#brush your lil wisp husband

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

i just wanna be price’s lil housewife, is that too much to ask?

i want him to come home from a long day and just let me take care of him 🤭🥹

Comforts of Home

Pairing: John Price x F!Housewife!Reader

Synopsis: Good are the days when you wake up and John is already beside you. (18+)

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Sleepy morning sex, p in v, soft dom Price? & fluff, etc.

A/N: There's absolutely nothing wrong in wanting that, Anon, I feel you. I had no idea if this was a request or not but I used it as smut practice sooo

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

When you woke up, the heavy arms around your waist nearly made your heart give out. Eyes wide, your unfocused gaze flickers back into consciousness onto the far wall with a violent tensing of your muscles; lids going back. 

You’re about to rush from bed with a call for alarm, but the soft snores puffing against the back of your neck makes your half-risen body freeze. 

A moment of clarity alights in the dim hours.

John, eyes close with a great sigh and an immediate calming of your heart, ribs raising and falling once more at a, gradually, deadening pace. You’d forgotten that your husband was more stubborn than you—and seeing that he’d slipped into your bed without waking you, it just proved your point. 

A low grumble leaves lips slipping over the clutch of your shoulder, the grip along your body being tightened like you were nothing more than a teddy bear. With a small smile on your face, you’re being dragged back into an expansive chest, firm muscle forming the mattress of warm flesh and wrinkled sheets of mapped scars. 

It was never in John’s nature to take advantage of you, and thus, even if you told him it was alright, the SAS Captain never woke you when he came home in the small hours of the morning.

He’d called it inconsiderate to do so—ungentlemanly—but in reality, you knew it was because the bastard liked to watch you sleep in nothing but one of his gargantuan shirts and a pair of thin underwear. 

Your fatigued body presses itself farther into the Brit’s chest, feeling the rumbles of his breathing and how he conforms to you, his toned hips pushing forward into the space in between your legs. He smells like your shampoo; the wisps of his beard hair soft like silk from his oils that he knows you love. 

At the very least he’d gathered enough energy last night to take a shower. How many times had you woken up because of the stench of cigar smoke and blood; dirt and dust that stung your nostrils something fierce? You’d lost count.

Oh, John…

Reaching down, your fingers dance over your husband’s firm grip, the hold unyielding unless you simply wake and ask him to move. 

But you didn’t want that.

You intertwine your digits together, eyelashes fluttering over your cheeks as the earliness of the morning hits you. It was still slightly dark in the bedroom, only a fraction of the light from the sun cascading in from black-out curtains. 

“Hnm,” the sound escapes you as the lead form of John lays heavily; squeezing you with a delicious roving of barely covered skin. 

It was no surprise that John had gone to bed as utterly naked as the day he was born.

“Stop moving.” Lips mutter, half lost to the sound of shifting cotton and your lower body being refitted closer with a hand to your naval, pulling your arse rearward. 

You blink, skin tingling and cheeks hot as a pinky brushes over the elastic of your underwear, slipping under as it once more falls stationary. 

“I didn’t expect you to be back last night.” The room was usually cold without John—he was always considered the space heater out of the two of you when it came time to sleep. His much larger and rarely clothed form was never far from you and made blankets or sheets completely worthless. 

You sometimes compared him to a mini sun with how much raw warmth he exuded; even told him that he should consider being a science experiment with how little it made sense.

How can someone even be this toasty?

“Came in ‘round o-three-hundred,” John says, moving with a sigh before situating his head to rest it above yours and pressing his nose to your scalp in the meantime. “The boys are fine.” 

An up-tick pulls at your lip muscles. He knew how you worried about everyone on One-Four-One.

“Good.” Your backside shifts with a rotating of your pelvis, the Brit’s thigh in between your legs more comfortable if you move farther up it. A shiver slices your spine; voice goes breathy. “And you?” 

John’s breath hitched, and you could feel a low roll of thunder in his breast. His grip tightens. 

“Alive.” 

So stoic. You roll your eyes at the brief explanation but internally enjoy the statement. Sometimes it was better to only receive the bare minimum when it comes to your husband's job. And you sigh as a growing pressure makes itself known near the base of your tailbone.

“What about my wife, then?” John’s fingers start moving below your stomach in small circles, the skin of your abdomen obeying the push and pull readily. “She do anything worthwhile when I was away?” 

Fatigued cheekiness enters his tone when you shiver and bring his hand up to your mouth—laying gentle kisses on the knicks and scratches. New scrapes.

You chuckle lightly.

“Hm, I planted new flowers in the back.”

“Did you now?” John huffs, taking down a slow breath as his digits delve lower. You surrender readily to him, letting him do as he wished before jolting when his forefinger brushed your bundle of nerves. He purrs like a cat, “What kinds.” 

