#darling blithe!

[ab4eva]

Would love a lil blurb with prompt 93: “say you want me, and i’m yours.”

Would be killer if austin said this to costar!y/n in the middle of a late night type interview or at a press conference where it’s least expected and catches reader completely off guard. I live for drama idk idk LMAO thank you in advance!!<3

Hi Blithe! Thanks so much, honey! This was a fun one! I hope you enjoy! 🩷

Prompt #93 with Austin Butler - “Say you want me, and i’m yours.”

-

You hadn’t seen Austin Butler in almost a year, not since the wrap party for the film you two had co-starred in. That night, you had drunkenly flirted with him, all of the intense emotions and intimacy of filming finally bubbling to the surface once your work, your job, was done and dusted.

But he had been oblivious to your advances, or just wasn’t interested. Either way, your feelings for him hadn’t been reciprocated and you had been more than a little heartbroken. Now it was time to start the press circuit and heavy promotion for the film and, truth be told, you were a little nervous.

That’s how you find yourself at an industry only screening of the film with Austin and your director, to be followed by a q&a. The minute he walks into the green room it’s as if all of the air is sucked out of your lungs. He looks incredible, even more so than before - rested, relaxed, happy and healthy. His blue eyes search the room as he shakes hands with various people, finally landing on you. His face breaks wide open with a grin when he sees you and stomach drops and the butterflies in your ribcage tickle mercilessly. He makes his way to you and envelopes you in his warmth, murmuring a hello, and for a moment you let yourself relax in his embrace.

During the q&a, the audience is enthusiastic and asks thoughtful questions and it’s really fun to get to talk about your hard work. People throw a personal question in every now and again and someone asks about the rumors that you and Austin dated during filming. You blush and look to Austin, chuckling before answering, “Just friends.”

You hear Austin clear his throat and glance at him again. He looks right at you as he raises the microphone to his mouth. “Say you want me, and I’m yours.” You swear your heart stops beating as you hear the audience laugh, thinking it’s a joke. But they don’t hear what Austin says as he holds the microphone away and whispers in your ear, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you, not for one minute.” No one bats an eye when you decide to catch a ride with Austin after the screening.

-

Join my 1k celly here!

[ohnoa]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚...𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡

.☘︎ ݁˖ 𝐬𝐲𝐧. 𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 ᥫ᭡. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭. 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ༯ 𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑵𝑰

...word count: 1.1k

...note from irene: don't ask.

nanami kento rests languidly on the edge of the bed, your back in his view as he graciously takes the mantle of an attentive husband.

“i literally can’t with you. you’re a natural at this stuff,” you huff, somewhere between a vent and a bout of praise that he found endearing nonetheless. he raises an eyebrow, albeit dazed by the hypnotic show of you being able to reach your own zipper - who’s a natural at what? you, who resumes your tirade with an obliviousness towards his wandering eyes, is a natural at enchanting him. your hair was blown out, almost reaching your shoulders in cloudy tufts - that had been the last mission of tonight, a hairstyle more laborious than the act of lifting weights. “you can easily get away with being stand-offish, which…i’m not saying you are but…”

he releases a soft chuckle, adjusting his cufflinks, “now, humor me for a second, my love. when have you ever seen me get defensive?” 

“huh?” you tilt your head in confusion eyeing him expectantly through your reflection as you secure your earring. 

“you don’t need to worry about insulting me, darling. i can take it. if you think i’m stand-offish, just say it.”

you briefly turn to face him, bestowing a histrionic look of indignation. “i wasn’t saying that! okay—” you raise your hands in surrender, “you are quite stoic. does that do you justice?”

he offers a hum, one of satisfaction, an invitation for you to continue to the point you had intended to make. and you do just that, bending over the vanity to apply your lip gloss as kento’s attention blithely averts to the curve of your ass. “so, yes. you could get away with what will earn me, at best, some auntie in the corner asking me if i’m okay like…please! i’m fine! i just wanna be left alone!” 

he chuckles along with you again, silently basking in your mirthful exchange… until he notices it. within seconds. the brief drag of hesitation as you began working on your hair. your makeshift puff remains put, arms raised for your hands to take the temporary role of a hair tie and…

…oh dear.

you were staring at your underarms again. in acute disdain. 

he needn’t say a word - this conundrum was as foreign to him as a blue sky. but you’ve only complained about it once, a main focus on the fruitlessness of your spending. all these regimens, remedies and receipts the length of the great wall of china for them to still be there - sizable splotches of pigmentation that you just can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how hard you try.

once, you’ve verbally lamented. 

but more than once, you’d been reluctant to don anything without sleeves, participate in anything remotely related to summer - and if you did, not lifting your arms was the war you were prepared to die in. and tonight, well, you’d had the misfortune of learning life’s indifference. the thin straps of your silky, cream white dress were well in torturing you with a reminder.

a click of the tongue bounces off the walls of your bedroom, and kento tries to think less about how your beauty terrifies him, opting to soothe you with his adeptness in subtlety. 

“darling,” he begins, standing to walk towards you, “i think you should wear your hair down.”

“hm, i think so too,” you smile warmly at him through your reflection, conducting his suggestion by letting go of your hair and instead opting to comb it out, “let’s just hope it doesn’t rain tonight. i honestly don’t get the appeal of outdoor parties.”

all that follows is a soft hum, one of admiration. truly, you are an angel sent from heaven. more than just the angelic glow of your skin under the vanity light, your smile - your soul - can account for that. he watches you, deftly pulling at your coils to maintain the perfect shape - watching you fruitlessly strive to perfect the one thing that has always been just that. you. perfect.

“what?” you meekly acknowledge his stare with a shy smile, halting your movements. 

“my love,” he drags, moving close enough for his hands to reach your hips. your attention moves away from your hair, prompting you to put your comb down and heed the sensation of his chest meeting your back. kento’s hands are calculated, a dexterous trace of your curves striving for a different kind of tenor - a lead from one thing to a delectable other. he moves his lips towards your ear, hazel eyes meeting yours through the mirror in a wordless declaration of unabashed desire. “you know that every inch of you is perfect, right?”

you shiver, at your best to conceal your want to reciprocate by scoffing playfully, “fancy, i’ve never pegged you for the corny type.” 

“i mean it,” he rejoins, ignoring your jest, softly kissing the shell of your ear before he performs the unexpected, a hand moving to gently grab your wrist, lifting your arm up above your head. “every…inch.”

oh. 

he really means it.

heat rises to your cheeks, noting how observant he had been towards your behavior earlier - this wasn’t new to you. you could stain a white shirt with pasta sauce and he’d counter your dismay by saying that it should’ve been there when you first bought it. he’d praise any part of you from head to toe. that realization had been made many moons ago. now, as all attention falls upon your exposed underarm, you forgo the need to protest, keeping your arm raised and resting your hand on the back of your husband’s head, fingertips blissfully pricked by the sharpness of his undercut. 

“mmm…every inch, you say?” you murmur with feigned cynicism, a grin rising as Kento’s hand gently slides down the tricep of your raised arm. 

“mhm…every…inch” your heartbeat is the toms of an acoustic drum set, as he reaches your underarm, lightly grazing the skin with his fingertips, prompting you to shiver at the ticklish sensation. “god, you’re breathtaking…”

he breathes it out like it’s the first time, and the sight before you is…sinful? a burlesque plays out in your reflection, a hand sensually caressing your hip whilst the other continues to draw reverent patterns on the area you’ve detested for eons. your husband, so fucking handsome, buries his face in crook of your neck, inspiring every last bit of your scent, and you still can’t help but huff in amusement, “hm, my black armpits were the ones to bring you to that revelation?”

“you amuse me, my love,” is the muffled, half dismissal towards your counter, followed by a kiss on your neck, “now, let me enjoy you.”

you giggle softly, meek at how your husband's brief praise towards your underarm has ever so slightly titillated you, “we’re gonna be late, you know…”

he perks up, privy to the suggestion you so dared to make, “if memory serves me correctly, it’s you who fails to see the appeal in these outdoor parties.”

[youaintnothinbuta]

“Hey now, don’t you start questioning me too.” — Elvis Presley x reader

Summary: your mama is pretty insistent (in a loving, supportive way) on you and Elvis making it serious and going steady with him, but you’re not at that point yet. His is too, and you talk about it on the phone after you hang out. Part 2 here

Pairing: Elvis or Austin!elvis x reader

Word count: 600

Warnings: fluff!! Probably typos though SORRY

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You had just gotten home from your evening with Elvis, the warmth of your home chasing away the chill of the cold evening. With a contented sigh, you shrug off your coat and hang it neatly on the rack.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Your dad called to you from the living room, hearing you come in. Both of your parents were sitting on the couch watching tv.

“Hi mama, hi daddy.” You replied cheerfully, kicking your shoes off by the door before going to the living room to join them.

“I put your clean washing on your bed, darling, it just needs to be put away.” Your mom informed you with a warm smile.

“Oh, thank you,” you replied gratefully.

“Not a problem. Are those flowers by your bed from Elvis?” she inquired with a knowing smile.

“Yeah, they are,” you smiled, feeling a blush creep up on your cheeks.

“What’s the occasion? Did we forget your birthday?” Your dad teased, playfully.

