in a lazy attempt to hide the way he quickly affected you. “Out of everything I said, that’s the only thing that stood out to you?”

“No, lots of things stood out, but now something else is standing out because of it.” He pressed his body against yours, glancing down between you.

You tried to duck away, but he kept you caged in with his arms and thigh. “You know, you pretend to be this brooding, mysterious man, but you’re actually just a giant cornball.”

“You love it.”

“I never said I didn’t.” You couldn’t help but giggle at his impatience when he started fiddling with the hem of your sweater.

He hummed as you subconsciously ground yourself down on his thigh. “Well, since we’ve established you love my corny ass, let me help you out of that ugly sweater.”

“Frank, there’s a whole party going on downstairs. We can’t. Your mother or Mary will come looking f-”

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t really asking.” You knew you were fucked (literally) when he switched to sweetheart from honey. Frank only broke out that term of endearment when he was about to wreck you thoroughly.

He bunched up your skirt past your hips after removing your sweater, mentally noting that he should not have purchased you a sweater covered in jingle bells if his intention was to remove it during a holiday party.

“Frank, is this why you told me to wear a skirt instead of jeans?” The last word of your question devolved into some kind of broken moan as he got to work nipping and sucking at the tops of your breasts.

He huffed and looked you in the eyes. “I can neither confirm nor deny whether this was premeditated. Now come on.” He tapped your hip, signaling you to hop up and wrap your legs around his unfairly narrow waist.

You dipped your head to kiss him as he worked his thumb over your clit, your folds exposed now that he’d pushed your panties to the side. You whined into his mouth as he teased you, scratching your back against the wall.

“If I knew just talking about having kids would make you lose your mind, I’d have mentioned it SO much sooner, fuck.” Your eyes closed as his lips found one of the more sensitive spots on your throat.

With that, Frank harshly thrust two thick fingers inside you, pleased to find you were more than wet and wanting enough to take him. “Love getting you all worked up for me like this, sweetheart. Don’t even need to prep you.”

“Good. We don’t have time for you to prep me, Adler.” You clenched around his fingers for good measure. “Bed. Now.”

“So bossy, Adler,” he whispered in between kisses as he walked you over to the bed, laying you down gently before removing his jeans and boxers.

“Sweater, too. We are not trying to conceive while you’re wearing that thing,” scrunching your nose at his knit monstrosity depicting the Boston Tea Party, complete with 1776 emblazoned across the back in metallic silver thread.

He hummed as he kissed across your chest before standing up to remove his clothes. “So good to me, Y/N. Gonna give you the best gift of all.”

You raised your eyebrows at him as he rested his weight on top of you. “Yeah? What’s that?”

He smirked as he reached between you, lining himself up with your aching heat. “A belly full of me.”

“So corny,” you whisper-moaned as he sank into you, rendering you unable to talk back to him for once.

Although you and Frank had been sleeping together for the better part of three years, you were amazed by how full you felt every single time. Although his hands were rough from his work, his touch was always gentle, as if you were a rare book whose pages he couldn’t wait to turn. Even when you were in a rush or wanted it rough, he treated you with such care and warmth, only the sun itself might compare. The way he handled your body and your heart made you think you were meant to be.

Frank kissed you, using his tongue to silence your moans as he thrust into you once, twice, three times. Covering your mouth with his large hand, he nipped at your throat. “Love when you just let me take you like this, sweetheart,” he breathed into your ear. “So damn tight and all mine.”

Frank had you fluttering around him in what felt like no time at all. His filthy words combined with his expert motions brought you to the brink without fail, a skill in which he took the greatest pride. Each purposeful stroke had you arching your back beneath him, head empty apart from thoughts of how good he felt in and around you, completely oblivious to the knowledge of the party continuing mere feet away from where you laid.

Supporting his weight on his forearm, he used his other hand to guide your breast to his mouth, nibbling and licking at your soft flesh, then catching your nipple lightly between his teeth before sucking on the hardened nub. This was another trick he employed when time was of the essence, which was often, given your living situation. You certainly had no complaints when his stubble scratched against your skin as he pulled away to blow cool air over the wetness he left behind, causing you to clench. He chuckled when you bucked your hips to meet his, pleased with how worked up he’d gotten you through such a simple act.

“Frank, shit, I’m close. P- please, baby, please.” You were reduced to a babbling, whimpering mess as your husband continued fucking into you. He throbbed inside you and his pace faltered, both signs that he was reaching his peak as quickly as you were.

“God, sweetheart, you’re so beautiful like this, but the thought of you all round and glowy because of me? Makes me wanna keep you full all day, every day.” You couldn’t form a complete sentence, so your response was delivered in the form of scratches down his muscular back - souvenirs you were happy to leave behind once Frank told you he loved being marked by you.

On instinct, you wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into his toned ass, making it so his thrusts were shorter, but deeper. As you tightened around him, he let out a moan so feral, you were granted a moment of clarity and wanted to send him over the edge.

“Come on, Frankie, please give it to me,” you murmured in his ear. “Gonna let me make you a daddy?” You gripped him tight, holding him impossibly close to you as you mouthed at his throat.

Frank pounded into you with abandon, slamming the headboard into the wall again and again until you let out a broken whine, finally creaming around him. He damn near roared as he came, biting down on your shoulder and filling you to the brim. He chained kisses up your neck and across your jaw before reaching your lips, loving you sweet and slow in contrast to what you’d just shared.

He sagged against you for a moment as you both attempted to steady your breathing. “I love you so damn much, baby. Thank you for giving me everything.”

You smiled while you lazily ran your fingers through his hair. “I love you more, Frankie… We’d better get cleaned up before someone comes looking for us.”

He groaned and reluctantly pulled out of you, his cock twitching as he watched your combined release spilling from your swollen folds. He walked to the en suite bathroom, returning with a damp cloth to wipe up your thighs, avoiding your messy center.

He didn’t give you a chance to reprimand him, pulling your panties back into place and chuckling at your face, twisted in mild discomfort. He ghosted his fingers over the wet spot developing on the fabric.“Nuh-uh, baby. Gotta keep you filled with me. Make sure it takes.”

You squinted at him before your face broke into a grin. “C’mere, handsome,” you mumbled, kissing him once more before straightening yourselves up and returning to the party, astounded that you managed to restore your pre-sexcapades appearance.

As the two of you joined family and friends at the table for dessert, Evelyn took notice that Frank only had one slice of pie and two cookies on his plate. Anyone who paid attention to Frank for more than two minutes knew he wasn’t a big sweets guy, preferring chips and dips to cakes and puddings.

“Is something wrong, Francis? Is there nothing you like?”

He smiled warmly as he squeezed your thigh under the table. “Oh, everything’s great,” he simpered, mocking her fake concern. He slid his hand up your thigh, slipping his fingers past the hem of your skirt. “I think I just overdid it on the stuffing.”

[basiccortez]

pegging jake for the first time.

that’s it

that’s the prompt

oh bestie… i can’t see it with jake😕 i just can’t BUT i do see it with Sammy Boy.

dirty shit under the cut

-Samuel Francis Kiszka is 100% a pillow princess and you can not tell me otherwise.

-I feel like at first, he'd be really shy and scared to ask you, so once you figure it out what he wants you're like "oh okay, this is hot."

-he'd be so whiny and bratty. You would have him completely ready to burst before you even start pegging him. He'd be begging for it, begging for anything really, your mouth, your hand, your fingers.

-he'd be a moaning crying mess when you first start to touch him there. He'd probably be skittish and jump at first, it's foreign to him, no one has ever been that intimately close to touching his prostate or his ass.

-once you finally slip your finger in, he's seeing stars. Bright, white, shinning stars in his visions. His cock is leaking, and so fucking red and hard, it hurts him. He didn't ever think he could get that hard, but here he is, trying to rut himself into the mattress to get some relief.

-THE FUCKING DIRTY TALK AND NAMES

-Stuff you would say: "you like that Sammy? Of course you do, you fucking brat." "My own little princess, how cute you look for me, all fucked out." "You really want it Sammy? You want my fingers inside you? Such a dirty boy for me."

-Stuff he would say: "Please mama, make me cum." "Tell me I'm a good boy, I promise to be a good boy." "I want it mama, please. I want you in me. Please, I've been so good."

-His orgasm would literally send him crying, like you've never seen anything like it. The sounds he make a straight obscene porn sounds. You are surprised that no one has come knocking on your door to tell you to shut the hell up.

- His back is arching, knuckles turning white as he grips the bed sheets, your hips slamming against his ass, his hair in your fist as you pull his head back, his mouth is wide open, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock as he's jerking himself off, his cock shooting hot ropes of cum. You both have never seen him bust so much, his cum is everywhere, all over the bed, all over him.

-"Sammy. . . you made a mess." "I'm sorry, I-I just couldn't-t help it. You fucked me so good."

-AFTERCARE IS A MUST!!!!!

-"I'm going to pull out okay," You whisper, placing a soft kiss on his back. You can see him shaking trying to keep up his fucked out body. You slowly pull out and hear him let something between a hiss and a moan. He collapses on the bed, not having any energy at all.

-You take everything off, slip on a t-shirt and walk over to him. He's already half asleep, "Sammy, wake up baby. I need to clean the bed and you need to take a bath, okay."

-"Okay," He mumbles. You help him out of bed, walking gingerly to the bathroom. You draw him a bath, and put him in it while you clean up the bedroom. Once the bedroom, Sam and yourself are cleaned, you both lazily fall into bed, holding each other close and drift off into a blissful sleep.

[madswonders]

A Lesson In Romance #11: Actions

Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Genre: A little ✨spice✨ and a little ✨action✨

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, brief mentions of alcohol consumption, gun violence, mild (???) dirty talk

Word Count: 2.3k

Plot: Reader keeps getting caught in rom-com situations with Spencer Reid. This time, they pretend to be married.

A/N: I would like to dedicate this chapter to the Classy Restaurant Music playlist on Spotify for capturing the fancy restaurant vibes I needed hahahah

Masterlist | All chapters here!

---------

"You know, this is not how I imagined coming back here." You said quietly. Next to you, Spencer smiled.

Your eyes were still adjusting to the warm light, a stark contrast to the blue winter evening outside. This was your second time here, technically, but the sensation of his hand on your waist and the cool metal on your left hand made it all feel brand new.

"Table for Mr. and Mrs. Reid." He said to the hostess, calmer than you'd ever seen him before. You didn't miss the way he tugged you closer when he said "Mrs." and despite the truth of the matter, giddy smiles tugged on both your lips.

But it was the hostess' reaction that gave it away for you. When she glanced at your intertwined hands and matching rings with a soft smile, you began to realise why the two of you were chosen for this in the first place. The effect you had on each other was hypnotising.

Sending you and Spencer undercover as newlyweds was probably the easiest decision Hotch has ever had to make. His reasoning came from basic human psychology; people are drawn to extreme events, and while this generally applied to accidents and tragedy, it also applied to marriage and child birth.

In this case, few things would stand out more in a crowded restaurant than a pair of shiny new wedding rings, a large bouquet of flowers, and a bottle of champagne for two. And to top it all off, he had the two of you. Everything else came secondary.

Still, it was strange. Being isolated from the operation only made you more in awe of your team. Even under the duress of three hours, they operated like clockwork; devising a comprehensive undercover mission, building a profile for an unsub they didn't even know, and training an entire restaurant's staff in a handful of hours.

By the time the final pieces fell into place, all that was left was for you and Spencer to carry out the final stage of the plan.

Maybe it was the pressure of having the entire team rest on your shoulders, or this new "character" you had to play, but something felt different tonight. It was like electricity crackled in the air; you felt it when his hand lingered on your back, low enough that you felt a growing warmth in your belly, making you yearn for his touch long after he let go.

Maybe it was the stress from going undercover for the first time that made you trail your gaze down his suited figure, muscled and lean as a side effect of this job. Maybe that's why the image of him standing at the foot of your bed in this very suit couldn't leave your mind, until the physical action of squirming in your seat jolted you out of your own imagination.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Spencer locked eyes with you, his hazel eyes dark under the dim restaurant lighting.