Your husband’s watching you closely with a partially-closed eye, tired yet that gleam of awareness is still present in cerulean blue; breathing into your ear as the image of his hands inside of your panties sturs his eagerness even more. His legs shift in muted annoyance at the creeping sensation over his lower body.

He likes the way you languidly roll with him.

Fuck, how long had he wanted to do this? To come home to you—his housewife—to a home that was void of shouting and the scent of gunpowder and engine oil. A loving touch; a soft body. Being away from you was worse than torture. 

His little beauty. His little wife.

When soft sighs answer him instead of words, he comes to a pause; thigh moving to give him ample space to work and spread your legs farther. 

“What kinds, Love?” He teases, a smirk pulling his lips back that leaves you shaking when you sense it forming over your skin.

“S-Star Jasmine.” You whisper, opening your lower body to him as his digits go once more to bring a striking of lighting, pulse in your core growing hot as his scent overwhelms you. Eyes snap shut, constricting over nothing even as a great need screams that you shouldn’t be.

The bedroom is filled with the soft noises of hitched breaths and carefully flinching legs intertwined with covers. With every circle of John’s touch, your arousal grows; tension breeding in the sudden slickness of your cunt that pools out to coat the man’s digits. 

You’d missed this.

“What else?” A hard press for a non-enunciated reward and you whine, fingers tightening over his other hand as he noses over your pulse, whispering kisses like butterfly’s wings over your rapid pulse. “Use your words.”

Your mind falters, the unknown of what John would do next leaving your neurons short-circuiting. Sure, you’d touched yourself to his voice over calls—helped gotten each other off by just the static through a phone—but having him here. Feeling you now with tender care and blown-wide eyes that darken like a storm. Yourself still clothed in a shirt and now ruined panties and your beast of a husband with nothing but a dripping erection that now digs like hot iron into the curve of your ass. 

He bites a hickey into the skin below your ear and you gasp out.

“John, please, j…just,” The Brit laughs at you, deep chuckles jerking against your back before the hand you’re gripping tight leaves to curl under your breasts; trapping you to him as you squirm. 

The abuse of your clit ceases and you’re forced to confront the structure of your lungs as they fight for air. A sudden patheticness fills your blood at the ache of your empty slit. Eyebrows pull in.

“John!” Behind you, the man’s hard-on ruts into you as he grunts into your neck, biceps flaring with every-other movement. He does it slowly, still tired in the early hours but unable to help himself for the very same reason. Desperately, he wanted you as a fish longs for water.

All-consuming; yielding rapture that only can be fulfilled by your malleable flesh.

The friction moves your body back and forth, mouth opening in weakened pants of soft breaths and sluggish muscles. You didn’t want to move but at the same time, the teasing leaves you yearning to be held down and left filled; only smelling like John and sweaty linen as slick bodies fuck half-asleep. 

Your cheeks are burning as the sensation of being used washes over you.

“Tell me. C’mon, know you can.” John’s fast yet hushed tone accompanied by the sensation of his pre-cum slathering itself over your sensitive skin and his dick twitching was a drug. It became hard to think between those demanding instincts and hopeless attempts to form cohesive thoughts. 

“I–” You force out, face screwed up, “Green Spice.”

“Attagirl.” Your panties are stretched to the side, and the thigh in your shaking legs shoves you open even wider. “Lookin’ damn good in my shirt, Sweetheart, y’know that? Eh? Bloody temptress.” 

The stiff desperation of his cock makes you moan before it finds the entrance to your slit. 

“Just for you.” Your voice hitches at John’s eagerness; his desperation to be joined—held in your wet clutch despite how tired you know he is. How tired you were.

The Captain works so hard; spreads his blood over the earth in defense of others with little need for reward or recognition. He came home without an expectation of you to even spoil him—the thought makes your mind sad. How could he not expect that? Hell, he spoils you by leaving a spare credit card for your every whim and want; you could ask for anything and he’d get it with no hesitation. 

His wife.

Even now with his cock ready to enter your eager yet unstretched cunt, his body vibrating and breathing fast, he pauses. 

Your eyes flutter open, huffing in expectation as you clench over nothing, slick falling over the mattress. You blink and look over your shoulder to find blue orbs watching you; the wrinkles around the Brit’s eyes tiny. 

You hum a question, shifting your lower body to grind into John’s twitching dick, memorizing the grand size of his leaking head as your lashes flutter. The man groans and tights the hold under your breasts. 

“Let me?” He pants. 

A small smile forms on your sweat-slick face, fingers tight over the sheets. John lays a kiss on your cheek, so close it takes little movement as the bed creaks. 