You laughed, “no occasion. Just because, I guess.”

“Mmm,” your mother hummed, “are you two going steady then?” She prodded further.

“Mom! No.” You rolled your eyes blithely.

“Oh, well, I’m sure he’ll ask you soon. How was your date, anyway?” Your mom teased you some more, as you sunk down on the couch beside her.

“It wasn’t really a date, we were just hanging out.”

“Did he kiss ya? That’s a date if he did.”

“Mama stop!” Your cheeks burnt bright red, “enough with the questions,” you say, trying to deflect her curiosity. “I promise, if anything changes between me and Elvis, you’ll be the first to know.”

Your mom laughs, a knowing glint in her eye. “Oh, I’m sure I’d find out sooner or later,” she says with a nudge. “His mama and I have a way of keeping each other informed.”

You shake your head, unable to suppress a smile at the thought of the close bond between your two families. Despite the teasing and the questions, you know that your parents only want the best for you, and their support means the world to you.

Later that night you sat in bed, on the phone to Elvis.

You leaned back against your pillow, “Oh, she’s relentless! Next she’ll wanna know what color panties I wear, and how many minutes we spend making eye contact,” you joked, recounting the evening’s playful interrogation to Elvis.

He chuckled softly on the other end of the line, “mine wan’t much better. Mama keeps hollering and nagging at me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the image. “Well, what did you tell her?” you pressed, unable to resist the temptation to know.

“Hey now, don’t you start questioning me too,” Elvis teased, his voice filled with mock indignation, “I just told her ‘When the time’s right, whatever happens will happen.’”

Your heart twisted a little at his vague response, but you chose to ignore it. The two of you chatted for a while longer, exchanging stories and sharing laughter over inside jokes. Eventually, though, it was time to say your goodnights.

“I wish I could be there with you right now,” Elvis murmured softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

“I know, Elvis. I wish you were here too,” you replied, feeling a pang of sadness.

It was hard to get to sleep that night. You couldn’t stop thinking about that vague, non-answer he gave. You really were hoping he’d give you a hint that he did want something serious with you. Eventually though, you managed to drift off, your overthinking tiring you out.

Little did you know, he was very purposeful in leading you astray, not wanting you to have the slightest idea he was planning on making it official very soon.

Anyone up for a part 2 where he asks you to go steady finally??

[stories-and-chaos]

Shrike: New Neighbor

[Hazbin Hotel reader insert as Alastor’s “darling life and death partner” Ace x ace relationship, both parties are moderately sex favorable.]

[Word count 1210 Cw: blood, foul language]

————————

Even while recovering, Alastor had to be dramatic. So when he dropped you both into the group in front of the rebuilt hotel, his joining the song and grand gestures did not surprise you. What did was Charlie suddenly hugging him and Alastor allowing her.

The princess was stronger than she knew. Alastor was more stubborn than anyone but you realized. So even though his theatrics and her squeeze tore some stitches, he refused to show it. The benefit of entirely red clothing was that a bit of blood wasn’t noticeable.

As soon as you could manage, you insisted the pair of you look over your new suite. Walking to the top floor would have been a struggle and you weren’t up to flying again yet. Fortunately the new building had elevators installed.

Alastor had recreated his broadcast studio on a corner penthouse level and naturally had claimed the closest rooms for you both. He hadn’t recreated the bayou yet, but there were more pressing concerns. Namely redoing his stitches.

Once in the room you ordered, “Sit down Alastor.” You didn’t let him argue as you removed his jacket and shirt. The bandages wrapped around his torso had absorbed most of the blood but now they definitely needed replacing. “Zut alors, you just had to overdo it out there.”

You brought out both a last aid kit and your sewing kit. As you gathered up towels, warm water and disinfectant, you continued to vent. “I know you like to cultivate an air of invulnerability, cher, but that was too much.” Returning to his side you started unwinding the bandages. “Granted you didn’t expect Charlie to hug you like that, but all that flailing about did not help.”

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist. “That’s enough,” he growled hoarsely. His antlers were starting to grow in anger but he didn’t put any pressure on your wrist.

“No Alastor, it’s not,” you replied firmly. You didn’t pull your hand away but you did turn his head to face you. You locked eyes with your husband, staring straight into the radio dials. “If you get hurt, I’m the one that patches you up. If you get hurt doing something stupid, I’m still the one patching you up, but I’m allowed to be angry about it.”

He huffed and released your wrist. You continued unwrapping and cleaning that gash across his chest. “I don’t want to be stitching you back up constantly because you’re pretending to be invincible.” You might have said more but a voice at the door interrupted.

“Lover’s quarrel? You really should close the door if you’re going to do that.”

“Fuck!” you screeched, reflexively launching a stiletto at the voice.

“Whoa!” The figure blinked away in a burst of sparks, popping back into existence next to you. The blade thudded into the hallway.

“Careful there!” Lucifer admonished. “We just built these floors.”

You hissed at the fallen angel. “I wouldn’t have to be careful if someone wasn’t eavesdropping.”

He just smiled as you returned to focusing on Alastor. “Someone wouldn’t be eavesdropping if someone else had closed their door properly.” He leaned down to look at the wound you were starting to stitch together again. “Oof, that from when Adam swung at you? You took quite a hit there buddy.”

Alastor glared at him furiously. “GET. OUT,” he snarled, his ever present smile straining in his anger.

As much as you agreed with him, what Lucifer said made you start. “How did you know Adam hit him? The only ones that saw the fight were the exorcists and me.” Some of your flock might have seen it, but they were rather occupied.

“I was watching the whole time,” he replied blithely. With a snap, he produced an ornate set of opera glasses on an elegant handle. “Had to keep an eye on my little girl in case she needed help.”

“You were just watching?!” You and Alastor yelled together. If he had shown up before the angels arrived, he could have handled everything.

“Yup! Charlie didn’t ask me to join the fight, so I wanted to give her the chance to take care of it.” He paused. “I do feel bad about the snake guy, though. Oh, and that you two got banged up by that douchebag.”

You hissed again, feeling your feathers turn metallic. Still, you turned back to the curved needle in your hand. Alastor’s claws dug into the chair; you couldn’t be sure of it was from anger or the feeling of needle and thread sliding through his skin. Probably both.

“GET OUT,” he repeated, now looking like he’d enjoy tearing Lucifer’s throat out if he wasn’t stuck in place.

“And leave my new neighbors in their time of need?” He shook his head mockingly. “Charlie would never let me hear the end of it.”

You did your best to focus and finish quickly. “Got it back together, cher.” His grip on the chair didn’t ease up. He really is a terrible patient, you thought as you placed a gauze pad on the gash. You reached for a roll of bandages, only to find Lucifer holding it out to you.

Annoyed, you grabbed it with a quiet “merci.” Winding the bandage around Alastor to keep the pad in place, you could feel Lucifer’s gaze on your back. Your husband was getting more and more irritated as the king of Hell kept watching you.

Then, as you finished securing the bandage: “You’re gonna need a splint on that wing.” You blinked in confusion. Alastor was similarly surprised at Lucifer’s statement.

“Never had a wing injury before?” he prodded. You shook your head. “You’re one lucky gal.” He clapped his hands and a small pile of supplies appeared. “It’s got to be stabilized. And no attempts to fly until it’s fully healed if you want it back to normal.” He gestured for Alastor to get up, not caring at all that he was ordering the Radio Demon around. Of course he didn’t, he ruled over all of Hell. He outranked every Sinner, Overlord or not.

With permission, he examined your wing. “Alright deerboy, I’ll show you what to do so you can take care of your missus.” That did seem to calm Alastor down a bit and he begrudgingly let Lucifer demonstrate. Shortly, your wing was braced by thin rods and bandages. “Remember, no flying at all.”

You grumbled, only for Alastor to lean down (slowly, taking his wound into account) and say with exaggerated sweetness, “I’ll be patching you up, cher. And if I have to resplint your wing because you did something stupid, then I’m allowed to be angry, yes?”

Dammit, you thought to yourself. Aloud you said, “Fair enough,” with equal sarcastic sweetness.

Satisfied, Lucifer grabbed his apple topped cane with a twirl. “I’m making pancakes if you two want any.” He sauntered out, humming contentedly.

You sighed gustily. “Let’s get you a new shirt, darling.” As you helped Alastor button up the bright red shirt, he realized something.

“He said ‘new neighbors,’” he stated, the static disappearing from his voice. You both stopped dead, processing what that meant. Meeting each other’s eyes, there was only one thing to say, in unison again.

“Ffffuck!”

———————

Taglist: @whitewolfsoldat @edgyboi10000 @ch3sire-blu3 @clearly-awkward @badatpunz @bengewatch @chewbrry

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Nine Times she thought she was, and the once she actually was #1

Pairing: Rosie Rosenthal & Ida Brady, intimacy journey.

Warnings: very few, still, typical warnings apply, 18+, discussions of a past rape and fear of intimacy

Requested? ☑️

Circa: October 1945

Mother held up a very frilly, decidedly see-through garment with a bashful grin, bridal boutique exclusivity and the comparative privacy of the dressing room making her as cheeky as a Catholic housewife ever dared. That was Robert’s effect on everyone, it seemed, he was so solidly wonderful, so obviously perfect, his mere attention so great a compliment that becoming his wife? —everyone rightfully gave Ida no peace over how fortunate she was. Her mother more than anyone, after watching the blood sport that was their courtship, egging on one declined proposal after another until at last they were here, a week out and assembling a hasty trousseau for an even hastier wedding to be followed by a lengthy overseas assignment.