"Just thinking about you." You admitted, placing your hand across the table. He took your hand in his instantly, his thumb tentatively resting on the jewel on your ring finger.

"All good things, I hope?"

"Nothing but good things."

"Well, perhaps I can add to that. You look beautiful." He pressed a soft kiss to your hand, his eyes crinkling playfully when your cheeks turned pink in response.

"How do I know you're not just saying that for our audience?" You whispered, eyes darting to his tie where the mic was hidden.

"If it weren't for our audience, I'd be saying a lot more, love." He replied lowly, and you bit back a thought you didn't want any of your colleagues to hear. You could already imagine them cringing as they listened in on your conversation, and the image made you giggle.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Dr. Spencer Reid?" You accused jokingly.

"When love is not madness, it is not love." He answered simply.

You thought for a moment, before the reference clicked in your head. "Pedro Calderon de la Barca. Interesting choice. You weren't lying about your education in classic literature, doctor." You looked impressed.

"I'm hurt that you even doubted it." He mocked insult, and you grinned.

"No, I'm just surprised."

"Wait until you see my actual surprise." He smiled, gesturing behind you as a waiter appeared carrying two plates in your direction.

"I took the liberty of ordering our food in advance." He explained. When you looked at him in surprise, he simply shrugged. “I figured I should expand my theory beyond breakfast.”

"And here I thought tonight couldn't get anymore exciting." You said, marvelling at the appetisers as they were placed in front of you two.

“You can reserve your compliments for when I guess everything correct, and I will.” He mock bowed.

“You're on." You giggled. "Now, can we finally have some of this champagne?"

Dinner went by smoother than you thought it would, and thankfully for your team listening in, your conversations steered away from thinly veiled flirting to classic films as the food appeared.

Not that it was any easier for you talk about Billy Wilder and Francis Ford Coppola with what was happening in front of you. Spencer had taken to playing with the ring on your finger while you talked, and each time his long fingers brushed against yours, it sent chills down your spine.

But it was when his leg brushed against yours underneath the clothed table that you felt yourself lose grip of your facade. The first time it happened, you even thought it might be a mistake. But after the second and third time, it was clear that Spencer knew exactly what he was doing, even if the innocent expression on his face didn't betray anything.

If you didn't know him better, you would even think that he liked it, teasing you underneath the restaurant table on case, where you couldn't act on it. Instead, you pushed away the thought and allowed your skin to prick with every touch; all the while you sipped on your champagne, taking the chance to observe the patrons around you through the rim of your glass.

Unfortunately, your luck was a little worse in the unsub department, and your concern only continued to grow as your entrées made way for dessert.

Before you entered the restaurant, the team had discussed the best-case-scenario for tonight — identifying and apprehending the unsub quietly before the dinner shift was up. But if you ran out of time, there was always one back-up plan, something that would definitely force the unsub's hand.

The good thing about having two unsubs now was that victimology became incredibly simple to decipher. What you and Spencer had considered inconsistencies at first, were now clear patterns distinguishing each one.

The first one was impulsive but experienced, driven purely by a compulsion to complete his pattern as fast as possible. Despite that, he had the sense to stick to high-risk victims and secluded locations, which made him so hard to catch in the first place.

It was the second unsub that was interesting. He seemed more controlled and calculating, choosing low-risk victims and public locations. The team profiled him as the narcissistic component of the original profile. The more high profile the victims, the more they attracted him.

And now that you’d spent the entire night drawing attention to yourselves, all you had to do was present an easy opportunity for the unsub to pounce — right into the BAU’s trap.

The moment Spencer beckoned you to come closer, you knew something was up. "Listen carefully, love. I'm going to call for the bill, and we're going to go outside. If I'm right about my guess, the unsub is going to be right behind us. Do you understand me?" He whispered into your ear, low and calm.

You made an obvious move to cup his cheek as you leaned back. "Can we go home now, baby?" You cooed. Yeah, you got him.

As you walked out of the restaurant, you intentionally stumbled as you clung onto his arm, letting out a loud giggle. Your gaze fixed adoringly on your date, even as Emily and Hotch called for their bill on your left, Derek and Rossi no doubt already rounding to the front of the restaurant from the back exit.

"Trust me." Spencer murmured as he opened the door for you, and when you nodded, he pulled you into one final kiss for the public. What you didn't expect was for him to move his hand down and squeeze your ass, causing you to let out a loud squeak at the doorway.

If anybody was looking at the two of you before, they were certainly staring now, and the doctor confirmed this with a low whisper. "He's coming."

When he finally caged you against his car, you had to remember not to go overboard for your listening colleagues, but you couldn't help but let out a quiet moan into his mouth as he pushed his leg lightly against your core.

"Sp— Spencer—" You breathed, locking your fingers behind his neck.

"Just hold on a little bit more, love." He muttered, cupping your cheeks with his large hands and stroking your hair. "Just a bit mor—"

You heard the sound of a gun cocking next to you as you broke apart, lightly gasping. A middle-aged man stood in the shadows, waving his gun aggressively. Bingo.

"Get into the car."

The two of you raised your arms warily. "Who are you?" Spencer shouted, moving to shield you from the unsub.

"I said, get into the car!" He yelled. "Starting with you."

"Okay, okay." The doctor conceded, unlocking the car and slowly getting in the backseat. He left some room for you to get in next, but the unsub trained his gun on you.

"Not you, sweetheart. I'm going to finish you right here." He narrowed his eyes at you. "Drop your bag on the ground."

Everything seemed to fall silent as you slowly lowered your bag, and your hidden gun, to the ground. When you stood back up with your hands in the air, the unsub slammed you into the side of the car and you groaned at the sudden impact.

You didn't need to gather your senses to know that his gun was pointed right at you.

"Leave her alone, James." Spencer threatened, already out of the car and levelling his gun at the unsub. All around you, the team moved into the light.

"FBI! James Luther — put the gun down." Hotch ordered.

The unsub looked shocked for a moment as he looked around, finally realising the situation he was in. His expression was unusually calm, and it chilled you to the bone.

"Very, very interesting. Are you a fed too?" He sneered down at you.

"It's over, James. Either you put the gun down, or you don't walk out of here alive." Spencer warned, but the unsub only laughed.

"I should have known that it was too good to be true. It's not often I get such a perfect couple, much less one with a wife this pretty." He drawled, waving the gun in your face.

"Spencer. I'm okay." You ordered through gritted teeth, already knowing what the genius was about to do.

"Look at her, so brave. Are the two of you even married? Or is everything about this fake?"

"I won't say this a second time. Put the gun down." Spencer repeated, cocking his gun straight at the unsub's head.

"T-think about this, James." You reasoned. "If you kill me, they'll kill you, and you won't be able to hear what the press will say about your murders after we expose you. Isn't that what you want? Don't you want to stop living in somebody else's shadow?"

The unsub's grip on his gun slackened. "They're not going to run a story on me. Why would they unless I keep killing?"

"They will if you give us the names and descriptions of all your victims, and we will make sure your face is front and centre for every single one." Spencer added. The unsub looked into both your eyes, seemingly searching for a hint of a lie, but there was none.

"Fine. Looks like the lady lives, this time." He gave up, dropping his gun to the floor and putting both hands on his head.

"James Luther, you are under arrest for the murders of Lucy Patt..." Derek recited his rights while dragging him away. You braced yourself against the car, catching your breath.

"Are you okay?" Spencer rushed over, sweeping you into a hug before you could even reply. You buried your face into his shoulder, tears welling up in your eyes involuntarily as you inhaled the familiar scent of paperbacks and coffee.

"I-I'm okay, baby. I'm okay." You mumbled, not sure if you were reassuring your boyfriend or yourself in that moment.

"It's okay, just let it out. You're safe now. I'm here. You're safe." He repeated, stroking your back as he kissed the top of your head again and again and again until you lost count.

You'd never been so relieved to arrive back at the BAU. Penelope was the first to give the two of you a big hug when you returned, fussing over the small cut on your face and the bruises on your arms, while you reassured her that you'd been cleared by the medics to go home.

"Good work today, both of you." Hotch called out from behind, shooting a small smile at you and Spencer. "Reid, take her home, and take a day off tomorrow. The two of you deserve it."

"You wouldn't be able to drag me into work tomorrow if you tried." You joked, and Spencer chuckled. For the first time, he wasn't about to argue with an order to take a break.

Nor was he about to argue when you asked him to come in to your apartment, or when you asked him to stay the night.

The only thing he wanted after tonight, was you.

---------

Tag List:

@blue-space-porgs @nobutalsoyes @lady-loves-a-lot @queen-flower @agentcarterisgay @totalmess191 @sapphic-prentiss @oops-all-ajs @spottedzebrasinpartyhats @mellowalieneggsknight @kenny-0909 || @averyhotchner @amesandpineapples @willowrose99

[hetalia-reacts]

Husband Allies headcanons please

America

honestly, the biggest change that happens from bf to husband is that he calls you his wife/husband all the time

like "oh hello stranger have you met my wife/husband?" "how's my lovely husband/wife?"

please maybe do the classic spouse things like tying his tie for him or giving him a goodbye kiss before work/meetings it would make his whole day

and expect him to do that for you if you somehow have to leave before he does

if you work please expect him to send you gifts like bouquets of flowers or those edible bouquets that say 'from your loving and heroic husband~'

if you're a house spouse still expect the bouquets, but at a grander scale since he doesn't have to worry about you struggling to carry or drive them home

literally sweeps you off your feet every day

he just likes to hold you

please expect a minimum of one (1) 'I love you' every single day even if you two are fighting

England

Maybe a bit sad but even after a long while he's still surprised you said yes to marrying him

Arthur makes you tea every morning either before he leaves for work or before you do (or he'll make you some coffee if you prefer but he really doesn't understand how you like it)

honestly really loves it if you were to openly flaunt that you were married to him

like confidently showing off your ring or offhandedly mentioning that he was your husband in conversations with strangers

it plays on repeat in his mind randomly, gives him a big ol' burst of serotonin

please cook for him, he literally cannot, and even though it kills him to admit it even to you, he'd rather bite the bullet and be able to eat good food

cooking dates perhaps?

fighting is nearly non-existent but when it does happen it depends on who's right

if he is, he won't apologize, he won't hold a grudge against you for not apologizing, but no apology is leaving him

if he's in the wrong please believe he will be awkwardly but sincerely apologizing to you

France

my oh my one of the best husbands you could ask for honestly

he's showy by nature so expect the same treatment Alfred gave but take it up a notch and make it sound more mature

Always quick to show you off as his wife/husband

if you show him off?

it's OVER for him

it makes him so giddy and uncharacteristically blushy

no matter if you're good at cooking he'll always cook for you, especially if it's dinner

Francis would be really appreciative if you made breakfast tho as he enjoys his beauty sleep and also likes a good breakfast

you will be pampered more so than when he was simply your boyfriend

want a dress? a suit? a game? a dog?? Say no more, it's yours

fighting?? In this household?

jk it happens but it's never serious

it's always him trying to be melodramatic and be an actor

Russia

do I hear a runner-up for one of the best husbands to exist?

while he's not going to show you off by telling people, he will tell them in more subtle and maybe not so subtle ways

like kissing your hand in a way that shows off your ring or holding your hand randomly while talking with others so they'll maybe notice the ring

he wants to be showy but he doesn't want to be too showy or too obvious about it ya know?

show him off and prepare to see Ivan embarrassed and flattered that you wanted to show him off

I feel like he sleeps like the dead and while he isn't grumpy in the morning, Ivan does not want to get up especially if you are still sleeping and cuddling with him

he would also enjoy it if you did classic spouse things

please fix his scarf or his hair before he leaves and kiss him goodbye

pack him lunch too maybe uwu

all I can think of is back hugs where he just rests his head in the crook of your neck and thanks you for marrying him in a super soft and emotional moment

like he genuinely never thought this would be in his future and he sometimes can't believe someone came to love him enough to accept a life long commitment

fighting is never, like seriously

for you he is soft and he doesn't want a fight, he just wants to talk it out without any yelling or storming away