“You don’t need to ask, Love.” You chuckle, heart warm. “You’re my husband.”

The confession seems to spark something in his eyes, a smirk slashing his lips. The Captain’s pelvis moves, angling the tip until you feel the burn of an unready cunt as it causes you to mewl. 

“Always gonna ask,” he grunts into your ear as your head falls back to its sideways position in concentration as your face scrunches; muscles wound. “Proper, eh?”

“Such a gentleman.” You whimper, body jerking as more of his sizable girth is swallowed down. Deep pulsing emulates inside your body, a sheen of oblivion opening between pain and a deep-seated pleasure that only John gives you. The Brit shushes you comfortingly. “Even as he’s opening me up without letting me cum on his fingers first.”

“Couldn’t help myself.” He’s shivering, feeling himself enter your heat as slowly as he’s able. “Had to have you like this. In our bed. Wearin’ my shirt. Fuckin’ hell.” John gasps, feeling you constrict around him like a vice as his abdomen bunches. 

He wouldn’t last long, but neither would you. The two of you were wasted on each other, just wanting to feel the friction of skin and the sweet release of an orgasm that the both of you can share now that you were together. 

The sound of him entering you was vulgar, a liquid squelching that echoes above the tight sighs and growls. 

“Keep taking it, then,” John pants, forehead pressed heavily into your scalp, muttering into your hair dreamily. “Know you can. Just like that, now.”

With your mouth opening and sweat dribbling down your neck you feel him bottom out with a horrible shaking, grip almost bruising as his free hand goes to massage your clit sluggishly. 

Your cunt spasms, textured walls stretched to their limit on the throws of delicious agony as veins press into silky grooves, the clutch of John’s cock-head a plug of large proportion. If you move, you’re afraid you’ll tear something. 

“Erm,” the fullness sends searing heat up your vertebrae, back struggling against your husband’s chest to arch as your toes curl. 

“Hush, Love.” John quickly runs circles over your bundle, “Easy, now. I’ve got you…Let me show you how much I enjoy being home with my wife, yeah.” He’s rambling—how he usually does when he’s sleepily fucking you on maybe two hours of oblivion. 

Your pleasure bleeds raw, and the scrape of the man’s exiting and re-entering cock becomes a trance-like affair of passion. The bedframe hits the wall, a steady, slow, rocking of thrusts that emulate the bare affection John uses you as an example for. 

Moaning, you stare blankly at the far wall, body jolting whenever he manages to strike that sweet spot and bite into your back’s flesh in unbridled adoration. He whispers the dirtiest things to you, and your lower-body flexes with each uttered sentence.

“So good to me, keepin’ this cunt all to myself.”

“Walls so tight I can feel you tryin’ to push me out, Love. Fuck.”

“Hear that, eh? Listen, b-bloody hell, listen to how wet you are for my cock.” 

It brings you to a point of tears, satisfaction building to a tight knot of immobility. It was a good thing John liked doing all the work for you because although you had been meeting his thrusts quite evenly before, now you had all but lost the plot. Your thighs quiver, slit trying to tense over the man’s foreign prodding until it became apparent you’d been molded into the very shape of him like a form in the snow; flesh littered with the dew of perspiration as the scent of carnal desire swims. 

“That’s right, Love.” John’s jaw is clenched, pace for a minute quickening as he feels you shifting as if possessed with feelings of overstimulation. “That’s it. So good to be home with you—home with my little housewife who ruins me.”

Your hands clench into the bedsheets; sounds of ecstasy get louder and more clipped.

“Fuck,” you gasp, repeating the curse multiple times along with John’s name. “John—” One more angled thrust and you’re left shoving your head into the pillow, great waves of precious enlightenment smashing into your chest full force until you can only recall the sensation of your husband’s strangled breaths and the feeling of his seed spilling into your womb. 

Sloppy and quick ruts of varying success as his abdominals convulse in a display as old as time itself. Panting and shuttering, your body utterly falls limp. 

The joined fluids of evidence ooze out to form a sticky concoction over your thighs and cunt, pubic hairs on both ends shiny with cum. 

Hands spread over your breasts to grip and massage; traveling atop your quivering body as well as your achy hips. John’s thigh leaves the spread of your legs so the one can fall back to the mattress with a muffled thump and a poof of fleeing air. But his cock stays where it belongs, milky ring dribbling as every slight movement causes you to contract and him to grunt and wrench his eyes shut. 

It’s sometime later that a firm set of lips is dug into your neck, fingers skating over every possible section of skin as small nips set nerves alight with sensitive sensations. You hum in appreciation at the worship of your body, sensing the hard muscle that protects you as well as the physical words before they’re spoken aloud.