Together. Nuremberg.

“You’d like Germany in the fall.” he’d told her.

It made one’s head spin, as did the very notion of donning that toilet paper excuse for nightwear. Maureen had not needed to be told, one grunt from Ida over the phone when a trousseau was mentioned was enough: “I’ll send you a portmanteau or two”, Maureen had concluded easily, without even needing to be told why. She’d also sent along perfume, rich and woodsy with just enough vanilla that Ida felt almost a bride in it. Ida worried such deep consideration was perhaps the product of the Clevens’ own marital struggles and adjustments to peace, but that was not her concern.

“Mother.” Ida begged now with a laugh, mildly unused to such familiarity with her parent, or with such liberal inclinations.

“You’ll be married Ida!” her mother responded, pleadingly happy, “If that’s not the time for it, when?”

When indeed? That hung like a thundercloud over this whole marriage and yet Rosie had set his face to the storm and welcomed it. “So long as you’re doing the ruining” he had blithely responded to her dire predictions for marital misery in his promising young life. Companions, he had declared them

-companions didn’t wear things like that.

“I- I don’t think it would suit me.” she fibbed, thumbing at a sensible set of mulberry colored silk shorts instead.

“My dear, think of him a little.” Mother meant well, words that would make Ida bristle were said so kindly and with such good intent she could only wince while deflecting them.

Ida gave her a curt nod before slipping behind the curtain and shimmying into a slip, very much like the ones she already owned with a pretty little trim of lace around the decollege. Dove gray and striking with her complexion. She already owned and wore such a piece often, the idea of wearing it next to him sent her stomach plummeting, suddenly she saw herself as he might, boyish limbs and the slight swell of breasts leading to a trim waist and only moderate hips; she was flat and tall —it still felt too clingy.

Mother’s voice startled her on the other side of the drape, “Here’s that other size you wanted.” she offered and Ida drew back the partition. Mother stood as if aghast in admiration.

“My beautiful girl.” her voice grew thick with emotion and Ida too felt a lump in her throat at the thought of how many years had been robbed from them, first by the seperation and then by the war, they might have had many such outings and none of them so burdened. “You’ll be irresistible in that.” she said it with such pride and Ida tried so hard to cling to that as her world grew cold and her fingers and lips with it, creeping doubt and pernicious terror raising itself at last at the sheer loneliness of not even her own mother having any idea what horror such a compliment evoked. “Ida, Eye Eye, what’s wrong? My sweets what’s wrong? What did I say? Sit, sit! -there, Ida, darling.”

Ida did not realize she was crying until she was sat on the pretty velvet bench beside the mirror, sobbing like a girl in her mothers arms. “I don’t want to be irresistible.” she tried to explain through her sobs, “I don’t want to tempt him at all.”

Confused as she was, mother did not argue the rightness or wrongness of temptation and desire within marriage. She just held her daughter like she had wanted to when her father died, when her plane had been downed, when they sent her away to Florida so someone else could feed her and she came back more pilot than woman. “Alright, then you don’t need to.” Mother said instead and it brought Ida such relief a new flood of tears were unleashed, years of pent up grief and disgust flowing out of her. “Be yourself. You’re precious Ida, never meant other than that.”

-see how ugly you have now become? the Kommandant had asked her before shearing her hair.

Crumpled against her mother, red faced and quite unimpressive, she wished she were even uglier for once. Poor Robert. She had warned him.

Gaining some composure back, Ida pulled herself away and squared her shoulders, allowing mother’s arm to stay loped around them. She did not deserve to be rebuffed after such kindness. “Mother,” Ida found her voice sounded gravelly and distant even to herself but needs must, “in the war, after I was downed-“ she chose her words carefully, eyes fixated on the most unoffensive thing in the mirror, mother’s sensible brown shoes, she had long debated whether to ever even tell her,, “-I think you know, or have heard or, but, there were things…done to me…that I cannot…easily forget. Robert knows, there’s no, no um, defrauding? no defrauding happening, I have told him, he knows. But I, I don’t want -I don’t want to be irresistible.”

Ida had watched the face of her brother process what had been inflicted on her, Johnny had watched her body swell with lurid proof of it, he had wrapped the bloody product of it in the only white garment left in the camp and buried it with last rites and a muttered Ave. A shroud of innocence for a life conceived in anything but.

Ida had no appetite left to watch a mother’s face when she learned her daughter had been violated.

Mother was now the one who cried, and Ida numbly felt the burgeoning impulse to hold her in return. Awkwardly but with growing surety, she lifted her arm and tucked mother’s smaller frame to her chest, holding her shuddering shoulders, “My brave child.” mother managed in grief, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’d do anything to take it away-“ it was a natural sentiment and Ida had grown to feel herself quite unnatural for not regretting the course of duty that had placed her in such jeopardy. “Robert is -he is a good man,” mother could not grieve for herself a full minute without returning reassurances, “I wouldn’t let a lesser man have you. But now I know— no one else will do. He will be good to you and if he is not, your father’s house is always yours.”

Ida had never doubted it but to hear it vocalized, to hear it with a recently unburdened heart, the last of her terror calmed to only simmering nervousness, and with the purchase of the demure mulberry shorts, it set her lightly on her last week of singlehood.

That night, the night of her wedding, Ida brushed her teeth alongside Rosie and splashed her face alongside her husband like she had with dozens of men hundreds of times in the shower rooms. Nothing remotely off there. Nothing until she closed the door on him, he to don his pajamas in the suite and she to don them in the bathroom, then the anxiety struck lethal and sharp.

“Don’t fail me now.” she muttered to her nerves as she tried her utmost to efficiently step into the sensible mulberry satin shorts after pulling off the sensible and smart wedding suit she’d been wearing.

She stalled at the door, trying to prepare herself for anything on the other side of it. Robert greeting her with excitement despite all their talks to the contrary of trying anything tonight, or any other night in the near future. Robert hitting the whiskey and passing out pleasantly only to forget his promises in the middle of the night. Or somehow worst of all -Robert lying in bed stiff as a board while waiting for her to shuffle under the sheets already and lay beside him. What then? shut the lights out like two senile dotards? That could hardly be borne, despite how dreamy he made it sound to have celebate sleepovers and chaste companionship. She’d rather take matters into her own hands tonight and pull him bodily inside than endure such stiltedness.

When she opened the door and spied him, nothing could quite prepare her. But then again, surprise was hardly the predominant sentiment. It was gratitude at being right. For deep down in all her doubting she had anticipated him taking her by such pleasant surprise she would never guess it -but never to be confounded.

Prim and homely in his flannel cover and blue pajamas, hair still immaculately lacquered except for where her voracious kisses had done them harm, sat Rosie on the suite carpet, cross legged before a meticulously stacked tower of wedding presents. Beside him was an ice bucket complete with champagne bottle and a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries.

“You absolute dreamboat.” she accused in a gush, hand over her gaping mouth.

Robert’s eyes flicked up, blue and warm all at once, and those smile lines carved their way deeper into his cheeks. “Come on,” he held up a neatly wrapped present, “I can’t guess this one by shape and it’s driving me nuts. Let’s get it open so I can sleep.”

When they had gone to sleep, Ida had imbibed so much champagne and indulged in enough kisses she was foolish and pliant. She wiggled her eyebrows when he rolled beside her, close enough to heat the cradle of her thighs; Robert had only laughed warningly and rolled off. When she woke to sunlight streaming into unfastened drapes, warmth near her but not pressing against her, and Rosie’s dark mustache aglow with amber flecks, she was rewarded for her good faith. The curls had come to harm in his sleep and she pushed them off his forehead to wake him.

“Morning.” she whispered.

His smile was dazzling, somehow even more so with his puffy eyes and his loose, drousy lips catching against her palm, “Morning, Mrs Rosenthal.” his voice tickled her, “We’ve got a boat to catch.”

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[cowboyfromh3ll]

So, hypothetically speaking,

If the reader gets so drunk, maybe at Sean's welcome home party, or when jack is rescued

And this is hypothetical...

She's in a relationship with arthur... and he's away from camp, or sleeping.

And hypothetically,

John as feelings for her, and she stumbles into John's room thinking that its Arthur's.

Again, this is hypothetical.

AND HYPOTHETICALLY, john takes a chance and pretends to be Arthur because he's just SO jealous of their relationship, and they end up having sex.

Taking What’s Not Yours

(John Marston x Fem!Reader Smut)

THIS WAS SO GODDAMN FUN RAHHH. John is a fucked up individual in this, I put a lot of thought into how I wrote his line of thinking.

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, noncon, dubcon, drunk sex, smut, infidelity

  Your first thought was that Shady Belle had never looked so bright. 

From a distance, the camp might have appeared as a glowing orb of orange light in the woods; an inviting incandescent illumination. A large, brightly lit campfire served as the heart of a celebration, and here and there was the blurry green blinking of fireflies. The occasional oil lamp littered around camp to unveil the darkness, acting as checkpoints in the path towards the doors of the house. But for every bit of light there was the accompanying joy and laughter and bliss. 