China

never tries to contain his enthusiasm towards being married to you

always tells people he is married, it's just a natural part of his introduction now

lowkey offended if you don't do the same to some extent

if you are a house spouse good luck because Yao is stealing your lively hood

he's already gone shopping, did the laundry, made breakfast and packed lunch, and cleaned the house

like he leaves you nothing to do at home

if you aren't a house spouse well then you basically have a househusband

your lunch is ready, breakfast is served, you aren't leaving until he looks you over, and you best not even t h i n k of leaving without a kiss because you will be hunted down and smooched

fighting is semi often though usually never heated or serious

when it is serious, he would like an apology if he was in the right because while he tries not to hold a grudge it ends up happening just a little bit

if he's in the wrong he apologizes sincerely and honestly while presenting you with some tasty Chinese food as a kind of peace offering

Canada

up there for the best and most affectionate husbands

he's not very showy unfortunately even though he would love to be but more often than not nobody notices him so he never gets the chance

though you on the other hand

if you were to show him off and get him noticed he'd be very appreciative and blushy because wow, you really loved him enough to marry him AND tell others who he is

he's a simple man what can I say

never even worry about breakfast, Matthew has this in the bag

he makes whatever you want if you request it, but if not his default is pancakes, that good Candian maple syrup, eggs, bacon, and biscuits plus whatever it is you fancy to drink in the mornings

maybe even meal preps/makes lunch for you?

he sends you gifts during the day occasionally

simple things like a small bouquet of flowers and a card or a stuffed animal he may have seen while he was out and about

morning routine is kisses before either of you leaves

why do I feel he has one of those rubber rings for the both of you so neither of you loses or get your real rings dirty during work or outside activites

no fights happen, I'm sorry but there is nothing to fight about, not even playfully because he would just let you win

haha unless you wanted to fight about which hockey team was better or play him, in which case it's your loss always

I am so sorry this took so long, my brain just refused to offer any thoughts for like 2 hours while I was trying to write this and I couldn't move on until I finished this

[gallavictorious]

Gallavich Week Day 2: Fantasy AU

Summary: Prince Ian is offered up as a sacrifice to appease one of the dragons that haunt his father’s kingdom. Rather than being burned alive or eaten he is inexplicably left to wander the dragon’s lair in peace, as long as he never tries to leave and never enters the mysterious tower chamber. Then he meets fellow prisoner Mikhailo and starts to wonder if maybe this whole sacrificial gig isn’t such a bad deal after all.

Or, Ian Gallagher tells a bedtime story, and Mickey Milkovich is himself.

Fair Warning 1: There’s some Mickey-typical homophobic language in this one.

Fair Warning 2: I wrote all ridiculous 5K of this today (work? what work?) and it’s a little bit of a curious mess. Like, the sort of curious mess you get if you take Lip’s Hall of Shame, @gardenerian’s lovely bedtime stories, the novel “Dealing with Dragons” by Patricia Wrede, the Swedish picture book “Bröllop i Marsipanien” by Lena Karlin, the Greek myth of Andromeda, a bunch of folk tales about shapeshifting lovers, and the questionable old practice of MSTing fics, and then you stuff them all into a Kee and shake her around for a bit and then you pour it out into the shape of a 12 hour long and highly inadvisable speedwriting session.

Read it at your own risk, below or on AO3.

Very Important Note: I make fun of fic writing in this fic. Please note that I’m only making fun of myself and general tropes; any and all allusions to actual fic in the fandom is entirely coincidental.

---

Lest They Say, Here Be Dragons

Hush now, child; settle down. Close your eyes – yes, just like that – and listen:

Once upon a time and elsewhere, there was a kingdom. The people there were no happier than people anywhere else, and poorer than most, but they made do and lived and danced and grieved and died as people have always done.

Jesus, that’s gay.

That is, until the dragons came.

Okay, now you’re talking.

Like a plague they swept the land, winged beasts with fire for breath and ice in their hearts. Every night the fields burned, and the villages burned, and the cattle burned and was eaten. Many a brave people took up arms and went to confront the monsters, and then they burned too.

Heart-broken and terrified, the people went to the king to plead for aid. “Send an emissary to the dragons,” they said. “Reason with them and strike a bargain, or else we are sure to perish.”

What a bunch of pussies. What they should do is, they should use a bunch a cow shit to build a bomb and nuke the hell out of those dragons. Problem fucking solved.

Now, this king was a scoundrel and a drunk and the queen had an unfortunate habit of turning herself into a bird and flying off to more interesting lands whenever the mood took her. They had six children but rarely paid them any mind and fair Princess Fiona, eldest of the six, was left to raise her younger siblings as best she could. False King Francis would have been perfectly content to turn his desperate subjects away if it weren’t for the fact the dragons unchecked rampage threatened the production of the spirits the king so enjoyed. So, donning a mask of compassionate concern, for he was a skilled liar, he promised the people that he would help them. But as soon as they had left, comforted, he turned the task over to his children.

The second oldest child, foxy Prince Philip—

Foxy Prince Philip?

Yeah, you know. Foxy. Like clever.

Why not just say clever then?

‘Cause it’s not alliterative.

Alliter—

Starts with the same sound. Foxy – Philip. Fair – Fiona.

Oh, I get it. Like, Ian – idiot. Ow!

Foxy Prince Philip was known far and wide for being the cleverest in all the land, and by using all his cunning he managed to strike a deal with the leader of the dragons.

“By using all his cunning.” Skimming over the details a bit there, huh?

You really want me to turn this into a Prince Philip story? Hear me go on and on about what a genius he is?

…

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

It was agreed that the dragons would spread out over the kingdom, each one building their own place to live near a village, and that the villagers would bring them food and drink. In turn, the dragons would refrain from casual pyromancy and protect the villagers from harm.

Protection racket, huh. Classic. Starting to like these dragons, man.

In addition, the cruel leader of the dragons demanded that each dragon be offered a child of the land in sacrifice. No matter how Prince Philip bargained he could not change the dragon’s cold heart on this—

Guess he wasn’t so clever after all.

—and so, with heavy hearts and much lamenting, each village drew lots to determine which poor child would be sent as an offering to their new resident dragon. However, in the village nearest to the castle the people grew angry when the beloved blacksmith’s only child, a small girl of just four, was selected, and they went to the king and they said:

“It isn’t fair that some people are asked to give up their only child to appease the dragons while you, who have six children, are exempt from the lottery.”

King Francis, fearing an uprising as much as he feared the dragons (since each was as likely as the other to leave him without a drink), quickly nodded.

“That’s true,” he said. “And fairness must ever be the true monarchs first and most important concern. Though it breaks my heart, I can’t in good conscience watch my people sacrifice their own children without offering up my own. You may take Prince Ian and give him to the dragon.”

At this, the other princes and princesses raised their voices in furious protest, for they loved their brother even if their father did not. But industrious Prince Ian—

Industrious? That really the best you can come up with?

—stepped forward and declared that he’d be happy to give up his life, so that the child of the blacksmith might be spared. And so, as the sunt set, he was taken away to the lair of the dragon that had made its home near the castle.

So let me get this straight… The king is happy to toss Prince Ian to the wolves ‘cause he hates him, and his siblings are all sad and shit but they still let him go off to get fucking eaten by dragons?

Yes.

Uh-huh.

What?

…

Oh, fuck you. It’s just a story.

Totally.

Stepping into the lair, with heart a-hammering but on stubbornly steady legs, Prince Ian set eyes upon the beast that was to be his destiny. He was momentarily relieved to see it was not the terrible leader of the dragons, as he had feared, but a smaller monster he did not recognize. Black was its hide, its eyes a cold sparkling blue—

Gallagher, I swear to god, if you turn me into some lame ass henchman dragon—

Keep interrupting, asshole, and it’ll be a pink fucking unicorn. And hang on, you’ll show up in a little bit.

Setting his jaw, Prince Ian prepared to die a heroic death—

‘Course he did, the stupid motherfucker. Hey, if Prince Philip was so fucking smart, and if he gave a shit about his brother, shouldn’t he have given him, I dunno, a knife or something?

Prince Ian prepared to die a heroic death, because unlike some other people he was not a selfish prick and he actually cared about the people of the kingdom, but much to his surprise the dragon did not burn him. Instead, it just stared at him for a good long while, until suddenly it declared:

“You must never leave the lair, and you must never set foot inside the tower chamber. Abide by these rules and you may live. Break these rules and I’ll rip your heart out and eat it while you watch, and then I’ll burn the castle down with your beloved siblings inside.”   

You tell him, dragon.

With that the dragon took flight and disappeared, leaving Prince Ian to stand alone in the great hall of the lair, confused but alive. The young prince remained where he was for a few minutes, thinking that the dragon might come back, but when it did not he set out to explore his new home. It was big, with endless rooms and nooks and crannies, but it was badly kept, with strange bits and pieces cluttering up the hallways and chambers. Prince Ian found some old blankets and he used those to set up a pallet in one of the nicer rooms, one that had a view over a small, overgrown garden. And then, because it was very late and he was not dead, he went to sleep.

The next day he continued his explorations and managed to find the kitchen. It was full with the meat that the villagers brought the dragon once a month, and remembering that the beast had only forbidden him from leaving the lair and going into the tower chamber, Prince Ian helped himself to a piece of pork that he cooked over a small fire.

Hang on, was there a fridge in the kitchen?

No. This was the olden days.

But the villagers came once a month with the meat? How did the dragon keep from rotting?

That’s not really—

Was it dried? Like a Slim Jim?

… sure. It was dried.

As he was eating, Prince Ian heard a sudden scraping noise behind him.

The hell did he cook it over a fire for then, if it was dried?

He looked up and spied another young man standing in the doorway.

I’m just saying, it doesn’t make any fucking sense, man. Wait, is this me?

Prince Ian frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. “Are you a prisoner of the dragon too?”

The boy shrugged. “Uh, yeah. I guess. I mean, I do some work around here. Clean up and shit, in exchange for not getting eaten. Name’s Mikhailo.”

About fucking time. Only, how is it fair that you get to be prince and I’m a fucking cleaner?

Prince Ian tactfully did not mention how the lair was impressively dirty for a place with a fulltime cleaner but invited Mikhailo to share his meal. As they ate, Prince Ian studied his new acquaintance. He was the same age as but shorter than the prince, with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony.

Hair as black as— The hell was that?

Nothing.

Yeah, okay, then why are you smiling? Eh, fuck you. Prince Ian’s fucking thirsty for Mikhailo, I get it.

Though his manner was somewhat brusque and uncouth, Prince Ian could not help but feel himself drawn to Mikhailo. The boy was funny and easy to talk to, even if he seemed reluctant to say too much about himself or where he came from. Prince Ian tried asking him about the dragon, but despite apparently having lived there ever since the dragon moved in, Mikhailo couldn’t tell him much.

“Hardly ever even see it, man. At dusk and dawn mostly, so I guess it spends the night flying around with the other dragons, terrorizing the peasants or whatever. During the day it holes up in the tower chamber. Guess dragons must sleep too, huh? Don’t fucking go up there,” he added sternly. “It ain’t fucking kidding about killing you if you do.”

Having found a friend, Prince Ian found that life at the dragon’s lair wasn’t all that bad. He missed his siblings and being outdoors and practicing with the soldiers at the castle, and he resented the loss of his freedom, but he enjoyed the peace and quiet, and enjoyed spending time with Mikhailo. However, one thing he soon grew very tired of was eating nothing but meat. The dragon didn’t seem to require anything else, for it was the only thing the villagers ever delivered, and Mikhailo – whose tasks included receiving the monthly tribute – just gave Prince Ian a weird look when Ian suggested he ask the people to bring some vegetables next month.