“I love you.” You smile.

“I love you too, John.” Your head weakly turns, noticing the farther-risen sun beyond the curtains of the hot and sex-scented room. Finding blue eyes already staring at you from the pillow and the small smile present on mustache-hidden lips, you smirk. John chuckles, though he doesn’t know what’s in store. 

“You’re letting me make you breakfast today.”

“Hm...you’ll not find me complaining.”

There really was nothing else like coming home.

TAGS||

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @neelehksttr, @shoe1412,@jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet​, @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @nanialis, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @emerald-valkyrie, @michirulol, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @bespectacledhuman, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @astronaunt2009, @shmaptin, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce,

[mandalorianbrainweasel]

Apathetic

G.

Maul, Spar.

Background Savage, Background Spar/Gar Saxon. Implied depression and mental trauma. The Empath’s Uncanny Valley.

(I wrote some scenes today about dove-feather raven Spar (trans woman) reacting to Jango’s death. This is an AU of her actually giving up after that.)

thanks to @aces-to-apples and @trudemaethien for listen to me talk about his idea for a lil bit before I actually wrote it.

Maul waits, tapping his fingers on the table while Savage towers behind him. This is one of his new ally’s home—Saxon—and he’s supposed to, against all odds, be meeting the man’s spouse. So far he’s spotted a gangly blond teenager that might be Saxon’s younger brother, a dark haired child, and at least two others peeking in at them. It’s starting to feel insulting, up until all of the life feels sucked from the room. He looks up at the doorway where he’s been gawked at so far to find himself faced with a young woman. Dark haired and skin, like the child had been, and remarkably like the clones he’s seen about the galaxy. But a woman, her skirt brushing the floor a deep colour he fails at describing as anything but black, embroidered with star pricks of pale colours in constellations. She’s buttoned up from wrists to neck, too. But the most poignant thing is the look on her face. She’s not pleased, she’s not upset, she’s not even bored. Her face is perfectly neutral. Not a single emotion passes from her. Behind him, Savage shifts uneasily. She blinks placidly at him. “I am Akaani’ka Saxon.” She clasps her hands together and smiles and it looks real, but there’s not a shred of emotion behind it. Maul forces himself to breathe and he stands. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Saxon,” he sneers, prodding. Nothing. “You did me a favour,” she says eventually. “Oh?” he asks, sarcasm leaking into his voice. Finally, a wisp of humour, but it vanishes quickly. “Vizsla.” She does not elaborate. Maul scowls. “Why not take care of him yourself?” A flash of annoyance. “I escaped being named Mand’alor once, the traditional way. I do not want to gain the title Kyr’tsad’s way either.” Curiosity, but it’s all behind him from Savage. “The traditional way?” Maul asks. “I assumed Kyr’tsad’s way was the only.” Another wisp of humour, and a little exasperation. “Mand’alore are elected. They have been for centuries. The head of Kyr’tsad claims to be Mand’alor, but is not. No matter if they killed the last one.” She tilts her head. “You are more qualified to be Mand’alor than Vizlsa ever could have been.” Maul waits. “Kar’tigaanur,” she says, genuine affection for the words as they pass her lips. “Star-touched. The rest of the galaxy calls us Force adept.” She’s a Force adept, then. But there’s something profoundly unnatural about her, the way only shreds of emotion come off of her. Force adepts feel everything. They are emotional beings, even the Jedi. But here, this woman is a black hole. “Have fun playing with Kyr’tsad, Lord Maul,” she says. “Manda’yaim might follow you, even, if you accept our culture. You’re better than the Duchy and more qualified with Vizsla.” Only here does fear and anger and an intensive protectiveness burn out of her. “But if you hurt my husband, or my nephew, or my children, I will see to your downfall quicker than any Sith lord.” Like a candle blown out, if vanishes. She bobs a curtsy and backs out of the room.

“She was happier once,” Saxon tells Maul when he mentions he met with her. “Before the war started. Then her brother died and people wanted her to be Mand’alor and she didn’t want to be. So she left and we got married. I tracked down her nephew, eventually, and brought him home. We have twins.” He shrugs. “But she’ll never be the same again. With people outside of the family she just doesn’t care anymore.” That matches uncomfortably with what Maul felt. “At least with you and Savage around, she’ll have other Force adepts around,” Saxon says, clearly well aware of his wife’s talents. “Of course,” Maul allows. Maybe, eventually, he can tease some emotion back out of her. Without risking his own life. He thinks she could make a very good apprentice.

[anemoarchonhoe]

This picture..... but wisp Venti 🥺

[deripmaver]

4 5 6 for ALL OF THE CaPri FANFICS

LKSJMDHGVLKSJ ALL OF THEM???