The alcohol coursing and spreading warmth through your body eased you into a state of content relaxedness. Your consciousness was heavily veiled, a cotton like feeling resulting in a comfortable haziness. Every nerve and chemical in your body telling you to relax, and every movement felt somnambulant. The lively chatter and inebriated song of the gang seemed so close yet so far, as if you had just stepped out on the front porch of a house party and the music continued to boom from inside. Dimly, you remembered the reason for the celebration was Jack’s safe return to camp; you had planted a maternal kiss to his forehead in welcome before he was thrummed away at the center of the celebration. Life was good, and all your other troubles didn’t matter right now. Though the cool condensation of the bottle collecting in a small ring of water around your thumb and pointer as you firmly grasped it seemed to matter. And it mattered more with every swig you took. Your lover blithely wrapped an arm around your lower waist, an invitation to release most of your weight onto him. Your crown felt as though it had a weight tied to it, your head falling nearly supine on your sternum before lolling to its side and onto Arthur’s broad shoulder.  

“You enjoying yourself, darling?” Arthur asked, planting a kiss on your temple. You smelled the familiar bitters of alcohol on his breath, and it was almost as comforting as the deep drawl of his voice. You hummed out a yes, every movement feeling slowed down. Your mouth felt glued shut by the sour film of alcohol, your mouth opening in a wet click as your dense saliva smacked against your tongue and palate. In a delayed response, you said, “Yeah, honey. I’m having a real good time.” Your words slurred together like smeared paint on a canvas; a feeble attempt at forming something coherent. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had too much to drink?” He chastised playfully. You scrunched up your nose jokingly. 

“It’s just one night. I don’t usually drink like this.”

“Yeah exactly, you don’t. I’m scared you won’t be able to handle yourself.” You waved your arm dismissively at his concerns. “I’ll be fine. I have the gang here to take care of me. And most importantly I have you.” You reassured him, stumbling forward and giving him a kiss. 

“I was thinking of turning in for the night.” Arthur told you, wrapping both his arms around your waist and turning him to face you. You pouted your bottom lip, whining petulantly. “Awww, hon, come on. Keep celebrating.” 

“No, no… I’m drunk enough. And I’ve had a long day. Plus, I ain’t going anywhere else but my room. Don’t you wanna come up with me?” 

You shook your head profusely. “I’ll be fine down here. Like I said, I wanna keep celebrating. I also ain’t going nowhere.” You giggled and kissed the tip of his nose. Arthur’s nerves in leaving you downstairs seemed to calm significantly when he looked around the campfire at all the welcoming faces, especially the women, who were more than likely going to keep an eye on eachother. He gave it a thought for a moment longer before nodding in acceptance. 

“Alright. Just be careful. I’ll stay awake just in case.” Arthur’s lithe hands began to smooth down your back and over the curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh in a nascent squeeze. “I’ll be waiting for you.” He smirked before leaning forward and kissing you once more, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip. You sloppily accepted the kiss, the exchange lasting only seconds before he bid you farewell by slapping your ass. You giggled in anticipation for what your lover was suggesting at once you got upstairs to him, your red face turning even redder. You watched Arthur’s back as he walked off towards the front entrance of the house, smiling warmly when you saw him say goodnight to John and Abigail, who were sitting together by the foyer. 

Time seemed insubstantial the longer you celebrated, passing by in warped increments the more you drank. You had decided it was finally time to up and leave when the only way you evaded vomiting everywhere was from staring at the flickering embers of the fire. When you stood, the world spun around you, and you remained stationary as you tried to figure out which way you were supposed to walk to get to the house. Your body lagged behind your mind, each movement slowed and blundered in confusion as if your body was deliberately working against itself. Several of the women and men offered to walk you up towards your shared room with Arthur, but you refused, insisting in your mind that you wanted to walk into the room, alluringness turned on in your best attempt at seducing Arthur. The gracefulness of that action would be mere afterthought, not taking into consideration the possibility of you embarrassing yourself. 

You lugged your body towards the double doors, feet stomping up the steps of the front porch. You caught sight of Abigail sitting alone in your peripheral, who was seemingly startled by the loudness of your steps. 

“Hey, (Name). You okay? You seem real drunk.” She gave you a look of concern, making a movement to stand up from her seat. You waved off her concern dismissively as well.

“I’m fine Abigail. Just had too much to drink. I’m headed up to my room.” You reassured. You wiped your mouth with the back of your arm, cleaning off the frothing drool forming at the corners of your mouth. She gave you one last look of concern before planting herself on her seat again. 

“Alright then, I suppose all you have to do is go upstairs anyways. Goodnight, (Name).”

“Goodnight.”

It was an arduous task to push open the expansive mahogany doors of the building, your footsteps echoing as you trudged across the floor and up the creaky, wooden steps. You leaned against the railing at the top of the stairs, threatening to retch but resulting in nothing but excess saliva. You bordered on sickness but that would not stop you in your pursuit of copulation with Arthur. Your vision tunneled, and you let your body take the lead ahead of your mind. It felt as though you were dragging your body along the floor to safety from some unknown threat you were too hammered to classify. You swallowed hard, finding amenity in the cool, metallic feeling of a door knob as you clumsily turned it, only to find the door was already ajar. You practically stumbled inside, trying your best not to trip on your own feet. You heaved your body up against the door frame, beginning in a series of sultry laughter. 

Unbeknownst to you, you hadn’t actually crawled into the room of your lover. You hadn’t made it down the hall completely, instead stumbling into another room. You hadn’t even paid any mind to the soft snores that were scarcely audible from behind Arthur’s door.

“Heyyy, Arthur.” You cooed, followed by more giggles. 

John sat up from where he lay in his bed, his eyes registering a sense of bewilderment for who was at his door. Only moments ago he had been deep in thought, contemplating what it was he wanted in life, and moments before that he had engaged in an argument with his wife downstairs before storming up on his own; and now, before him, stood the object of his desire. 

“Are you surprised to see me so soon?” You said playfully. 

John felt a strange duality to the question. How even though the question was meant for Arthur, he felt equally as entitled to answer it. John looked down at himself in near disbelief, as if he had somehow embodied Arthur and his own body was replaced. He asked himself if you were really that drunk, to mistake his frame and face for your lover. 

“(Name)?” He said hesitantly, looking around the room as if he were expecting a group of the girls to jump out and announce a prank. 

“Well you shouldn’t be that surprised, you saw how drunk I was.” 

That seemed to confirm John’s suspicions. Obviously, you didn’t mean to walk in here. You were supposed to be down the hall, at Arthur’s door. His mind blanked when he saw you begin to saunter over towards him. He sucked in a breath and held it, straightening and stiffening his body as if he were preparing his body for some sort of grand, painful impact. 

“Well, I’m here now. You said you’d be awake for me…” You giggled darkly, swaying your body. You settled down onto John’s lap, wrapping two arms around his neck and leaning forward to put your lips to his ear. You felt John’s rigidity as you sat on him, still under the belief that it was Arthur; so your confusion was palpable when he didn’t automatically wrap his arms around you. 

“Relax, Arthur… Why are you so tense?” You ran your tongue along the shell of John’s ear before planting a kiss on his lobe, nipping it with your teeth before sucking on it slightly. The crescendo of John’s shame reached its peak when you cupped his crotch, delivering a squeeze before rubbing your palm back and forth on it, again and again. He bit his lip, clenching and unclenching his fists in an act of contemplation. 

John put his hands on your shoulders, nudging you off and moving you to sit next to him on the bed. He moved your body effortlessly, your whole being pliable and docile as he settled you on the mattress. You furrowed your brows and pouted your lip in confusion, not used to this level of resistance from Arthur. 

“What’s wrong?” You asked, the words slurring together sloppily. It only served as another reminder for how drunk you were to John. He continued to hold on your shoulders, his hands digging into the supple skin, grounding himself in the feeling of your bones. He studied your face: flushed red and sclera tinged pink from the excessive drinking you had done that night, your hair was wild and messy and all over the place, and there was a line of drool that had gone down the side of your cheek, beginning to dry. Part of him was tempted to stick his thumb in your mouth and run it over the dried spots to clean them off. Your eyes held a sort of puppy-eyed look of confusion and sadness, as if he had dangled a treat over your head and he promptly put it away in his pocket. Though in the same vein, your eyes were glazed over and unfocused, glassy the same way a person who was fighting off unconsciousness would look. He noticed the way your torso continued to sway uneasily despite him holding you up. 

“I”m not…” John began, but he did not continue. His mouth hung open in anticipation of what he may say next, as if he were expecting some force to conjure up the words for him. But unlike you, he was in full control of what he might say, or what he might decide to do next. His mouth closed, his face hardening. He felt a strange concoction of emotions spread inside him, like a bottle of several intoxicating alcohols mixed together in one glass had just been knocked over accidentally. It made him feel cold and warm all at the same time, and at once, his body began in an unexplainable tremble. Whether it was made up of excitement, shame, or paranoia, John couldn’t place his finger on it. You looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Your patience wasn’t exactly part of the equation, partially preoccupied with clinging onto any semblance of comprehension skills you were left with; realistically, John could’ve spent hours sitting there thinking and you would’ve kept sitting there, waiting. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so anxious, darling. I was just scared someone might hear us.” John said. John felt that same sense of duality, that foreign feeling of embodying something or someone he wasn’t, taking their place when it wasn’t rightfully his to take. He buried any feelings of shame he might’ve felt from his conclusion, ignoring the morbid implications and possible grave impacts it would have on his relationships and life. He tied all those thoughts and feelings up like an ornately wrapped parcel and tossed it out the window; the possibility of those feelings being discovered once more was a question for a later time.