“That ain’t the deal they’ve got with the dragon,” he told Ian. “Ain’t nobody gonna listen to me if I go trying to change it.”

Yeah, real Prince Charming there, wanting Mikhailo to risk his life so Ian can stuff his face with fucking cucumber.

Undeterred by Mikhailo’s lack of enthusiasm and courage—

Fuck you.

—Prince Ian decided to take it up with the dragon himself. In the weeks since he arrived at the lair, he hadn’t met the creature again, not even once; he’d just heard the powerful swoosh of its wings when it came and went at dusk and dawn. Now he went up the stairs to the tower chamber and there he waited until night had fallen and he noted the scraping of claws against stone inside the room. Then he knocked at the door.

There was a long silence. Then the door slammed open with enough force to nearly undo it from its hinges.

“What are you doing here?!” the dragon roared, terrible in its fury. “I’ve told you to never come here!”

“You’ve told me to never set foot inside the room,” Ian reasoned, fighting to keep his voice calm. “And I’m not. I just wanted to ask if I may have the use of the small garden just outside the lair. I miss being outdoors and I could grow vegetables for Mikhailo and me.”

Jesus Christ, man, again with gardening? Thought you were over it.

“You may never leave the lair,” the dragon, a garden-hating meanie, snarled, and then he closed the door in Prince Ian’s face.

As he fucking should.

“Probably worried one of the villagers will spot you and, I dunno, mount a rescue,” Mikhailo said shortly the next morning when Prince Ian told him of his failed attempt. “Anyway, you’re a fucking idiot for going up there like that. You get it won’t hesitate to kill you, right?”

“Right,” Ian agreed. “But,” he added with a frown, “why hasn’t it yet?”

“You fucking complaining?” Mikhailo snapped, and then he stalked away, and Ian didn’t see him again for three days.

Listen, you get that I get that Mikhailo is the dragon, right? You’re not fooling anyone, Gallagher.

Then, one day, fed up with the dragon being a really annoying prick, Prince Ian grabbed a huge sword he conveniently found lying around in a cupboard, because the lair was a fucking pigsty, suitable for a pig like the dragon, and he went up the stairs and kicked in the door and he cut the dragon’s throat while it slept, and then he went off and found himself a nice prince to marry.

…

…

That’s not how the story ends.

…

Hey, where are you going? Come back- Jesus, I’m sorry, okay? Gallagher, I’m sorry. Just come back here. Tell me what really happened.

Prince Ian woke with a start on his pallet in the lair. He’d had the most vivid dream about killing the dragon—

A dream? That’s the lamest fucking— Ah, fuck. Sorry.

—but for some reason it hadn’t felt as satisfying as he had thought it would. For all that Prince Ian often fantasized about strangling the beast, it seemed he didn’t actually wish to see it dead. With that disconcerting realization in mind, Prince Ian went to break his fast, resigned to doing so on meat and yet more meat. But in the kitchen he found Mikhailo, and on the table in front of him was a pile of cabbage and carrots and onions. 

“Guess the dragon must have talked to the villagers after all,” Mikhailo muttered, refusing to look at the prince. “And, uh, there was this thing I wanted to show you.”

Without waiting for a response, he spun around on his heel and walked out the door. Curious, Prince Ian followed, through doors and up and down stairs he never knew existed. Eventually, he found himself standing in what appeared to be an inner courtyard. It was small and the walls surrounding it very high, but up above the sky was blue. Prince Ian turned his face towards it and for the first time since he came to live at the dragon’s lair he felt sunlight on his face.

“It’s a shithole,” Mikhailo said. For some reason he sounded a little nervous. “But if you wanna go outside, you can come here. And there’s dirt in those bins, so I guess you could grow stuff in them? Just gotta wear this hat. Anyone sees you, they’ll just think it’s me.”

Privately, Prince Ian wondered who’d ever be able to see him behind walls that high, but he wasn’t going to argue. Wearing an ugly had was a small price to pay for being able to go outside, and to have a garden.

He gave Mikhailo a small smile; Mikhailo smiled back.

“Mikhailo smiled back.” Yeah, you bet he was laughing his ass off, ‘cause he thought Prince Ian was a huge fucking dork.

Things were good for a long while after that. Prince Ian spent his days in the garden and in Mikhailo’s company, and though he still resented being locked away from the world it was easy to ignore that when he had something to do and when his plants started to grow and when he was with Mikhailo. The two young men became closer and closer with each passing week, and soon it seemed to Prince Ian as if they had always known each other. He could no longer imagine a life without his friend.

He suspected that Mikhailo felt the same. It was there in the way he laughed at Prince Ian’s jokes; the way he sought him out to do nothing but talk; the way his gaze sometimes lingered on the prince, the look in his eyes unreadable.

Prince Ian suspected that Mikhailo too wondered what it would be like to press their lips together and hold each other tight. Sleep together; map every inch of each other’s bodies.

Hang on a minute, you’re telling me they haven’t fucked yet? The hell they’ve been doing?

I told you. Hanging out. Talking. Laughing.

Jesus Christ, that’s so fucking gay.

Two men not fucking each other is gay? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. One day we really need to talk about all your internalized homophobia.

My interna-what? Ah, shut the fuck up. Continue with the story. All these interruptions ain’t doing much for the flow, you know.

Really? I hadn’t noticed.

Prince Ian became determined to find out if Mikhailo felt the same way as he did. He realized that he needed to be careful, however, and not push too hard, lest he spook the other boy. Even though he was almost sure he could see longing in Mikhailo’s eyes, there seemed to be some invisible hand holding him back. Every time Prince Ian was convinced they were finally getting somewhere, Mikhailo would suddenly pull back, as if stung.

Or as if remembering something. Himself, maybe.

Bu then came a cold, clear autumn day almost exactly one year after Prince Ian had been taken to the dragon’s lair.

Whoa, wait, now you’re telling me they’ve been hanging out for one fucking year and they still haven’t banged?

What can I say? Mikhailo’s a pussy.

Whatever. This story is unrealistic as fuck.

Prince Ian and Mikhailo had spent the afternoon together in the garden, as they almost always did whenever Mikhailo wasn’t busy with any of his mysterious chores (which he still refused to tell Prince Ian much about, but which sometimes took him away from the lair for days at a time). Once it started getting dark they went inside and dined on chicken and potatoes from Prince Ian’s patch, and as so often happened they started bickering and play fighting.

If that’s something that happens a lot you might have mentioned it earlier. Established it or whatever. Those mysterious chores too. What’s that all about?

Oh, my bad. Maybe I should start over? Once upon and time—

Nah, man, you’re good. Just a suggestion for next time.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

They were chasing each other around the kitchen when Mikhailo tripped over the muddy shoes he’d lazily left there the night before and fell to the floor.

You know these meaningful little comments ain’t actually clever, right? They don’t actually add anything to the story.

I like them.

Prince Ian, ever chivalrous, grabbed hold of his friend’s arm to break his fall, but ended up going down with him instead, pinning Mikhailo to the floor with his big, strong body.

Fucking finally.

Their eyes met and Prince Ian felt his heart starting to beat faster. He could see a faint blush spreading over Mikhailo’s face. Neither of them spoke; neither of them moved. Then, slowly, slowly, Prince Ian leaned in to brush his lips over Mikhailo’s. Mikhailo lifted his head to meet him in a kiss to end all other kisses, a kiss to inspire a thousand love songs.

Uh-huh, and then…

And then they went to Prince Ian’s room and had sex all night long. But when Prince Ian woke the next morning—

Wait, wait, what? That’s it? “They had sex all night long.” How about some fucking detail, man?

Fine.

After having great sex using lots of good lube all night long, Prince Ian woke up alone in his bed.

I hate you.

He went in search of Mikhailo but couldn’t find his friend anywhere. He looked in the garden and in the kitchen and he went to the sad little cellar chamber Mikhailo called his room even though Prince Ian had never actually seen him sleep there.

Because he’s the dragon and sleeps in the tower chamber. Great hint, Gallagher. Real subtle.

Fuck off.

A week passed and Prince Ian was starting to suspect that Mikhailo was gone for good this time. Perhaps the dragon had found out about their tryst and had sent him away? Or maybe Mikhailo was disgusted with what had happened and wanted nothing more to do with the prince? Prince Ian wondered and worried and feared, and when finally Mikhailo returned, stepping into the kitchen like nothing had happened, Prince Ian was so exhausted with terror and regret that his relief immediately transformed into fury.

He yelled at Mikhailo, called him names and demanded to know where he’d been. He named him a coward and—

…

Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?

Yeah. Yeah, man, I’m fine.

You don’t look— Listen, Prince Ian’s just being an asshole, okay? He saying a bunch of stupid shit ‘cause he’s sick and tired of not knowing if he means as much to Mikhailo as Mickhailo means to him. He doesn’t mean it.

…

Mick?

I mean… He probably means it a little. He’s not wrong.

No, he’s— Fine. He means it a little right then. But he is wrong, okay? He doesn’t really understand what’s going on with Mikhailo, but he’ll get it later. He’ll know he wasn’t being really fair.

… yeah?

Yeah. Okay?

Okay.

Great. Maybe we should speed this bit up a little—

Once Prince Ian had finished shouting, Mikhailo just stared at him for a long moment.

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he spat, and then he spun around and disappeared through the door.

Prince Ian was immediately overcome with regret, yet he was still too angry and hurt and stubborn to run after the other. He went about his day in a very foul mood and when he went to bed that night Mikhailo was still gone. Prince Ian slept fitfully and in the middle of the night he woke to a loud crash, soon followed by several more. He realized it must have come form the tower chamber and after a moment of hesitation he grabbed his nightgown and rushed up the stairs.

So, he brought a nightgown with him when he thought the dragon was going to kill him?

Of course not. He found it in one of the rooms.

Yeah, okay, but why are there so many rooms in this fucking lair anyway? What’s with all the old stuff there? Didn’t the dragon build the place to live in like right before Prince Ian was sent there?

Mickey. It’s getting late and I’d really love to wrap this up and go to bed. It doesn’t really matter about the rooms. Can I just continue with the story?

Whatever, man. Just thought you should know there’s a bunch of plot holes in your little fairy tale.

 Once he reached the door to the forbidden room, the crashing noises had stopped. Instead, Prince Ian heard whimpers and moaning, as if from someone in great pain. It could only be the dragon – something must be wrong with it.

Yeah, ya think, Sherlock?

Prince Ian knocked on the door. There was no reply, other than more whimpers and moans. Steeling himself, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

That’s awfully convenient.

Stepping inside, Prince Ian found the dragon on the floor. It was clearly hurt, for there was dark blood pooling underneath it. As Prince Ian entered, the great beast lifted its head but said nothing and made no move to attack him. It seemed it was too badly hurt to pose any threat.

It occurred to Prince Ian that he could kill the dragon. He could go down to the kitchen and fetch the biggest knife there and then he’d be free and he could go back to the castle and his siblings and—

The dragon made a low, pained sound and let its head fall back to the floor, closing its eyes.

Prince Ian went down the stairs, but he didn’t fetch a knife, he fetched bandages instead. Though part of him cursed himself for a fool, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to kill the dragon, monster or not, and couldn’t bring himself to let it bleed to death either.

That’s a huge fucking mistake. Maybe the dragon never hurt him but it still kept him imprisoned. Prince Ian should be getting the hell out of there when he has the chance.

Hmm, yeah. Choosing to be locked up just to be the person you love does sound like a pretty insane thing to do.

Oh, fuck off. That’s totally different.

Sure, Mick.

By the time Prince Ian returned to the tower the dragon had lost consciousness. The prince set to cleaning and bandaging his wounds, having learned the art of it while training with a medical witch who lived at the castle. It took a great long while; the dragon was large and heavy and the cuts in its side long, if shallow. But Prince Ian was nothing if not determined and eventually he had the beast wrapped up.

As Ian moved to rise, the dragon stirred.