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue? 5: What part was hardest to write? 6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

Ink On Paper (tongue fic) 4. lmfaoooooooo there isn't a whole lot of dialogue in this one oop-

Laurent nodded. The wax softened as he pressed his hand into it, erasing his previous message. Soft, warm, melting under his touch. He wrote again, I need someone who is not afraid to read out the insults I make towards the idiots at court. You have been fired, Damianos.

i guess it technically counts lmfao. i just wanted to show laurent post-trauma still able to make jokes and snipe at his husband so it wasnt all doom and gloom 5. i'm not sure exactly what "hardest to write" here means because like... a lot of these fic have serious gore or otherwise upsetting content, but both emotionally and actually writing wise i find that kind of thing actually pretty easy to write hahahaha. i think i got stuck with the chronology and the decision to make it non-linear made it flow a lot better. for the record writing laurent getting raped and then having his tongue cut out was actually very easy to write, i think i got it out in basically one go. #cancelme the more fucked up and intense the easier i find to nyoom through it 6. my first ever fic in the capri fandom!!!! hehehehhehehe <333333 Level Of Concern (plan B fic) 4.

Before Nicaise could say anything, Laurent spat, “Does he know you had your first heat?”

SURPRISE nic was the one who was pregnant the whole time!!!!!!! 5. this one i banged out REALLY quickly so i cant think of anything here 6. capri omegaverse!!!!!!! i wish there was more of this 🥺🥺🥺 Like Me (what if Auguste was also abused fic) 4. ******CW INCEST MENTION CW ABUSE MENTION******

“Your brother’s stuck his dick in every single member of your family,” Auguste spat out, laughing, crying, and so miserable he thought his heart would stop. His voice rose again, and he felt something burst from him as he screamed for the whole world to hear, “Did you know that? Did you, huh papa? Did he fuck you too?”

dude this line is so fucked up lmfao but i enjoyed writing it so much. actually this entire scene where auguste is having his breakdown was really intense to write and im really pleased with how it came out OR

Auguste grabbed him suddenly, looking up into his grief-stricken face desperately. “Please, Laurent,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “Please. Don’t let him end up like me.”

i felt entirely too clever with this line lmfao. i was like ~ooooohhhhh title drop~ im so dumb 5. i just remember this one like. dragged on for some time. i couldnt figure out what to do with it, how to get everything to coalesce around the final reveal about auguste 6. plot twist!!!!!!! plus auguste angst. i really enjoyed this one, i wrote it after watching the movie Spotlight which is one of my all time faves Softly, Gently 4.

“My King has been overexerting himself again, I presume?” Paschal sighed, shaking his head with a fond smile. “When have I ever done that?” Laurent cocked his head to the side, a wry smile on his face.

hehehehe sassy laurent my beloved <33333 5. honestly im just going to skip this one from now on lskjghmvlksjhglkvsjhdl i just get "stuck" sometimes without rhyme or reason and its usually on boring stuff, but then i cant remember later. the hardest part for me is when my dumb fucking adhd brain wont let me focus on writing but once i overcome that its usually pretty smooth sailing 6. horny omegaverse.................... my beloved............... giving men vaginas for horny reasons my beloved......................... Water of Life (birth fic)

“Do you want to hold him?” Erasmus breathed, eyes glassy. The baby cried, Erasmus bouncing him tenderly in those sunkissed arms. He looked apologetic. “Only for a moment, it’s not quite over yet.” A playful smile danced on Erasmus’ lips, and he brushed away a slick, damp curl from the wailing baby’s head. “A head this big, he certainly takes after Exalted.”

a cute, fun lil line in the sea of horrible angst lmfao ORRRRRR

Erasmus knelt before Damen, before Laurent. He said, “Exalted… Can you command his Highness to push?” Damen froze. “Do you mean…?” Erasmus nodded. “Alpha command.” Damen’s expression crumpled. He said, in a voice that shattered Erasmus’ heart, “I can’t. I can’t do that to him.” Erasmus licked his lips. “Exalted, in this state, he can’t push. His contractions are weaker. He’ll-” “I can’t,” Damen cried, clinging to Laurent’s limp body like a lifeline. “He’d… He’d never forgive me.”

damen is so sweet........ he loves laurent so much...... ORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

He stopped at the doorframe, turning to face Laurent with tears in his eyes, and whispered, “How long does it take, your Highness?” Laurent, shocked enough to respond, hissed, “What?” “I still wake up in the middle of the night thinking of it,” Erasmus said, voice thick in his throat, tears burning at his eyes. “How long until it’s over?”

real sad hours if u up click like. i love erasmus and laurent bonding over their shared trauma <33333333333333333333 laurent and erasmus friendship propaganda 24-fucking-7 bay bee!!!!! 6. unironically this is one of my fav fic ive ever written skdljmfhgvlksjdhflmgkvjshldkjfghvmls call the midwife is one of my favorite shows and writing this made me look at birth as something visceral and possibly horrible and traumatic. i wanna write more fucked up birth scenes, SO MANY MORE. ridley scott knew what he was doing Sandalwood (erasmus/kallias my sweet boys i love u so much) 4.