“No one’s gonna hear us, everyone’s outside celebrating.” You reassured, a smile returning to your face. John felt like an imposter in his own room, his own body. Like he walked into an intimate scene and surreptitiously took the place of Arthur while you weren’t looking. It was a moment of sick exultation for John. The knowledge that in his bed, he had something so near and dear to Arthur. Likewise, he also had something near and dear to him in his bed. His jealousy for Arthur’s relationship with you became a point of one sided contention in John’s head. It was something he’d never voice, not to anyone, and especially not to Arthur or you. But now that the opportunity presented itself to him, seemingly serving itself on a silver platter, he discovered a new variation of what it felt like to be in control. 

For one night, he’d be able to forget the envy he felt in seeing Arthur kiss or hold you; to forget the way his chest panged whenever he watched the two of you run off upstairs or into the woods, hand in hand, giggling while he was left to imagine all the lascivious scenes between you two; to forget the crushing shame he felt after having touched himself to the thought of you, so unbearably roused by watching you run off to engage in those aforementioned carnal acts, imagining himself in Arthur’s place. And he’d be able to entomb the feeling of remorse he felt when he thought of pillaging you while Abigail lay beneath him, who was left to wonder where all the passion he was exerting was coming from; oblivious to the fact that he was pretending she was you. 

“Yeah… You’re right…” John whispered, swallowing hard. He managed a shaky smile, letting his hands slide down your shoulders and rubbing soothing circles; with the amount of rubbing he did, it appeared as though he were doing it to calm himself down. 

“Now c’mon! Before someone does walk into the house!” Your playful remark nearly cemented a feeling of paranoia inside John, egging him on to act fast; lest he be forced to come up with some shoddy excuse as to why you were half naked in his bed. 

He looked at your hands as they made quick work of your button up shirt, part of him wanting to help but the other part of him remaining persistent in the thought that it wasn’t his place to. To calm his own nerves, he began fiddling with the buckle of his belt, halfway between undoing it and keeping it in place. You were hardly in the right state of mind to be paying his dallying movements any thought, tasked with the complicated act of undoing the final buttons of your shirt which was made harder tenfold by your clumsiness. 

“C’mon, help me out, Arthur!” You urged. John looked behind his shoulder to check for anyone, then around the room as if that aforementioned prank was still on the table. He reminded himself of the time crunch he was under, and skillfully undid your buttons before hastily sliding off your shirt.

John’s own refusal to shed his clothing was rooted in the feeling of vulnerability. Despite the fact he planned to have you barren before him, he did not want to risk being caught naked with you. The feeling of exposure would cause him to imagine all the painfully cringeworthy scenarios where someone would walk up the stairs and see his naked body above yours through the gaping hole in his wall. It allowed him some sense of security in knowing he would only have to scramble to dress you and not himself. 

With John’s assistance, you shimmied out of your skirt, the fabric pooling on the floor close to the bed. Only your heavy breaths and the rustling of your clothing was heard, and before long, you crossed your arms over your front and tugged the chemise over your torso and head. John was taken aback by your quickness to shed the garment, but remembered this must’ve been a routine act between you and Arthur; the thought left a sour feeling of jealousy in him. Though that jealousy was sweeped under the bed when he saw your breasts bounce before him hypnotically with each movement. You ran your hands up your sides before stopping to cup your breasts, teasing your own nipples to put on a show for John. 

John felt his cock jump in his pants, instinctively licking his lips at the sight. In the first forward act of the night, he confidently moved himself to sit closer before and squeezed your breasts, toying with the flesh with such fascination it was as if he was studying them to keep a permanent mental picture of them. His touches felt like he was trying to memorize what they felt like for the future with the knowledge that he may never get the opportunity to touch them again. He slapped your breasts slightly and reveled in the way the skin rippled with movement, before pushing them together and leaning his head down. He ran his tongue between the valley of your breasts, snaking his tongue between your cleavage and enjoying the sweaty warmth of your skin pressed up against itself. 

The sound of your breathy gasp as your body reacted in a full body shudder was the perfect kick in the center of John’s loins—here he was, with you in his bed and perfectly in control. You watched as the pink of John’s tongue flickered out to lick at your nipple before enveloping it fully between his lips. The scratchy roughness of his stubble made you giggle, only furthering your belief that this was Arthur. John lapped at your nipple and teased it with his incisors in an effort to get more whiny moans out of you, each sound a reminder that he was the one doing this to you and not Arthur. 

John traced open-mouthed kisses down your torso, every kiss that got closer to the down tuft of hair hidden away under your drawers exciting him the same way a kid would be excited from opening a gift in secret the night before christmas. Your body tipped back slowly, as if someone had nudged an unstable tower of building blocks, and crashed into the mattress, your head landing on John’s pillow. Your hands rested limply on your sides, but your sudden fall did not distract John from hooking his fingers into the cotton hem of your drawers, before pulling them down feverishly. 

A bush of hair concealed the squishy skin of your pelvis; the hair littered around your inner thighs and continued inward to your pubis. John wasted no time in nudging your legs apart, revealing the swollen wet rose that was your pussy. He raked two thumbs through the hair on either side, spreading your lips and further displaying your wetness to him. The sight of the shiny, soaked flesh made John’s cock throb, and he began grinding his hips into the mattress as he settled his body between your legs. He bathed your pussy in his warm breath before spitting on it, using his tongue to spread the glob of saliva. He moaned loudly as the taste of your cunt, releasing your lips from the hold of his tongue and allowing it to close around his tongue, effectively sandwiching it. He shuddered in ecstasy at the feeling alone, before he quickly got to work and lapped at you like a dog. You let out the occasional soft moan, going through bouts of silence before starting up again in small sounds. John sucked and ate you out with unmatched ferocity, unleashing years of desire of wistfulness with his tongue and mouth. You feebly bent your knee and lifted it, allowing John better access. But he quickly assisted you, hooking his hand below your knee and pushing your thigh to your chest. 

Your moans grew in volume as he sucked your clit skillfully, the small bud throbbing wildly in pleasure as he treated it like some sort of hard candy. The sloppy wet sounds of the act alone were enough to cause a full body blush, and you squirmed your heavy limbs as he continued. John abruptly shoved two fingers inside you, his movements irregular and drawn out, poking and prodding your insides as he ran his fingers along your gummy walls. His fingering was less like fingering and more like being examined by a doctor, like he was trying to memorize how your insides felt with his fingers alone. He retracted his fingers slowly, groaning at the sight of them slowly emerging from your wet hole. 

John stood from where he laid and stood next to the bed, peeking outside the hole in his wall before looking back at your body. You appeared spent despite the minimal actions of that night. Your limbs were splayed around the bed, your head resting limply to the left as you faced him. Despite your spinning head, the still moment allowed you to squint your eyes at John. Has Arthur’s hair always been this dark? Or was it a trick of the lighting? Was it the lighting that also made him appear less bulky? These were all questions you asked yourself as you laid there. The stationary moment of silence between you two as John stood over your naked body forced him to butt heads with his worst fear in the moment; a prospect so alarming he had refused to acknowledge it earlier; the possibility that you might recognize him. 

In an attempt to push that thought out of your heads, he began unbuckling his belt. The throbbing of his cock was nearly painful as he pulled it out from in between his zipper. John raked his fingers through your hair gently, gripping your roots softly and pushing your head towards the edge of the bed. He got some sort of comfort out of the idea that by shoving his cock in your mouth, it would temporarily disallow you to voice any queries of his identity. He prodded his tip against your lips, watching the pink on pink contact as you opened your mouth and allowed him to slide inside. He slid in slowly, throwing his head back at the feeling of your warm wet mouth hugging his cock. He kept going until his cock clicked past your tonsils and his balls met your chin. You kept your eyes trained on his naval, feeling that by not looking up you might be able to suppress your rising sense of panic. 

You continued your ministrations like you usually would, hollowing your cheeks and sucking as you tried your best to move your head in the position you were in. You fluttered your tongue on his underside, laying it flat against his head and teasing his frenulum with the tip of your tongue. John began thrusting into your throat, shoving a thumb in through the corner of your mouth to allow his cock more space to move. You made an effort to squeeze your thumbs and curl your toes, having to alternate your focus between pleasuring him and not vomiting all over his cock. You used your excess salivation as lube, the in and out motion of his cock becoming effortlessly easy with the smooth wetness. 

John let out a string of curses as you sucked him off, able to tell that this was a skill born out of practice. Though he couldn’t even be angry at the thought of you gaining this much skill from sucking Arthur off, especially when he got to enjoy it. 