“The hell are you doing?” it muttered, blinking up at Ian. Then it spotted the bandages, and the ice blue eyes widened. “What the— Are you fucking insane? This is a... is a… real bad fucking idea… ”

It sounded… strange, and not just from the pain and blood loss, Prince Ian thought. Sounded not just slurred but softer somehow, in spite of the uncharacteristic cursing; sounded almost familiar; sounded like—

“Mikhailo,” Prince Ian whispered.

Ooooh, big surprise! I’m so shocked right now!

You know there are other uses for plot twists than to shock the reader, right? Or actually, I guess you don’t know, but if you picked up a book once in a while—

Yeah, yeah, whatever. What happened after this great and totally unexpected reveal?

The dragon lost consciousness again so Prince Ian went to bed and slept soundly and when he woke the next day he spotted Mikhailo leaning against the wall of his room, looking tired ad unhappy. He was even paler than usually and there was a stiffness to his posture that suggested quite a bit of pain, but other than that he seemed well enough.

“So,” Prince Ian said, trying for casualness as he sat up on his pallet. “You’re a dragon.”

Mikhailo shrugged. “Seems like it.”

“But only by night.”

“Yeah… We turn when the sun sets, and turn back again when it rises.”

“I didn’t know that about dragons.”

“No one around here fucking does. People realize how helpless we are during the day, they’d kill us in a heartbeat. My dad says— “

“Your dad?”

“The leader of the dragons. The really big, white one? This whole terror and extortion thing was his idea, once he realized that no one in this kingdom has a clue about dragons.”

“Oh.”

“He hates humans. Thinks they’re useless and weak. If he knew I kept you around instead of killing you, he’d have murdered us both.”

Jesus fucking Christ, laying it on a bit thick with the metaphysical shit there, don’t ya think?

You mean metaphorical?

I mean it’s fucking stupid, that’s what I mean.

Might be closer to allegory anyway.

Uh-huh. Nobody fucking cares, Shakespeare.

“So, anyway,” Mikhailo continued, “you should probably try to go as far away from here as possible. Find a ship and go across the sea or something.”

Prince Ian blinked. “What?”

“Yeah, man, you won’t be able to go back to your castle. No way to stay hidden there. I know this guy up in Dikno, he might—”

He fell silent as Prince Ian jumped up from the bed and crossed the space between them in two long strides, and then he gasped loudly as the prince’s lips found his.

It was another one to inspire love songs.

“You idiot,” Prince Ian said fondly when eventually they broke apart. “Of course I’m not going anywhere. Unless,” he added, suddenly shy, “you want me to.”

Mikhailo made a face. “No, you fucking moron, I don’t want you to go,” he finally said. “But my dad—”

“We’ll find a way to deal with him. We’ll figure out how to sort it out and set things right between humans and dragons. We’ll find a way, together. Okay?”

And Mikhailo the dragon looked at his prince for a long moment and then he smiled. “Okay.”

At his prince, huh. Surprised you got room for all those big words in your head when your ego’s taking up so much space. All right, then what happened?

They organized a rebellion against the leader of the dragons, I guess. I don’t really know. That’s another story.

What do you mean, another story? Is this it? You spend all that time setting it up but when you get to the good part with the fighting you just stop?

Yeah, it’s getting really late. Kid’s asleep anyway.

Kid’s been out cold since, like, before the dragons even showed up, man, don’t fucking pretend this story was for her. … you really not gonna continue?

Nah, I’ll continue. But for the next scene I figured we might try a little show, don’t tell…

Oh, really? What’s the next scene?

Make-up sex. Prince Ian fucking Mikhailo’s brains out. And hey, spoiler alert: Mikhailo comes four times.

Four times, huh.

Yeah. So… wanna know how it happens?

Okay.

Okay. It starts like this—

---

So, yeah. There we have it. The things we write for Gallavich Week… XD

I am halfway outraged that this is the longest fic I’ve ever written for Gallavich, but I’m rather pleased I managed to write something for this theme! Guess I’ll go to bed both proud and embarrassed and dead tired tonight. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Where I am, we’re half an hour past midnight, but seeing as it’s still Monday somewhere, I have decided that I’m posting on time. Yay me! @gallavichthings

[ncroissant]

can you do more sub Francis mosses??

WANT THAT MAN TO BE FILLED TO THE BRIM AND WHIMPERING SKBDJDBDJC

sub! francis mosses x gn! reader

summary: making lots of milk with francis

wc: 1.8k

content warning: nsfw, lactation, francis in lingerie, feminization, milking, nipple play, overstimulation, dirty talk, porn with no plot, anal, cock can be seen as a strap, mention of cunt

author's note: thank u for the ask, anon :)) I LOVEEEE SUB FRANCIS guys. idk why this was so filthy. like i started writing this with no ideas and a dream (to finish this fanfic). anyways hope u enjoy this, ily guys !! not proof read, minors pleaseee dni !!

if you ever wondered how milk was made, here's how.

there sat your boyfriend in his cow-printed lingerie, all collared up, looking up at you with a bashful expression. his cock was painfully hard, barely contained in his panties.

"feel s'full, dovie..." francis moaned, squeezing his thighs together. he squirmed in his seat, barely containing himself. "milk me?"

he looked up at you with a seemingly innocent expression, but made such a lewd request with his hands cupping at his big chest. you tugged him by this leash, bringing him to his knees on the floor.

"you were so shy when you started making milk," you tugged at his nipple through the bra, slightly soaking the fabric with his milk. "now look at you. always looking so forward to making it f'me," you chuckled at the desperate look at his face.

"m-mhm, wanna make lots of milk for you, hngh...!" he nodded desperately, biting his lower lip to suppress his moans. his hands gripped at his knees, his bottom shaking in anticipation.

you took both nubs between your fingers, rubbing them. "just for me? did you forget this milk's for your neighbors, hm?" you tugged upwards again, making his eyes cross and his teeth grit in pleasure.

"hnghk!"

almost immediately, milk started to leak from his chest, spilling down the sides of his body. you slid the bucket by his waist, letting the droplets roll in.

"this is more than usual, francie," you peered into the bucket seeing a substantial amount of milk in the bucket already. "think i needa drink the leftover, yeah?"

you leaned over, lip pressed against the bra, looking up at his flushed face. his lower lip was quivering and you could hear the thumping of his heartbeat through his chest. "m'kay, hmmngh..."

you latched your lips around the fabric, sucking out the milk that drenched his bralette. your other hand slipped under to toy with his perky nipple.

you slid the fabric off his bouncy chest, admiring the pinkness of his nubs, soaked in his own milk. "oooghh...! t-there's so much, 's so, mmnGHH! so wet, so wet, nnnggh!"

"that's all you honey, taste so sweet f'me," milk was dripping of your chin as you sucked on his sopping wet nipple while pinching the other one.

you could visibly see francis' cock twitching in his cute, little panties at your words, humping the air as you suckled and toyed with his nubs. "aaaagh, 's really c-coming out, hGHK!"

whatever you just did made milk squirt out of his nipples, the substance spraying all over him and into your mouth. you looked up at him while you gulped the substance, fondling his free nipple soothingly.

"didn't know you could do that, honey," you pulled off his nipple with a pop, smirking up at him. he was slumped against the bed, cum sticking to his panties. "lots of milk down here too," you chuckled, rubbing your thumb over his slit through the fabric.

"h-hnnngh! s-sticky...feels, ngh, sticky, dovie..." francis pouted, grinding his bulge against your fingers for friction.

you tugged at his leash to ease his antsy behavior, a moan escaping his lips from the pressure around his neck. "none of that. such a slutty little boy, so eager to be milked, hm?" you cooed, feigning innocence.

he had little tears in his eyes, frowning at the way you scolded him. "'m sorry, dovie. jus' wanna cum lots for you, hm?" he leaned closer, his bottom lip puffed out and soaked.

"you're so pretty, honey. look so pretty in your panties," you continued to rub his slit, as francis collapsed into your hold. "y'gonna keep these on f'me, hm?" you began to stroke at his length, tilting your head down to see him shivering.

"unghh...uh-huh...'m gonna, gnnghh, gonna be good for you," he mindlessly babbled, nodding his head. the way you complimented him made his head swirl and his chest feel fuzzy.

"mhm, always such a pretty boy f'me. always such a good listener," you cooed, tugging his cock through the leg of his panties, stroking faster than before.

francis nodded, eyes rolled back with spit dripping down his lips. "mnngh, mhm...feels so good, dovie," his hand was pressed against your chest in attempts to stabilize himself.

"y'gonna give me lots of milk, right? my pretty princess gonna give me lots of milk, hm?" you squeezed the base of his cock, rubbing with more force.

he squeezed his eyes shut, still nodding at your words. his eyebrows furrowed, concentrating on cumming for you. "h-hnnGH, o-oh, might cum soon...! f-feel it c-coming, 'm cummin! oooghhHHH! cumming!" he moaned, shaking his head.

cum splattered on your shirt and his tummy as you slowed your hand. francis breathed heavily against you, little tears slipping down the sides of his face. "s-so, ghhh...good...."

"feeling alright, honey?" your hands slithered down to his waist, rubbing at his sensitive hips. he bucked them, twitching in your grasp.

"m-more, dovie, ngh...there's still lots of, m-milk left, please," he pleaded, weakly looking at you with tears in his eyes. he wanted you to milk him dry, until he couldn't walk anymore.

you smiled, pinching on his sides playfully. "on your hands 'n knees, honey."

he immediately knew what you meant, quickly getting into place. from the angle you were looking at him from, you could see his erect cock pressed against his flushed tummy and his outline of his balls in his all too tight panties.

"you're so cute, francie," you fondled his balls, making him squirm at your touch.

he groaned, lips pursed into an 'o' at the action. "o-oghhhh...t-there's no milk in there, ngh," he protested, his hips shaking at the way you groped him.

"there's a ton of milk in here. look," you squeezed his balls, cum squirting out of his dick into the bucket you skillfully placed underneath of him.

"HNNNGHK!"

he hated how embarrassingly loud the high-pitched squeal he let out was. he felt like the entire apartment complex could hear the way his moans. but it's not like he minded, he wanted every one to know how good you were making him feel.

"look at you squirting like a pretty princess today, huh francie? such a cute little hole here," you toyed with his slit, making him jolt.

he came three times in such a short amount of time, but he still had more in him. "look at how this one's throbbing for something in here," you removed your hand from his cock to circle your thumb around his pulsing hole.

it was a pretty shade of pink, fucked into so many times that it was basically vertical like a cunt. you rolled your thumb over the wetness of his hole, slipping it in teasingly.

"h-hnk! w-want your cock in here, dovie..." he shook his hips slightly, pressing his backside into your finger to dig deeper than it currently was.

you smirked at his pleading expression, pulling your thumb in. he whined at the emptiness, but squealed out a moan when your pointer and middle fingers plunged back into his hole.

"o-oonngh! s-so deep...!" he threw his head back, eyes rolled to the back of his head.

your fingers jammed so deeply that they just barely nudged his prostate, making him squeal from the sensation. he felt tingles all over his body, blood rushing to the tips of his toes.

"this loose cunt doesn't need preppin', huh? 's soakin' in here," you teased, rubbing the tip of your fingers against that special spot. you were knuckles deep in his hole, he was more than ready.

"i-i can, unngh! take it, dovie! p-prepped myself before, hnnnggGHH!"

you pulled out roughly, spanking his ass roughly with your free hand. you quickly pulled your cock out, stroking it with your slick-covered hand. "of course you would expect more than just milking, greedy boy."

"'m sorry, dovie, i-i jus', ooOGH!"

francis threw his head back, he could see stars when your cock pressed deeply into his cunt. he tightened around you, sucking you in deeper.

you paid no mind to his whimpered, thrusting into him wildly. his jaw went slack, tongue spilling out of his mouth coating his saliva. spit dripped down his chin as his head shook every time you thrusted back into him.