“I do,” Erasmus breathes, ducking his head, flushed as though embarrassed. “In the gardens, the perfume from the orange trees all around us on those summer nights.” Kallias smiles behind him – Erasmus knows his body so intimately he can feel it in how Kallias’ posture changes, though he can’t see the soft turn of his lips. “The scent was so cloying I thought it would drive me mad. It made me want to kiss you senseless.” Erasmus laughs, breathlessly, imagining the warm heat of Kallias’ mouth against his. “Don’t blame that on the orange trees, dear one.”

beloved..................... im weeping.......... 6. these two make me fuckign CRY ON THE REG I LOVE THEM SO MUCH MY SWEET BOYS YOU DESERVE THE WORLD- Wisps of Smoke******************* (lauguste fic) 4. ***CW EXPLICIT INCEST*** (i mean....... obviously lmfao)

“Call me what I like,” Auguste growled against his ear. “You know what I like.” He did. Laurent did. He knew everything Auguste liked – the slow flick of Laurent’s tongue on the underside of his cock, that tender spot behind his earlobe, the way Laurent’s thighs looked straddled atop him like his horse – and this. “Brother,” Laurent gasped, desperate, “Brother, please, harder. Harder.”

i wanted the incest to be explicitly part of the kink here lmfaoooooo 6. hehehehehehehhehehehhehe lauguste................... i need to write more of u But I Love It (laurent is allergic to latex fic) 4.

“Laurent,” Auguste said, voice high in warning. Laurent braced himself, stiffening visibly. With what seemed to be monumental effort, Auguste continued, “You know, Laurent. I’m proud of you.”

IM A SOFT BITCH OK???????????????? auguste is PROUD of his baby bro for overcoming his sexual trauma and getting that fat dick 6. SLJHVDLMKJDHGVLK PEOPLE FUCKING LOVED THIS FIC i tried to be funny and i think it worked. plus some softe bits thrown in. i also kind of see lots of humor fic where its a no abuse au, but i wanted to write something comedic where the regent still. existed u kno????? anyways hahahahha i dont think i can write anything like this again but im glad y'all liked it Is It Cold In The Water (slice of life fic) 4.

Laurent opens his mouth to say something cheeky, but instead, what comes out is: “Do you think Aimeric had the right idea?” Damen is quiet for so long, gaze serious and framed with his long, dark lashes, that Laurent wonders if he’d spoken aloud at all – and when he’s sure he had, he realizes Damen had remembered Aimeric after all. When he speaks again, the sleep is gone from his voice. “Laurent,” Damen says carefully, as though approaching a spooked horse, “Is something wrong?”

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 soft,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 6. ruby likes this fic lskjdvhmflgksfjdhmvglkjsdhflkvgmjhlekjfhdvlgskjfhv im a SIMP- The Devil's Got Nothing On Me (AIMERIC FIC LEGGOOOO) 4. there are lots of lil nuggets in here!!!!

Aimeric blinks, and all he can think is, you knew? He says, "I – I just." "I am a patient man," Guion breathes, "I support everyone in my household. Everyone. But Aimeric, you are truly testing my patience. Your mother came to me in tears, begging me to find you. Look at what you did to her! There was nothing I could say until we found you!" "I'm sorry," Aimeric whispers, looking at Loyse, "I'm-" "Look at me," Guion roars.

this conversation was inspired by a very miserable encounter with my boss lmfao. fuck that guy and fuck guion

The regent, blue eyes sparkling - and Aimeric has never thought eyes could look just like a summer sky until now - says to Guion but really to Aimeric, "I was thinking I could take little Aimeric riding tomorrow. Just the two of us." Loyse says, before Guion can speak, voice trembling with relief, "I think that's a wonderful idea, your Highness."