John slid his cock out your mouth slowly, looking back down at your face to see if you had any resolve. Your eyes were fluttering open and closed, copious amounts of saliva running down the side of your mouth and pooling on his bed. You looked as though you were barely clinging onto consciousness. A fresh sense of guilt that John had previously been harboring came crashing through as he kneeled before you on the bed. He cupped your face and held it up, watching your glassy eyes as you tried to blink yourself awake. 

“C’mon…” You croaked. “Just do it already.” 

John swallowed hard at the words. The ambiguity of them left him feeling an uncomfortable sense of dread. Your eyes did not focus on his face, instead looking past him; you weren’t all there. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled your lips to his, kissing you feverishly as you struggled to keep up. There was hesitance in your kiss, but you did so nonetheless. You had to admit, your mouths fit perfectly against one another, and despite the unfamiliar feeling of his lips as you tried to decipher whether or not this was Arthur, the one thing keeping you on the Arthur side of the fence was that the kiss felt so correct. You opened your mouth more, allowing John to shove his tongue inside your mouth and to memorize your mouth through that method as well. As much as John wanted to, he resisted biting your lip in the possibility that he might bust it and call forth questions from Arthur at a later time. 

John settled your head back onto the pillow before turning his sights down between your legs. His cock, still glistening with your saliva, bobbed with each movement mere inches from your pussy. He gripped the back of your knees again and pushed them to your chest, watching the way your core spread like a splitting heart. He released one knee and used that same hand to grip the base of his cock before guiding it to your molting hole. John barely noticed the way your body went limp as he slid inside, too entranced with the tight feeling of your pussy to realize you were bereft of any and all resistance. His eyes remained shut as he began to thrust, trying his best not to move too hard or fast to avoid the loud slapping of skin. 

His thrusts were careful and calculated, and his eyes trained on the movement of your body as he fucked you. You would occasionally come alive with a moan or twitch of your limb before dozing off again, but John was far too deep in his own world of pleasure. In your bouts of consciousness, you tried your best to pick your head up and look at John’s face, trying to make his face out in the darkness. Was this even your bed?

Though the realization couldn’t have been any more in your face, as when he brought his sweaty forehead to yours, his heavy labored breaths sounding like he was running from something, you realized your mistake. The recognition was almost sobering, as your eyes flickered around the room wildly without him noticing. You looked back at John’s face, your panic reaching its boiling point when you saw the striking scars across his face. 

A particularly hard thrust caused you to moan, A gasp that turned into a whiny wail. “John…!” 

There was a cold fear that spread through John’s shoulders, his thrusts slowing but never stopping. John questioned whether or not he had heard you correctly, too afraid to stop and ask you what you had said in fear that if you hadn’t already realized, you would then. Your clammy hands came up to grip his biceps, squeezing softly before nodding. John wasn’t sure what the nod meant, but he convinced himself it was a green light to keep going. He was roused to thrust harder, watching the way your breasts bounced hypnotically. 

It was your turn to feel a sense of shame and remorse, thinking to yourself how you could yell at John to stop but opting not to. You held onto a sense of curiosity as John fucked you, not helping the way you compared him and Arthur. John’s touches had been so hesitant initially, but grew in passion. And his skill was undeniable. Your proximity to both men allowed for a comparison between their bodies and highlighted miniscule physical differences that you might’ve not noticed or savored otherwise; the light smattering of freckles on Arthur’s nose and the nearly imperceptible scar on John’s forehead, Arthur’s deep collar bones and the fatty ripeness of John’s detached earlobes. 

Your box felt gaping and tender as John continued, wholly aware that you would not cum but enjoying any pleasure you felt nonetheless. Eventually, John pulled his cock out of you, and it was followed by the small slapping sound of hand on skin, the act of John squeezing out the rest of his desires for the night. You watched the way his cock shone in the moonlight as he fisted it, eventually spurting out copious ropes of cum on your belly and naval. His only form of marking you without leaving semi permanent evidence. You continued to lay there, watching John catch his breath in a full body heave. You made no movements to get dressed or even leave, being in no rush yourself. 

The only sounds in the room was John’s breath evening out, eventually calming down enough to breath through his nose. Your eyes followed his every movement, and he eventually settled into a sitting position next to you as he tucked himself back inside. 

You knew in the sidelong glances of John’s eyes that things would not be the same. He could not pretend that he didn’t know better.

Your last thought was that Shady Belle had never looked so dark.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Taking What’s Not Yours - TV Girl

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

As Harry walked through the door, he barely resisted the urge to slam it. He didn’t bother to hide his scowl when Tom strolled into the entryway to greet him.

“You were out later than expected,” Tom said, blithe as you please. Clearly his errand went smoothly.

“The next time you need an alibi, you’re on your own,” Harry grumbled. “If I’d had to deal with Umbridge’s toadying for one more minute, you would’ve ended up in Azkaban anyway.”

“Well, that explains why you’re still wearing my face. It’s a wonder you were able to escape before you ran out of Polyjuice.”

“I had to rely on Lucius sodding Malfoy to get me out of there.” Harry didn’t typically care about dignity all that much, but it was mortifying to have to rely on the Malfoy patriarch to save him. And now he’d probably owe the older man a favour, and Malfoy would absolutely lord it over Harry for ages.

“You are so lucky I love you,” he groused, bending slightly to pull off Tom’s ridiculous boots. He couldn’t wait to get back into his own comfortable and completely unfashionable clothing, but it would be a while yet before the potion wore off. He’d had to take a dose as soon as he’d gotten away from the bright pink blight.

“Of course. Thank you, dear heart.”

The distant tone made Harry suspicious. He glanced over his shoulder and caught Tom staring intently at Harry’s… well, Tom’s arse.

“Tom.”

To his credit, Tom showed not an ounce of shame as he let his eyes drift up to meet Harry’s. “Yes, darling?”

“Were you just effectively checking yourself out?”

Tom held his gaze. “And if I was?”

Harry stood up and slowly walked over to his husband. He had to admit, he was enjoying being of the same height – he’d learned to accept that Tom and many of his friends towered over him, but seeing how the other half lived was nice.

“Well, of course I’m gonna take the piss out of you forever.” Harry grinned. He could feel it sit strangely on Tom’s features.

Tom’s shoulders stiffened, the only sign he was irked. Harry reached out to trail a hand down Tom’s chest, grabbing his belt buckle and tugging him into Harry’s chest.

“And I might be willing to indulge you on this, husband.”

A brief stutter in his breathing and flaring heat in his eyes showed Tom was interested. Very interested. 

“Would you?” Tom's blasé tone didn't fool him at all.

Harry chuckled, dropping a quick peck on Tom’s lips before pulling away and heading to the kitchen. “I’ve known you were a narcissist for years. Really, I should’ve expected this.”

He should have paid more attention to Tom’s conspicuous silence behind him, but Harry was more interested in the sandwich he was about to make. That leftover ham was calling his name.

(Because it is his)

[blurredcolour]

Hi! As one of the “ladies who Brady” I just want to say thank you for providing content for us Brady fans.

I’d also like to request some headcanons for how Brady would act when he’s jealous.

Feel free to get as spicy as you want.

Darling fellow Lady Who Bradys, what a joy it is to see our numbers swell of late!!! John Brady is getting the attention he so richly deserves 💙

So outside the super specific scenario I laid out in Parting Gifts, I feel like if he was able to directly interact with the source of his jealousy, Brady’s snark would come shining through.

Mature/explicit themes - 18+ below the cut (I got super carried away…)

Huge thanks to darling @precious-little-scoundrel for collaborating with me on this one

Typically he’s not a very insecure individual, but here at the ad-hoc reunion of men from the 100th with you on his arm he cannot help but feel old rivalries burning a little brighter

Goes to fetch the pair of you fresh drinks while you chat with a few friends you’d already met back in New York before you relocated here to Maryland for his new job

On his return, he is surprised to find you alone with that lush Jones from Arkansas with his strawberry blond hair and absurdly long eyelashes and it immediately raises his hackles

Comes to stand close to you, inserting himself slightly between you and the interloper as he gently sets the drink in your hand

“John Brady!” Jones greets him with exaggerated joviality and he acknowledges him with a tight-lipped, polite smile and nod “so glad ya took time outta yer busy schedule ter come ter our lil’ ol’ get together”

“So glad you managed to find the place, Jones.” Brady’s eyes glitter with a hard edge and you do your best not to choke on the sip of your drink you’d just taken

Jones, for his part, remains as blithely oblivious of the slight as he had proven of the finer details of navigation and drones on, continuing to shuffle closer to you and ask you all manner of intrusive questions until Brady decides he has a headache and it’s time to call it a night

Makes you wait under the overhang in front of the hotel as he dashes out into the rain to fetch the car, darting around to open your door despite the second soaking it earns him

“Thank you, Johnny” you smile fondly and kiss his cheek before sliding onto the leather bench seat at his side as he pulls out for home

At first it’s hard to discern, above the noise of the wipers squeaking across the windshield as they desperately try to fight off the deluge of water, but eventually you pick up on the fact that Brady is muttering bitterly under his breath

“…wouldn’t know a cardinal direction if it jumped up and bit him in the behind…man hasn’t dried out one drop since landing stateside, pickled as a fish…too bad he’s allowed to dress himself now, what an abysmal suit he was wearing…”