"such a needy little princess. so greedy for my cock, huh?" you tugged harshly at the leash, making him tense up from the pressure around his throat.

he was panting like a dog, but being milked like a cow. he came for the fourth time, squirting all over the ground, completely missing his designated bucket.

"oooNNGH! s-so, fuck, deep!" he mewled out, hearted thumping out of his chest from all the pleasure he was feeling. his tip was throbbing red, tired from cumming so much. but the cum bubbling in his tummy made him think otherwise.

as you tugged at his collar, your free hand reached down to fondle with his nipple. there was still milk spilling out of his tits, dripping down to his tummy, mixing with his cum.

"hnnNGHK! yesyesyes, c-cum in me dovie, please! hnnghh!" he babbled, as you rutted into his cum-filled hole. you cummed long before but he didn't notice until he was filled to the brim with your seed.

you continued to fuck cum deep into his tummy, so deeply that you could see the outline of your cock. "f-fuck, you're so needy today, honey," you grunt, squeezing his tit.

"trained these tits so well. milkin' so much f'me now," you flicked his buds, milk spilling out. this was the second time he squirted from his nipples in one night.

you were slowly losing stamina, despite cumming less than francis. francis was fully fucked with your cum, but still had so much left in him. his breasts were filled with milk and cock still begging for more release.

his mind was so hazy, face flushed from the endless orgasms. you pulled out of his hole, watching the cum seep out. it filled his inner walls generously, so much that it was dripping down his inner thighs.

"n-no! why'd you, hnghh, pull out, dovie?" he whined, shuffling back to stuff himself full of your cock.

when he sat on your cock, even more cum spilled out, dripping on the floor. you roughly sat him down on your lap, his back pressed against your chest.

francis started to grind his hips against your cock, but you shook your head. "no moving honey," you growled, fingers gripping at his hips to still his movements to force him to cock warm you. he really thought he could get away with breaking the rules.

"no...moving, hngh?"

your nails slightly scratched against his chest, little to no milk squirting out now. he almost out of milk. unfortunately for him, as revenge, when you regain your stamina, you wouldn't give him a break.

francis was in for a long night of milking.

[caravaggiosbrushes]

"what would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?" + Fitzier (this prompt screamed to me about them, especially considering your earlier hate sex/dub-con fics😏)

Thank you for the prompt!! Fitzier with a final twist... ;)

James is pinned to the wall by Francis’ fingers, buried into him.

He’s having trouble keeping quiet, but he doesn’t want to give Francis the satisfaction of seeing him even more helpless than this. He’s trying his best to look unmoved by Francis’ assault, but it’s quite hard to maintain a straight face when the Captain keeps curling his fingers in such a perfect way, rubbing at that spot inside of him, making him see stars behind his eyelids.

He bites down on his bottom lip to keep the moans in his throat.

"Francis–"

"Don't call me Francis," he growls, "You'll call me what I'm due, especially when I'm having you."

James presses his forehead against the wall, hoping the pain will bring some of the pleasure away so he will be able to think again, but Francis licks a strip of skin behind his ear and he almost sobs out loud.

"What would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?" Francis whispers in his ear.

James trembles at the word, but forces himself to tsks. "No one would believe you."

"And yet here you are." Francis remarks, "Dripping on my fingers like a dirty little girl."

He’s not dripping– it's the oil Francis used to ease the way. It’s not him. He wishes it were him, but that’s impossible, he knows it all too well. Still, being so drenched makes the illusion easy to believe, because he knows he’d be more than wet for Francis right now, if he’d have the anatomy of a lady.

"You're so bloody tight," Francis grunts, his lips against the side of his face, "One could almost think you're a virgin."

James bites at his own hand, to shut himself or choke.

"But you're far from being a virgin, that's for sure," Francis goes on, viciously working him open, "With all the pricks you've taken to climb your way up here."

James can force himself to accept many things: Francis making fun of him in front of Sir John and their officers, Francis being drunk beyond measure every single time they meet, and he can stay silent when Francis glares at him from across the table, silently telling him he doesn’t belong here; but he won’t stay quiet when Francis talks like this about his career, because Francis doesn’t know.

"Do you want to know how many men I’ve had before you?" James asks back, feeling his vision turn red with rage, "so many. I couldn't recall the number if I'd try.” He turns his face toward Francis as best he can, to catch his eyes, “I let all of them fuck me sensless, and they were so good, all of them, giving it to me exactly like I wanted it–"

"Stop it."

"–giving it to me like you never can, since you can barely get it up–"

"Shut up." Francis snarls, pressing him against the wall, "Don't you have an ounce of shame?"

"No,” James grins, feeling out of his own mind. "They've fucked it all out of me."

He hits Francis in the ribs with his elbow, which has him take his fingers out of him too harshly, but it doesn’t matter, he can endure this pain too, because the angry euphoria of seeing Francis bent in half at his feet is enough.

James pushes his hair away from his face, towering over him.

"You're only jealous you weren’t the one having me first."

“How dare you,” Francis has a hand pressed to his side and glares at him with burning fury in his eyes. The hard line in his uniform pants makes him look even more dangerous, his prick like something made to split and tear apart.

He tries to get back to his feet, but James stops him with a hand on his chin, grabbing it harshly. Francis’ eyes widen in surprise.

“You insolent kid.” He says.

“Your age doesn’t make me a kid.” James feels aflame with power. Is this what Francis feels, every time? He almost excuses the way he treats him. Almost.

His pants are half pushed down, but still hiding his aching prick: he palms himself generously through them, noticing how Francis can’t seem to stop looking at him. He lets go of a heavy breath that ends in a moan, filling the room. Francis’ lips part on their own.

James pushes his thumb against them.

“Open up.”

Francis looks shocked for a moment, then outraged, as if he’s about to get to his feet and punch him, just like that. Then, he lets James push his finger into his mouth.

“Isn’t this better?” He asks, “A little bit of quiet.”

He presses down on Francis’ tongue and brings his free hand in his pants, wrapping it around his cock.

Francis bites lightly at his thumb and sucks hard at it, eyes huge, trained to the shape of James’ hand moving underneath the fabric.

“Like this,” James says, “Suck me off.”

Francis grasps at the fabric of James’ pants, a look of confusion, fury and lust in his eyes. He lifts his gaze on James and all but spits his finger out of his mouth, “Then bloody let me.”

“Hush.” James silences him with his thumb again, “You always make it look like a terrible hardship when you do it– if you do it at all–ah,” he makes sure to moan loudly, “so I’m sparing you the torment. You should thank me.”

Francis looks utterly betrayed. He moves away from James’ hand, “Fucking Hell, just let me–”

“No.”

He’s proud of how hard and steady his voice comes out, as if seeing Francis like this, on his knees, desperate to have him, is nothing.

James pushes his index and middle fingers into his mouth this time, making sure to spread saliva on his chin with his thumb.

Francis grasps at his pants and sucks at his fingers, breathing loudly through his nose. He almost whines when James start fucking his own fist, his hips so close to Francis’ face.

“Don’t touch yourself,” James orders, when he notices one of Franics’ hands going to his groin, “You never let me touch myself when I do this.”

Francis squeezes his eyes shut and gives him a murderous look when he opens them again. But he does as told.

James makes sure to move his fingers in his mouth in time with his hips and it’s not long before Francis helplessly grasps at his wrists, moaning something around his mouthful.

“You have something to say?” James asks, trying to hide how breathless he is.

Francis nods urgently.

James slips his fingers free. “Speak up.”

“At least,” Francis’ voice is hoarse, “Finish on my face.”

James slams his fist against the wall. “Christ, Francis–”

“Please.” Francis says, breaking character, “Give it to me, James.”

Hearing and seeing Francis like this makes him lose his words, so James just pushes his pants and boxer down, the cold air of the room a shock on his burning skin.

“Christ, yes.” Francis pants, reverently, staring at his straining erection, “like that, love, let me see you when you come.”

He picks up the pace of his movements. “Francis–”

“Finish on your Captain’s face.”

There’s no way James can keep his eyes open through his orgasm, not with how good this feels, but he makes sure to open them as soon as the first wave of pleasure is dissipating.

He made a mess of Franics’ face: there are ropes of white all over, most of it ended up on his right cheek, but there’s a bit of it in the streak of hair that has fallen on his forehead too. He’s panting and cleaning himself with his hand, licking it clean like a cat would do.

James still has no words, so he all but drops to his knees and kisses him hard, swallowing Francis’ moan and his own come down.

“You’re so hot like this,” James pants on his mouth, feeling both ready to pass out and do it all over again, “I’m gonna suck you off.”

“James,” Francis groans on his lips and lays down, bringing James with him. “I’ll not last– watching you is always too much.”

James sucks at his tongue wishing he could kiss and touch him everywhere at the same time.

He hastily moves down, opens his pants, doesn’t even waste time by undressing him, just takes him out and God yes, yes, the way Francis tastes, the way he pulses into his mouth when he’s so close, it’s everything. James forces his throat to accept him and hungrily swallows around him.

“James– Oh–”

He doesn’t stop sucking at him even once he’s finished, keeps lapping at his gorgeous cock until Francis makes a noise in the back of his throat and tries to push him away.

“Told you you would have looked so good in my Captain’s uniform.” James smiles on his lips, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “God, you’re so hot when you play angry.”

Francis pushes his nose against his, with his eyes closed, still blissed out by his orgasm.

"How the hell did you make them hate each other in the beginning?” He asks, breathless, "if this is when they couldn’t stand each other I can't imagine what the rest of your book is like."

“You know,” James moves a hand around, "Victorians."

He stretches back to get the Captain’s hat from where it has fallen while they were pushing and pulling at each other, and puts it on himself, smiling dazedly.

“How do I look?”

“I’m the Captain, don’t forget it.” Francis steals it from him with a smile. “Don’t be insubordinate now, or I’ll have to punish you.”

James pushes his face in Francis’ hair, breathing heavily. “God, please.”

“James, my back is already killing me–”

“Will you spank me? Will you put me over your knees, in your lap?”

“I’m not sure that was the way–”

“I can wear that white skirt you like so much–”

Francis pushes himself up to stand in the blink of an eye.

“Bedroom, let’s go.”

James bursts out laughing, his heart full with everything he feels for Francis.

.

.

...it’s set in my tinder AU!!! look at these two roleplaying!! DORKS!!!!

( send me a prompt and I’ll write you a short fic! )

[litafficionado]

Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites.  --------- Q.  You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A.  I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish.  I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career.  Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick.  I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next.  He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say.  I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write.  I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.  

Q.  You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A.  I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it.  Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six.  But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway).  There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get  Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay.  I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den.  It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a  dollar-store stockroom.    

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A.  I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.”  That has always sounded like the best advice.  And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints.  Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore.  I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning.  Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way.  I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means.  And every now and then I’ll read  a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving.  It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most.  A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q.  I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A.  I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair.  At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to.  I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure.  The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s  A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August.  It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language.  A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection).  I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.  

[daffodildazaiwrites]

Day 6 // Power Play

Pairing: Francis Fitzgerald x fem!reader

Genre: Pure sin (obviously)

Word Count: 514

Warnings: Dirty talking, degradation, creampie (don’t try this at home, use protection)  

Commissions | Ko-Fi

“You love getting fucked by your boss don’t you?”

Yes.

“You love sucking my dick from under the desk don’t you?”

Yes.

This was a dangerous game you both were playing. Francis would tease you mercilessly at work, using his high rank to make you do whatever he seemed fit. It was a thrill really. You loved it when he degraded you and called you names while he fucked you silly and afterwards he always was so tender with you by cleaning you up and bringing you a glass of water.

Though this time it felt different.

Francis had made you wear black lingerie, it was uncomfortable but you did as you were told but just as you were in the middle of a meeting he had called you into the office. You took a step inside and suddenly you found yourself being bent over the table.

You felt his weight on top of you, his chest flushed against your back, he placed his lips against your ear.

“How fucking dare you,” he whispered. “Flirting with someone else infront of me, do you have a death wish?”