~dramatic irony~ lmfaoooooooooo. WE know of course that this is a bad thing, but it's always fun to have characters make bad choices that they have no idea are bad. i also did this briefly in "Like Me" with auguste's ex wife taking nicaise to church because she was so overwhelmed at home and he offered to help. of course, the regent is always happy to help out. evil evil evil

"-was worried it might be difficult for him." A soft, lilting laugh. The guards had said the regent was in the library, and then there is Guion, right there with him. Aimeric is suddenly angry, not sure why his father is with the regent, who is his and no one else's. The regent responds, "I daresay it's been perfectly easy. It seems you've done most of the work already."

i wanted to highlight the fact that it was aimeric's neglect that lead him to the regent in the first place. hence "youve done most of the work already" - guion by ignoring and neglecting aimeric created the perfect environment for the regent to sweep in and take advantage. like leaving food out btwn 40-140 F is a perfect breeding ground for bacteria LOL. the books touch on that but i wanted to make it explicit

He is so, so ashamed. It's unbearable, the thought of her kind eyes, the way she cried for him, the way he pushed her away. Before he'd left to join the prince's guard, she had taken his hand, kissed it, and said in a voice fragile as glass, "It's been such a long time since I've seen you smile like that," but in that moment he could think only of the regent's letter warm in his pocket.

6. honestly i know ive sounded super conceited this whole time but i kind of tear up whenever i read through the end of the fic lmfao. aimeric is just so fucking depressing as a character and i love that i really got to explore that in this fic. he really didnt have anyone, did he????? he's like a tragic greek character where you just watch him stumbling towards his inevitable end and it hurts the whole time. its even worse on the reread ANYWAYYYYYYY thats it. thanks so much for the ask anon!!!!!!! feel free to send me more!!!

[conretewings]

Chef Dad Guzma

A short, fluffy story inspired by my love of guzmeria and my lil’ Fern, having to pull together a ‘breakfast’ when my pantry was bare, and my reading ‘Breathe Out and Breathe In’ by saphruikan for the hundredth time. It’s so good you should all go read it and the entire series it’s part of. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Sunlight streams through the palm trees and into Fern’s window, creating a dappled pattern of stars along her floor and pouring over the row of plastic ‘crystal’ figures on her dresser, throwing rainbows across the walls. Her eyes, still heavy from sleep and the fleeting wisps of her dreams, fluttered open as she yawned loudly and rolled herself to sit on the edge of her bed. Her Venonat, curled up among her stuffed toys, perked up his antennae and hopped to the floor before waddling toward the door. Rubbing her eyes a final time, Fern stood and listened. For a moment she was confused; it was so quiet. Too quiet. Normally her parents were up and about by this time, but today there was nothing but silence on the other side of her door. The heavy curtains of sleep still upon her, it took a moment to remember that her mother was staying the night at a friend’s house.

Her stomach clenched, then rumbled, giving her a sudden, vivid reminder that it was high time for breakfast. Opening the door, Venonat happily bouncing ahead of her, she padded down the hall and turned right, seeing the door to her parents’ room was slightly ajar. Now the silence of the house was broken by her father’s slow, quiet snores as she pushed it open and tip-toed inside. She grinned; he was sprawled on his stomach across the bed, blanket half on the floor and one foot twitching in his sleep. She clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress her giggles and crept over to the bed, climbing up and wriggling closer to him. She was so close she could see his breath move the hair on his arms, a low, deep rumble coming from his chest as he slept on. Unable to resist, Fern reached out and sank her hand into the rough, black and white messy hair on his head. At this, his whole body jerked and he let out a loud, sudden yawn. Fern squealed, the giggles finally coming out as she reached out both hands now and grabbed his face.

“Daddy! Daddy wake up! Get up you lazy bum-bum!”

His eyes opened, deep storm-gray meeting bright amber-gold and he frowned as best he could with his cheeks squished between two tiny hands, “Good morning to you too, Cutiefly. And you got that from your mom, didn’t you?”

Laughing, Fern clambered to her feet and began jumping up and down on the bed, “Up! Up! Up!”

“Ohfortheluva-! Alright, alright! Or maybe....” his face split into a devious grin and before she could run, he grabbed the six-year-old and pulled her back onto himself as he flopped back down, “We should stay here a bit longer!”

Fern shrieked with laughter as he mercilessly ruffled her hair and blew raspberries on her neck, kicking her feet and twisting her body to gaze at him in adoration. 

Stopping, he sighed into her thick, black hair. Sometimes, especially days like this, days where the warm, sparkling sun shone through the sheer curtains and a tiny angel smiled up at him, he had to stop and wonder if he was still dreaming, if at any moment he would awaken to find himself in a dingy, green, creaky bed, the sun gone and the rain pounding the roof, the room smelling vaguely of mildew and alcohol, finding he was instead hugging a dirty blanket. But, miraculously, here he was. Here she was. He smiled softly, burrowing his face again in her warmth, the kind that chased his demons a little farther away each day.