Subtly glancing out of the corner of your eye you can see his exasperated expression, cheeks inflated as though he were caught in some extended inhale

“Betcha make the yummiest roast, doncha sugar” he suddenly drawls in perfect mimicry of Jones and you have to desperately press your fingers to your lips to smother your laugh. “How would you know what a good roast is, you squirrel eating bastard” his scathing blow delivered to his absent enemy is your undoing, a giggle slipping past your defences and quickly drawing his gaze

“Sorry, Johnny, sorry that was just a really funny one” you apologize quickly

He huffs in exasperation and you lean in to press a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling him relax slightly under your affection as he turns down your back lane

“I’ll grab the garage door” you insist quickly as he pulls into the driveway and can hear his protests even as you climb out of the car, but pay them no mind as you unlock and roll up the door, sliding back inside and he pulls in

You know Brady very well. Know that the instant you get inside his hands and his mouth will be all over you, focusing solely on your pleasure and there’s something about his reaction to Jones that makes you think he ought to be the centre of attention for however long he’ll let you get away with it

And trapping him in the car while you do it seems like the perfect place

No sooner has he put the car in park inside the garage than your lips are pressing against his, hand coming to rest on his thigh

“Sweetheart what are you-” he mumbles against your lips but you silence him by sliding your tongue along his as your hand moved to the apex of his thighs to announce your intentions as you massage his hardening length

He exhales sharply through his nose, breath caressing your cheek, but he’s not pushing you away

As the windshield grows dry, the wipers let out an aggravated noise at the friction and you feel him grope blindly behind you to kill the engine

Work his fly open as you shift to kneel on the bench seat beside him, mouth tracing along his jaw to what you can reach of his throat, more than a little annoyed at the interference of his shirt collar

“Out…here?!” He pants a little and you find your lips curling into a smirk against his skin, the sound of rain thundering on the garage roof filling the car

He makes as though to pull your mouth back to his for a kiss but you slip out of his grip to lean over his newly exposed cock, eyeing your prize a moment before taking him into your mouth to coax him to complete hardness

“God…goddamn..!” You hear his strangled curse from above and are only encouraged further as he rapidly stiffens against your tongue

His hand grips your hip as you begin to bob along him, his grunts and heavy exhales causing the humid windows of the car to cloud with condensation

You wish you could see his face - the way his eyebrows knit together in concentration when he’s trying to stave off his own pleasure for the sake of yours

But that’s not the point this time

Sliding the hand that isn’t stabilizing you against the car door to cup his remarkable balls, you gently begin to massage encouragingly, feeling him shudder

He’s pulling at your skirt, grabbing at the flesh of your ass once he’s located it, before shifting his fingers to slide along your folds over your underwear. It’s not enough to really achieve anything beyond expressing his appreciation, but you whimper nonetheless and he bites off a sharp ‘fuck’, fighting his hips’ innate desire to thrust

You can feel his lower abdomen twitching against your cheek, know he’s close by the way high-pitched keens have snuck into his exhales

“Sweetheart I’m…”

“Mmhmmm!” You hum around him and a string of curses tumble from his lips before he shouts your name as ropes of cum paint the back of your tongue and throat

Sit back on your heels as you swallow, drinking in his dazed expression, his head flung over the back of the seat

Lean in to cup his cheeks and feather tender kisses across his face

“That was…” he sighs

“To remind you just who gets to eat my roast” you grin and he lazily raises an eyebrow

“Are you propositioning me, sweetheart?”

[ghostlyforxst]

GENDER: GENDER NEUTRAL READER

WARNING: YANDERE TENDENCIES AND MENTIONS OF ABUSE

CHARACTER: SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA

A/n- I apologize for not posting, I had to take a break to recuperate. Though I'm back and have a new story coming!

Affection — how do they show their love and affection?

Tsundere at heart, Sanemi isn't touchy unless he is punching or kicking angrily. Though, quality time and gift giving are his affections.

Blood — how messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Barbarous, will ruthlessly strangle or impale the threatening person. Sanemi has no tolerance for people or demons when it comes to you, you are his top priority.

Cruelty — how would they treat their darling once abducted?

Even how feral and insensitive Sanemi can act, Sanemi is tender and caring beneath his calloused surface. When around you those traits are exposed. He can be caring, relaxed, and attentive.

Darling — aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Though he's more considerate towards you but eventually he'll want to get intimate with you, forceful or not. Besides that, forcing you to give affection and forcing you to become a housewife/husband.

Exposed — how vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Rarely, only because he doesn't want you to abuse his sensitive side.

Fight — how would they feel if their darling fought back?

Irritated, he'll start cursing and manhandling you. He hates it, he wants you to come willingly, and wants to comfort you but doesn't know how to deal with your distressed attitude.

Game — is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, Sanemi is serious and he is serious with your relationship. He hates and gets frustrated from your attempts to escape.

Hell — what would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

He had forgotten to secure the door before leaving for the mission. Noticing this, you made a run for it. Just as you exit out the door, you collide into Sanemi. You shitted yourself, almost literally, as he stared down at you furiously.

"Where the hell are you going!?" Sanemi seethed, shoving you back and onto your bottom.

"..."

"Quiet now, huh!?" He sneered, shadowing you.

He'd gotten abusive, smacking you and degrading you. Assuring you that everyone would believe you're deranged if you ratted him out, that you'll never be able to leave him.

Ideals — what kind of future do they have in mind for their darling?

After riding the demons, Sanemi would love to wed you and later on have kids with you.

Jealousy — do they get jealous? How do they handle it?

Obviously, Sanemi hates when people's attention is on you. Sending a warning glare at the person firstly but if the person's ogling or flirtatious comments doesn't falter, then they become food for the demons.

Rough-jealous sex or plenty of affection will soothe his envy attitude.

Kisses — how do they act around or with their darling?

Calm and blithe, a simp, only if you behave; though if you misbehave, he is forceful and selfish. Even if he isn't giving physical affection, he is in arm's reach distant listening to you. He'll prepare your favorite meal or purchase your needs and wants.

Love letters — how would they go about approaching their darling?

Small conversations, a simple how you are doing before taking his leave. Progressing to more words over time and the two of you do not have to exchange words, he's content in your presence.

Mask — are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

He's a lot more tender with you than he is in front of his coworkers, but he is still that stubborn and foolhardy man at times.

Naughty — how would they punish their darling?

Without a doubt, he does not tolerate you misbehaving. He goes farther than verbally attacking you: slapping you, degrading you, isolating you, and breaking bones if bad enough.

Oppression — how many rights would they take away from their darling?

Sanemi steals the majority of your freedoms, and the only one you pretty much got is being able to go outside but only to the vicinity of his estate. If you go farther than that, he considers it an attempt to escape.

Patience — how patient are they with their darling?

Depending on his days, if he feels irritable then he can be snappy and stand offish towards you. But on particular days that he is untroubled then he has patience that no one has seen.

Quite — if their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Sanemi is enraged if you successfully escape, cursing loudly and preparing to throw hands with everyone. He spends his free-time searching for you. With how much he travels, it would be rather hard to stay hidden. You better hope he doesn't find you because there will be hell to pay.

Sanemi goes into shock if you pass; his face is stoic in front of his peers but within and behind closed doors, he is grieving hard. He becomes more rash and abrasive than he was before, giving people and demons hell now that the person who eased his aggressive side is gone.

Regret — would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling?

Sanemi is aware that what he is doing is wrong, but he can't find the reason to care. You're his, and no matter how resentful you are towards him he is happy that you are in his grasp.

Stigma — what brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

Your sweet, patient, and easygoing nature reminded Sanemi of Kanae, he missed that and he wanted that again—even though you weren't her but he loved all of you. When you came from a mission with crucial injuries, near fatal, he was emotionally distressed. He kidnapped you to protect you, he doesn't want to lose you like the others.

Tears — how do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Distressed, frustrated, and panicked. He doesn't know how to comfort people in these types of situations, and he comes off as angry when he is panicking and trying to figure out how to comfort you—he hates seeing you this way.

Unique — would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

He is more violent than a typical yandere, he is also very possessive.

Vice — what weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Take the time when he is on a mission. For being one of the strongest hashiras, Sanemi is sent on lengthy missions and is rather busy.

Wit’s end — would they ever hurt their darling?

Yes, when he's blinded by anger he'll hit you or hurt your feelings.

Xoanon — how much would they revere or worship their darling?

To a certain extent, he worships you but he also wants you to worship him as well.

Yearn — how long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

For a while actually, for a couple of months he'll become acquainted with you before you get seriously injured and he kidnaps you.

Zenith — would they ever break their darling?

Maybe unintentionally, it could be one of those times when he gets violent and you become emotional and mentally dead.

[revelisms]

I don't know if I'm ever going to finish this dang series, at this rate—but these two continue to have a chokehold on me (and are fueling my innate need to put more enby rep into the OC space).

*waves hands* Anyways. Experimenting a bit here with this very self-indulgent, very domestic, very goofy, and a lil spicy Terzo x Sibling of Sin snippet 🌶️☕️✨

WC: 2k | Suggestive content, language, established relationship, bantering, (lots of) kisses, chronic work-avoider Terzo, truly some Gomez and Morticia-type behavior in here

Ale brings him coffee, for a change.