Flirting? You were confused, before you could ask him or deny the fact Francis pulled your pants down. Surprised that he was so rough you let out a gasp as he hit you, making your ass cheeks ripple under the force.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he hissed. “Suffer the consequences.”

A noise of a zipper reached your ears and the feeling of his cock against your hole followed. He grabbed your hair as he pushed in, you hissed at the pain radiating from your scalp. He was throbbing and twitching inside of you, your pussy clamped around his dick, he pulled your hair further and lifted up your whole upper body from the desk you were laying on.

“Fuck, I shove it in and you’re already drooling around my dick,” he panted. “Just how much of a slut are you?”

He started thrusting in and out of you, the lewd noises of your pussy squelching filled the office. It made you burn up with embarrassment but turned you on further. One hand was tangled in your hair and his other hand was firmly grasping your hip, it was hard enough to leave marks.

“You...ahh...who do you belong to y/n?”

“You.” you moaned out. “I belong to you and only you.”

“Good girl.”

You groaned when he tugged your hair, his movements became sloppier as his cock hit that special spot inside of you over and over again. The last thing you heard was him groaning “mine” into your ear as he spurted thick ropes of cum inside of you. Being filled up by him felt so good, your insides spasmed as Francis filled you up to the brim.

When he was dried up he pulled out and pulled your pants back up, you could feel the cum trickling down your thighs.

“You’re going to work like that all day,” he said, zipping up his pants. “This is punishment.”

[t-o-m-hollands]

Summery: Tom is not entirely sure of how it happens. But one moment he’s the gardener of Locksley Hall, and the next he’s run off to marry the lords daughter. A girl he despises.

Well, sort of.

Warnings: Smoking.

A/N: this is (loosely) based on the Locksley Hall poem by Tennyson, but the relationship between them is pretty heavily inspired by Atonement by Ian McEwan (the first part of the book) and the story at large also slightly inspired by Downton Abbey.   Also, I’ve changed the law in this. As I understand it (from watching Downton Abbey) girls could never inherit the estate, no matter if she was married or not. Here you will inherit, but only if you are married and it will then go to your husband. Also, I was listening to Old Money – lana del rey the entire time I was writing this. 

-

Locksley Hall, England – 1920.

It’s June, and Tom finds himself praying for rain.  

It’s one of those summer days when the air stands still. Not a whiff of wind, no breeze in the trees, not a cloud in the sky. Just an ever-pressing, inescapable heat that seems to paint the whole world a hazy golden shade.  

He’s knee-deep in the earth, sweat running down his back, shovelling soil under the merciless sun. It’s midday and the warmth is intolerable. He can already feel the blisters he’ll have on his hands tomorrow. To top it all off his head is pounding and he reminds himself to give Harrison a good kick in the chin the next time he sees him; for convincing him that one more drink wouldn’t hurt.  

And god, he desperately wants a cigarette.  

“God, it’s hot today” Madeleine’s bored voice drifts out the open window. “One can hardly think straight”.

Tom lifts his head and observes her through the glass. The owner of the voice is in the conservatory. Wearing a lace dress and her dark curls perfectly pinned into place. She is primly drinking tea alongside her mother; safely hidden away from the beaming sun.    

He swipes the sweat from his forehead before shovelling the spade further down in the dirt. A sudden urge to throw some of the earth through the conservatory window hits him, just enough to dirty up her white gown. But he resists it. Instead he sits down by the flowerbed and leans his pounding head against the wall. His sore muscles scream in relief. Lighting a cigarette, he then closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The whole world goes white as the sun shines through his closed eyelids and a soft sigh escapes him.  

“Have you received any more letters from Sir Hatfield?” He hears lady Locksley inquire from inside.  

“What, James?”  

“Yes, of course James, has he written you again?”  

“Thankfully not”.  

“Oh, don’t be silly child, he’s the owner of Hatfield house! God knows you could do worse than him” Lady Locksley scolds her oldest daughter. Despite himself Tom’s interest is peaked, so he keeps smoking and listening to the conversation, ignoring his gardening duties.  

“But he’s such a bore” Madeleine whines in response. “Honestly mother, all he ever talks about is hunting. And Hatfield house is a terrible building, you know I can’t stand Tudor architecture. Plus, James is ancient.”  

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s not ancient, he’s ten years younger than your father.”  

“Exactly, and I’m two-and-twenty years old!”  

“Oh, do be quiet, you’re very lucky he’s shown any interest in you at all. I have talked to your father about this. It’s high time for you to get married. Ever since Francis…” she trails off and Tom knows why. Francis had been her oldest child and only son, the one set to inherit the land and the title. Who had died in the war during the battle of the Somme. Tom had known Francis and had not been fond of him. Upon hearing about his death he’d wondered if the heir had been shot by one of his own, though he did not air this suspicion. Tall and handsome Francis may have had been, but he had also been entitled, rude and unkind to animals. He’d beaten his horses, screamed at the servants and taunted his sisters.    

Lady Locksley continues with a new air of authority in her voice. “It’s more important than ever before that we find you a good match. You know what’s at stake if you don’t marry and marry soon”.    

Silence for a second, and unease is setting like lead in Tom’s stomach. Maybe this isn’t a conversation he should listen in to.  

“Yes, I know.” The words sound heavy and reluctant in Madeleine’s mouth.    

He opens his eyes and discretely as he can he pops his head up to sneak a look through the window. The look on the young heir’s face strikes him. It’s not sad, nor angry or dismayed. It’s apathetic. Like she’s somewhere far, far away.  

“Boy, I thought I told you to start digging!” Bertie Higgins voice booms over the grounds as he crosses the corner of the building and walk towards Tom, who quickly puts out his cigarette.  

An elderly man, with bushy beard and eyebrows, a bit too fond of beer and with fingernails so dirty Tom wonders if they’ve ever been cleaned, walks towards him. Mr. Higgins has worked as the head gardener on the grounds of Locksley Hall for longer than anyone could remember.  

“Sorry Mr. Higgins, I just took a breather” he says before putting out his cigarette and picking up his shovel again. Mr. Higgins observes him for a moment, then he leans in closer and whiffs of the beer the older man had for lunch hits Tom’s face. “Listen, boy” he says in a low voice “no good will come from spying on them gentle folks, hear me? No good will come of it”.

“Mr. Higgins I wasn’t -” Tom begins to defend himself but the gardener pats his shoulder and continuous in his stern voice. “Is no use lyin’ to me, boy, I’m too old, I’ve seen too much. You’ve been sniffin’ after that young heir since you came back. ’s no use lad. Them folks are not for the likes of us, above your station she is, well above your station.” Tom wants to protest. For he has most certainly not been sniffing after anyone, least of all Madeleine Locksley, but Mr. Higgins continues. “Now Alice,” he says and pats his shoulder again “she’s some good maid she is, why not ask her out?”  

Alice was indeed a maid at Locksley Hall. Pretty and always ready for a laugh. She’d made it perfectly clear of her interest in him too. There was however a streak of pettiness to the girl that he wasn’t too fond of, and therefor he’d reclined her thus far. But he doesn’t particularly feel like sharing that with Mr. Higgins.  

“Now boy” Mr. Higgins goes on. “You had your breather, go back to diggin’, if I told you once I told’ you a thousand times, you dig when the sun’s out and the dirt is dry an’ you water when the sun’s gone down”.  

Tom goes back to digging, the sun burning his neck, and his joints already protesting.  

He doesn’t notice Madeleine’s brown eyes observing him from within the conservatory.  

***  

The bathwater has gone cold. Still, she stays in the water. The prospect of putting down her book and getting up and ready for yet another family dinner seems dull at best. The rose-scented cold water feels refreshing against her skin. Today really had been unbearably hot. 

Still the heat lingers in the air.

Outside the bathrooms leaded windows the last rays of daylight are lighting up the grounds. Though the light in the gardener’s cottage is already lit.  

Dropping her copy of Pride & Prejudice to the floor she sinks further down into the water. Leaning her head back against the edge of the tub she closes her eyes and sighs.  

She’d just gotten to the part in the book where Elizabeth refuses Mr. Darcy’s proposal and it had annoyed her. How Elizabeth could refuse Mr. Darcy and all his possessions, and it didn’t lead to despair and desolation for her entire family, instead, as if by the waving of a magic wand, everything worked out beautifully in the end. That wasn’t real life.

Everything was annoying her today. Her mother’s persistent nagging, her father’s detachment, granny’s constant complaining. Tom’s strong arms wielding a shovel. The cotton shirt sticking to his sweaty back, the suspenders holding up his muddy trousers.  

She sinks further down into the cold water.  

Tom had looked annoyed today as well. But then again, he’d seemed permanently aggravated ever since he got back from France, at least in her presence. She’d seen him laugh plenty of times with Harrison from the pub when she visited the village, and with Alice too. He’d even crack a smile from time to time with Mr. Higgins. But her presence always seemed to put a frown on his face.

It had not always been this way.

As children they had played. They had explored the woods like travellers discovering a new world. Had run over the poppy fields pretending they could fly. They’d made it down to the sea and Old Sailor Joe had told them stories of Odysseus, and his long journey home. They’d sneaked out and slept under the stars and he had told her all of what Mr. Higgins had taught him about botany. Of how the things we sow in the ground with time will grow. About which flowers could kill you, and which ones could heal.

They had shared secrets and kept them between themselves, solemnly sworn blood-oaths with all the seriousness of a promise between children. They’d sworn that whatever happened between them stayed that way. That his secrets were hers and she’d keep them to her grave, and likewise for him.

Then she’d been sent away to boarding school and he had gone to the village school and that had been the end of that. During the holidays so much time had seemed to have passed between them that it was hard to pick up the threads of childish games where they’d left them. Then, war had broken out and she’d been sent to live with relatives in Canada, and Tom, well, Tom had joined the army.

Once they’d seen each other again years had passed, and they were strangers to one another.

The last evening light shines over the grounds of Locksley Hall, but Madeleine doesn’t move out of her bath, instead she stares out the window, feeling no motivation to move.  

Everything is fleeting, that was what she kept feeling. The hours, the days, the weeks, the months and years. Time passed her by so rapidly and yet all the days looked the same. She felt like a leaf landing in a river, being swept away with the stream with no control of where it was going or were it’d end up. Soon, she would be married, most likely to dreary James Hatfield, and then they would settle in Hatfield house and she would never spend her days roaming the grounds of Locksley Hall again.

Or maybe, she wouldn’t marry, and upon the death of her father and in the lack of a male heir, all their lands and possessions would go to the crown, and they’d all would be left with nothing.

A scream works itself larger in her throat. It had started earlier that day, with her mother in the conservatory. It would only grow larger, and larger until she wouldn’t be able to hold it in any longer. She knew this much from experience.

It felt like this,

In school they’d been taught about diamonds, about how with heat, pressure, and time diamonds are formed to something so unbreakable and everlasting that only another diamond can cut it. She’d imagined how all the screams she’d held inside, pressed between two lungs, over time created so much pressure that they’d turn her insides into diamonds.

As a child she and Tom had snuck into the library one night. In a book of medical terms they’d found the word autopsy with the description:  “An examination of a body after death to determine the cause of death or the character and extent of changes produced by disease — called also necropsy”. Not understanding much of this they had searched the other medical books until they found a more thorough description of what the word meant.

She had been horrified upon finding the truth in all its bloody glory. How, upon one’s death, a pathologist would cut you open to see what they could find. Painted pictures of the procedure followed, and Madeleine is still certain that the image of a cut open human heart is imprinted on her retinas forever.

She imagined it like this,

When they cut her open they won’t find veins, or blood, or intestines. But instead a cloud of smoke as they’ll tear her up, and inside –

dust. 

And a diamond heart; at the living core of which a handful of secrets shared between children years ago were kept. And the pathologists will look at one another and ask themselves, ‘why did she walk around with a diamond heart for all those years?’ Not realising, that her diamond heart was a perfect symbol of her.

Beautiful and valuable.  

And essentially useless.