Finally letting go, she flung herself off the bed and stood in the middle of the room, still jumping up and down, “C’mon Daddy! Time for breakfast!”

Groaning and muttering, Guzma pulled himself to a sitting position as he rubbed his face. Peering over his fingers at his daughter, he half-smiled with another sigh, “How do you have so much energy this early?”

A couple minutes later, the two of them were in the kitchen, Fern kicking her feet as she sat at the kitchen island, Guzma staring into the fridge and grumbling to himself. Finally he shut it and turned around, arms crossed, “Alright munchkin. Since your mom’s away for the day, how’s about some oatmeal?”

Fern made a face, “Mom made oatmeal yesterday!”

“Picky, picky,” Guzma said, rolling his eyes, “Aight Cutiefly, what do you want?”

Jutting out her lip, Fern replied, “I dunno.”

Scratching his stubble, Guzma turned back to the fridge and opened it, taking out a carton of eggs, “I dunno, huh? How about eggs and toast? Maybe a sweet malasada? Some coffee?”

“Daaaaad! I can’t have coffee!”

“Then juice! Or tea. Or cocoa. Cocoa is always good. Anyway,” he pulled a frying pan and a couple plates from the dish drainer, “Let’s get this party started.”

A radio sitting on a shelf played local bands, the sounds of drums and ukulele mixing with the sizzling of eggs in a frying pan and the singing of one large man and one very small girl as they worked side-by-side. Guzma set two forks on their plates as he went to grab the bread.

“Wait-where’s the bread?” he wondered aloud,

“It’s in the microwave!” Fern answered as she tapped the flipper in time with the song on the radio.

Guzma cocked an eyebrow, “Huh? The he-what’s it doing there?”

“Mom was cleaning the kitchen yesterday and decided to put in there ‘cause it saved room!”

With a shrug, Guzma opened the microwave-to find it empty. Grumbling, he opened the cupboards one by one, unable to locate any bread. Finally he exhaled in exasperation and grabbed a box of crackers, “Okay so...we seem to be out of bread. How’s crackers? They’re basically bread, just crispier.” 

“Yaaaaay!”

Dropping handfuls of crackers on their plates, Guzma went for where he knew there was a bag of malasadas-to find it empty as well. He bit back several curse words as he gave his daughter a strained smile, “Um, baby-girl? We’re out of malasadas too. Pop-tarts?”

Eventually, two plates of fried eggs, saltine crackers, and pop-tarts, coupled with one mug of juice and one of coffee, sat in front of their respective diners. Guzma grabbed a bottle of hot sauce from the fridge for his own food, then held it out, “Want some for your eggs?”

“Eeeewwww!” Fern shrieked, pulling her plate closer, “No way mister!”

“Tch! Suit yourself,” he mumbled, dribbling the spicy sauce over his eggs, “But you’re missing out.”

Plumeria hummed to herself as she approached the door to her home, still going over all the events from the day and night before; all the fun, jokes, and general chaos her and her friends had created over the past twelve hours or so. She brushed some stray hair behind her ears, remembering the attractive, obviously drunk young man at the bar that had tried to flirt with her-tried, until she told him who her husband was, her and her friends howling with laughter as he fell over himself running away. 

Hearing the radio playing, she smiled, knowing they were up and about and opened the sliding glass door to the kitchen, “Good morning you two.”

Fern dropped her fork, flying off her chair to fling herself at her mother, “Mommy! Mommy mommy mommy! I missed you mommy I love you did you have fun?!”

Smiling gently, Plumeria stooped to hold her daughter, “Hey sweetheart! Yes, I did, thank you,” she looked up at Guzma, “Hey handsome.”

Guzma grinned, throwing her a wink and a reverent smile, making her heart skip a beat. Standing, she scooped Fern into her arms and glanced over their plates-then froze.

“What the-?”

Shrugging, Guzma said, “We’re outta bread. Crackers are made of the basically the same stuff right?”

He met Plumeria’s cool, ‘you’re-kidding-me-right’ gaze and sputtered defensively, “Gimme a break! I fed us didn't I? At least I didn’t grab a bag of chips and dip or make crappy watery pancakes with whatever we had laying around like I used to back when we were roughing it in Te-”

Biting his lip, he cut himself off at his own realization, coupled with Plumeria’s slightly panicked, definitely furious look. She shook her head lightly, subconsciously holding Fern a little tighter. Sighing, he ran a hand through his patchy, black-and-white hair.

“Hey, I did my best with what I had. She’s not complaining, right Cutiefly?”

Fern pumped one of her little fists in the air, “Nope! You made a great breakfast Daddy!”

“See? That’s all that matters.”

Plumeria rolled her eyes with another smile, then asked, “Is there any left for me?”