The door to the bathroom bursts open, and a very aggravated eleven-year-old girl stands on the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed red, not only from a day spent playing in the sun, but from barely held-back rage.  

“That hag!” she bursts out. Her curly, brown hair a mess, wearing a grass-stained dress. A big hole at the sole her left sock.

Madeleine finally steps out of the cold water, pulls on her robe and turns to Beatrix.

“Beanie darling, you know you can’t call people that. Now, what has happened?”

“She told me I’d only be fit to marry a sailor the way I look! And then she had the nerve to say that I was lacking manners! Just because I told her I’d love to marry a sailor, at least he wouldn’t be such a bore!”

The older sister tries to hold back a smile, not wanting to encourage this kind of behaviour. “Would we perhaps be talking about granny?” she inquires.

“Do we know of anyone else that fit the description absolute hag?” her little sister answers, hand on her hip, clearly still annoyed. “Also, she says I have to change for supper in the nursery, god knows why; I’m hardly trying to impress nanny, and that they are waiting for you downstairs.”

And thus, it is time to face the unavoidable and join the lion’s den. Madeleine steps into her adjoining bedroom to get dressed and Beatrix follows closely behind.

“You’ll never guess who she suggested you should marry” Beatrix continues, amusement in her voice, as she sits down at her sisters dressing table, inspecting the bottles of scent and jars of powder with a bemused look on her young face.

“Was it by any chance James Hatfield?” Madeleine answers as she steps into the blue frock Alice had laid out for her earlier.

Beatrix stares at her sister in incredulity and in a heartbroken voice she wails with disbelief in every syllable,” OH, surely not! Leine, you can’t marry him! You simply can’t!”

Benie and Lenie were the affectionate nicknames the sister had for one another. As a child Beatrix had not been able to say Madeleine, but instead only pronounced the latter part of the name and dragged the vocals out into a ‘leeniee’ every time she called out for her.

“Well, he hasn’t proposed yet, so nothing is set” Madeleine answers while avoiding her sister’s questioning eyes, inspecting her hair in the mirror instead.

“So that’s why they’ll have a ball then, I was wondering what called for such an occasion”. 

“A ball?”

“Yes” Beatrix states, inspecting her own freckled, sunburned face in the mirror. “Mommy told granny that they would have one as soon as possible”.

The scream works itself larger in Madeleine’s lungs.

“Oh, well. It can’t be helped” she says and leads her sister out of the bedroom. “Now, you really do need to change, or nanny will be furious with you, and I’ll have to join them downstairs”.

The bedroom door closes behind them as they leave.

***  

The late evening air is loaded with the scent of rhododendrons. In the trees the nightingales sing, and the summer air feel cool against her bare arms as she steps out into the night.

Carefully, as to not be seen from any of the windows, she makes her way across the garden. It is dark, but on her childhood paths her feet still knows where to tread. She walks past the house, the gigantic rhododendron bush, and along the pathway lined with pink geraniums, down the trail past the summerhouse by the lake and further still until she arrives at the fountain by the labyrinth. The deep green hedges are lined with powder pink hydrangeas, blue hyacinths and cardinal red peonies. In the middle of it a square with a fountain. And if you look past that, the entrance to the labyrinth itself. 

If she had walked further still, away from the labyrinth, she’d come to a wide field of poppies. Had she, instead of walking north from the house, walked west she would have ended up by the sea, and the cliffs and Locksley Bay. East of the house laid the road to the village, and then the road to town. South of the manor the forest grew.  

She doesn’t go through the entrance of the labyrinth but sits down by the edge of the fountain. From her pocket she picks up a package of Woodbine cigarettes, but when she goes to light it, the lighter only flickers.

“Need a light?”

She nearly falls into the fountain, taken by surprise by the familiar voice. Tom laughs and walks out of the shadows. Hands in pockets and hair a wild mess.  

“Wanker!” she burst out, heart beating painfully hard in her chest.

“Now, now, where did you learn a word like that?”

He’s so smug, and it’s making her skin crawl with anger. She ignores his question and ask, “did you follow me here?”

He moves closer still, until he’s right in front of her. Then he takes out his lighter. She puts the cigarette in her mouth and he lights it for her.

“No” he answers eventually. “Was just finishing up watering the peonies.”

“You water the peonies in the middle of the night?”

He lights a cigarette for himself and blows out pearl white smoke into the summer night before he answers. “Yeah, as Mr. Higgins keeps telling me. You dig when the soil is dry, otherwise you’ll shovel mud, and you water the plants when the sun’s gone down and the soil is cool, or you’ll just end up boiling the poor things”.

She looks at him, really looks at him; while he’s busy looking up at the moon. His white cotton shirt is filled with stains of earth and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, a worn linen jacket thrown over his shoulder. Worn suspender holds up his muddy pants. His brown locks frame his face perfectly and in the moonlight his skin, tanned from working out all day, seems to almost radiate. He looks positively angelical. A sudden urge to pull her fingers through his hair overwhelms her. 

She looks away.

The nightingales sing louder than ever in the silence, as do the buzzing insects. Somewhere in the far distance a fox screech.

“You know” he says, sitting down on the bench opposite the fountain, leaning back he spreads out into a relaxed position. “Whenever I hear a vixen’s cry I think about Gideon’s ghost.”

“Well, you are the inhabitant of Gideon’s cottage”.

When, or indeed why, the gardener’s cottage on Locksley Hall had been baptised Gideon’s cottage no one seemed to know. Not even Old Sailor Joe, and rumour has it he’d been guarding the boats in Locksley Bay since the first wave crashed against its shore.

But the gardener of Locksley Hall had, for as long as anyone could remember, lived in Gideon’s cottage.

As a child her older brother had frightened her with tales of Gideon’s ghost, and how he still roamed the grounds of the manor, still volatile over long forgotten quarrels. When ever she’d hear a fox’s cry at night, as they laid tucked up in their shared nursery, he’d told her it was the ghost of Gideon, seeking out small girls to take out his revenge on. She had been terrified.

When she’d told this to Tom he had lost his temper with her brother, the two had never gotten along, and he’d taken the older boy to the ground, punching him with his small fists until a furious Bertie Higgins, who’d seen the quarrel from across the yard, had pulled him off him. Madeleine knew Tom had gotten a trashing from Mr. Higgins for the attack and a stern telling off from her father.

“I love that old cottage” he says with a found smile on his face, blowing out more smoke into the air between them. “But I’m yet to see his ghost. ’s a shame really, would have asked if the legend was true about gold being buried at the cliffs of Locksley Bay”.

She smiles, and the nightingales keeps on singing. The scent of peonies and hyacinths is heavy in the air, despite the smoke.  

Tom observing her with an intensity that unnerves her, so she turns away from him to look down into the fountain. Slowly she lowers her hand into the cold water and she watches as the goldfish swim around her.

“Why are you out here smoking at night?” he asks, and she turns to back to look at him, pulling her hand out of the water. He’s still observing her, and she feels almost naked under his glance, despite the silk gown she’s still wearing from dinner. It makes her nervous when he looks at her like that, because underneath their easy tones of conversation, she’s not actually sure he likes her all that much. She shivers, goosebumps all over her naked arms.  

“Here” he says and throws her his jacket. She utters a thank you and pulls it on. It smells of earth and smoke, and fresh cut grass. It smells like him and her diamond heart beat harder in her chest.

“Papa doesn’t like me smoking in the house.” She answers in the end.  

In fact, her father was against her smoking at all. It was a habit that had begun at Talbot Heath boarding school. Smoking with the other girls behind the gymnasium. They’d practised smoking without coughing, feeling mighty smug when they succeeded.

But smoking was, as it had been pointed out to her by her father, ‘not a dignified habit for a woman of her class to partake in’. When she’d gotten back from Canada after the war they’d have words about the subject. In the end the general agreement was that she did not smoke in the house, or amongst other people. She didn’t always follow these rules. There were days when all she did was sit in her bathroom, smoke cigarette after cigarette and read books. A part of her wanted to walk around the house and leave a trace of smoke in every room. Like a ghost, reminding them that she is still there. But a deeply rooted respect, verging on fear, of her father has always kept her from doing such a thing.

Tom hums in reply, that smug smile on his face again. “And what’s dear papa to say about this then? Hmm?” He nods at her, sitting just a meter away from him, wearing his jacket. “Princess sneaking out at night to share a smoke with the gardener?”

“Oh, do shut up”.  

“You know you really have improved your vocabulary since we last spoke” he replies dryly, “must be all that reading”.

“How do you know I read so much”.

And maybe it’s a trick of the moonlight, but she swears he blushes, his cheek the colour of peonies. “I can see the light in your window from my cottage at night”.

“Oh, and you’re keeping tabs on me? How sweet!” You reply in a mocking tone, grateful that you get the chance to be smug for once.

“Well, it’s hard not to notice it” the annoyance is clear in his voice. Then he changes the subject. “What are you reading so late at night anyway?”

“At the moment, Tennyson”.

He groans, “of course you like Tennyson” he scoffs, puts out his cigarette and lights a new one, offering her one as well, which she accepts.

“What’s wrong with Tennyson?” She asks, indignant.  

“Nothing I guess” he responds, “unless you’d like to read about things other than knights and fair maidens”  

“He did not only write about knights and fair maidens!” She defends fiercely. “He wrote about love and loss and death and privilege and -”  

“Oh, he wrote about privilege, did he! Well, you know all about that, don’t you? Little miss ivory tower”.

“And what do you read then? What is so good it makes Tennyson look foolish to you?” She tries to keep her annoyance out of her voice, but its difficult, especially when he looks at her like that. Like he finds her laughable.  

“Recently? Mostly Gorky.”

“You always did prefer your literature Russian. You’re politics too if Alice is to be believed.”  

He smiles, a little less condescending this time, “and you always loved your poetry, and no, she isn’t”.

“You must like some of the poets, surely?”  

“I’m rather fond of Shelley, actually”

“And the sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea:  what is all this sweet work worth, if thou kiss not me?” she quotes, not considering the implication of her words until they’ve already left her mouth. It had always been her favourite poem, and the words fell from her lips so effortlessly. But the intensity in his eyes as he observers her seem to change the very air around them. It is as though the whole world stills, if only for a moment. Like the nightingales and the foxes and the crickets all have heard her, and quieted down, in suspense over what’s to happen next.

He stands up and puts out his cigarette. Looking away from her he suggests, “we should head back, it’s late. I’ll walk you”. So, she puts out hers as well and follows him, and in silence they head back to the manor house, each avoiding the others eyes.  

She pulls his jacket closer to her.  

Then, he stops in his tracks. “Look,” he says and points up at the night sky “Andromeda burns bright tonight”.  

Already as a child he’d been good at recognising the constellations. Many a night they had sneaked out and wandered off to the poppy fields where they’d laid down their heads, and he had pointed up to the sky, just as he was doing now, and taught her to read them.  

“Andromeda, who was tied to the rocks, to be eaten by the sea monster Cetus?”

He nods, but doesn’t look away from the sky, “but Perseus rescued her”.

“And you criticised Tennyson for writing about knights and maidens” she teases.

He looks down at her then, a smile tugging the corners of his lips. They start walking again, his hands in his pockets, looking at the road ahead.  

“So, what did your dear Tennyson write about privilege?”  

“That opportunities are only given to those with riches already” she answers, and then she quotes, “every door is barr’d with gold, and opens but to golden keys.”

Tom is silence for a moment. They’re nearing the end of the road; they’re by the rhododendron bush, and they’ve reached the points were they have to walk their separate ways.  

She removes his jacket and hands it to him.  

“Keep it, for now. You can give it back later, you’ll freeze.”

“No” she argues. “No, Alice will see it and wonder”.

He doesn’t argue with her on that point but takes the jacket from her outstretched hand. “Well” he says, awkwardly. “See you around, Lady Madeleine”.  

They part ways.  

***

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(A/N: I’m reposting this because the first time i posted it didn’t show up in the tags and it had like 3 notes)

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