The walk from the kitchens is precarious, their palm is stinging from the heat, and they nearly have a disaster spill when bumping into the Cardinal—but once their heels cross the threshold to the dark velvet of his carpets, weaving through the mauve-kissed mahogany of his office, it's all worth it.

Maybe a little more than worth it, now.

He's had his head down in work, all morning. It's planning season for the year's upcoming programs (short-form for more meetings than his grimaced patience can handle), and he wears the stress of it like a veil: his hair tousled by rummaging fingers, the finery of his vestments stubbornly ignored, his gloves for the day long discarded.

To most, even dressed down as he is, he would still be Papa: carved with skull-paints and exuding an air of unnerving regality, his green-white eyes a smoldered flame in a black starpool.

But, Saints, it's rare to have him out of the formalities, these days.

For Ale, the sight has come to mean an almost guaranteed derailment of any other priorities they could have.

Terzo sits slumped over his paperwork, chin pillowed on his fist, and has to look twice to fully register the intrusion. The switch from steel-browed impatience to cattish softness comes quick as a blink.

"Oh—what is this?" he rumbles, that familiar graveled drawl they've so grown to love. "My darling has come to visit me, eh?" His eyes slip down to their hands, and bloom. "And they gift me—ah, you are spoiling me, sweetness."

"After how many coffees you've brought me, over the years?" Ale smirks, leaning down to set the mug on his desk. They have to take some care to avoid the piles of drafted calendars and lecture proposals and event plans that litter it. He's all but buried in them. "It's no trouble," they continue, lowering their voice to a whisper. "Besides...I wanted to snoop."

A chuckle huffs across from them. "Did you, now?" Terzo whispers back.

"Ricci's talked my ear off about this, all morning. I need something to tell her."

"Ah-ha—so this is not a gifting, but a bartering for early informations, huh?"

"No."

"Meh." He leans back in his seat, flicking one wrist. "I see how it is."

"No," Ale says again. His eyes squint playfully at them. "Maybe," they admit.

His laughter is infectious, more a rumbling breath than anything. "I, eh...could be persuaded," he muses, ticking a brow at them, before he takes a sip. A low groan of satisfaction purls from his chest—not much different from the one he'd bitten against their neck, last night. To no damned surprise, it all but flatlines Ale's attention. "Darling, you have no idea how much I needed this."

Absently, their hand finds its way to scratch at his shoulder. "You look tired."

"Mnh." Terzo melts like a little animal into their touch, taking another long drink. "You know how the meetings do me. You expect any of them to reach a shitting consensus? Have you seen them?" He tacks the mug blithely to the desk again. "Like trying to get a stone-age man to drive a space-vehicle."

Ale chuckles.

He smiles, crooked and wrinkling, and sighs, and they can't help their sinking eyes; can't resist watching the swell of his clavicle beneath the dark plum of his neckline, shadowed by a thistle of raven hair.

Their fingers itch.

"I'm sorry, lovely," they say, fiercely trying to behave, and only knead a light touch along his nape. But then he shivers—makes that silent-stuttered hitch of breath, the pretty lines of his lashes drowsing closed—and, well.

Maybe it's not in the cards for them to play nice.

Their thumb tracks down his nape, again. "Any hints on the selections?" they start to prod.

He clicks his tongue: sinks into one elbow, the point of his knee skimming theirs. "Still being finalized. It has to go through the pincher and Sister and Felipe and all that—much too early to say, eh?"

Ale studies him like a fox lying through its teeth. He often is. "Too early, huh?" They lift their other hand to finger through one set of proposals. "Seems near-finalized, to me—"

"Ah-ah-ah—" Terzo swipes back the page immediately. "Highly confidential information," he yaps. "Much too important to disclose."

Their weight shifts on their hip: looming spitefully over his slow blinked stare. "Terzo."

He tilts his chin over his fist. Perks his brows, all impish innocence.

Ale huffs. "Papa," they amend, dryly.

His teeth glint at them. "One kiss minimum."

"I brought you coffee—"

"But a coffee is not a kiss—"

"You had plenty, this morning," they tease—because, rightfully, he had: slopped over them like the most boneless creature in the world, the molten weight of him delicious, the incensed musk of him threaded through the sheets and the slide of his thigh lazy against their own as he kissed them to brainless giddiness.

They'd been half-convinced to keep him in bed as much as he seemed dead-set on trapping them there, clinging to that addictive slope in his waist and dragging their nails through the silk-soft jungle that covered his belly and chest, just enough to hear him purr.

And they're staring at his neckline, again.

Flushing, Ale yanks their eyes back up to his. His grin is too smug, too vain, too goading for his own good.

Of course they have to kiss it off him.

The spiced smoke of his lunchtime cigarette still ghosts his lips, sweetened now with notes of cherry and chocolate. It's intoxicating, and it's gentle, and they kiss him again: the slow-slipped, breath-mingled kind that never fails to have him leaning closer, ready to take with eager hands and tongue and teeth.

Their palm presses warningly against his collarbone. Feels the veins in his neck pitter against their fingertips. "A hint," they remind him.

He sneers against their lips. His eyes dart up, lashes heavy and pupils blown, stubbornness burning like starlight. "Darling."

They can't help their own cheeky smile, teasing gentle fingertips along the inside of his collar. "Please?"

He's all theatrics, in an instant.

"What do you want me to say? That we have spent an hour and a half running circles on whether to host the solstice banquet in the great hall, or that Nihilist's sinking cashpit of a heated tent?" They burst into giggles, tethered closer and closer by his wandering hands: greedy sunbursts at their elbows, squeezing lingeringly down their sleeves. "Come here," Terzo rumbles on, his breath tangled with theirs. "Kiss me, again."

"That's the only hint I get?"

His nose bumps into theirs, impatient as a dog after a pet. "Kiss me, again," he repeats, soft and husken.

And they do.

Again, and again—and the growl that ebbs like satin against their lips zings straight to their gut, leaves their knees weak and their hands splaying across the broad bow of his shoulders—and they can feel him smirking, can taste his hunger, can feel the otherworldly magic in his bones as his lips catch at theirs.

"Don't you dare stop," he purrs.

"I have work."

"Fuck your work."

Scoffing and toothy, they nudge at his collarbone again.

After enough reasoning, he gives in: slumped back in his chair with petulant eyes and an even more petulant scowl, the paint smudged to a gray mess. "Sweetness," he grubbles, and lifts a thumb: smears slow and limp-wristed at the corner of his mouth. "My love, my heart—you come in here and torture me."

Ale rolls their eyes. They brush a soft comb of nails through his hair. "I'm just being rational."

"Rational," he parrots, a quick-closed suck off the side of his thumb. Fully on purpose. Has to be. "Yes, rational indeed—how is it I've gotten stuck with the rational one, huh?"

"Stuck?" Ale snickers.

He pits his elbow over the back of his chair, glaring coyly. "They would need a crowbar to pry me from you," he says, as though it's the cruelest offense of all, and not a cherishing clinginess he himself has instigated at every given opportunity. Eventually, he finds the spite to detach his hands. "You have bewitched me—look at this," he babbles on, grumpily straightening out his collar. "Two kisses, and you have me a mess."

Ale giggles, again. "Terzo."

"What."

He is so raw with them. Whip-tongued and rustled-feathers and more affection than they can deal with.

It makes their heart want to break with how much they adore him. How easy it all is, now.

It's taken years, so many years, to get here.

"I love you," they say softly.

He's welded his cheek back against his fist, slumped and scrutinizing against his desk. But his eyes are wild. Needing. The dimpled crease of his smirk so quick to flourish, again.

"Love you, too," he hushes. His lashes fall, just enough. "One more," he murmurs then, and his eyes simmer up at them, green as a forest and white as a summer moon. They watch his throat ripple. Know the soft beg that will speckle the edges of his voice, before it comes. "Please."

Oh, he shouldn't have said that.

Shouldn't have looked like this, with the loose waves of his fringe untamed, the dark glisten of hair down his forearms on display, chipped varnish on his nails and rings on his ticking fingers and paint smudged on his lips.

Ale, out of some wicked streak, decides to make it count.

To slide their nails along the soft paths that fall from his ears to the back of his neck, twisting the layers of his hair between their fingers.

To kiss him with teeth on his parting lips and tongue skimming the inkling of a moan that muffles against their mouth, his brow twitching and his fingertips sliding blindly over the back of their thigh.

To crowd between his splaying legs and lick the smoke-sweetened coffee off his teeth, drink down the shiver of his breath, the sigh of Al against the promise of more more more—

And pull away.

They don't get far.

He's on his feet before they have a chance to flee, the heat of his palm coiling around their wrist like a brand—and he yanks them back into the furnace of his body, smooth as a dance.

"You," Terzo snuffs hotly against their ear. Their back has slunk into his chest, supple and solid and delectable. "You tempter—you witch."

Ale lifts their free hand to stipple unhurriedly against one of his sleeves: a shameless pilgrimage across the divots of his bicep, squeezing with sly-smiled ease. "Mh?"

"You were going to leave, after that?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe," he scoffs, sharp with disbelief. He noses behind their ear, his breath dangerous on their neck, and the quivers come only natural: their eyes rolling closed, tilted slowly into his searching mouth. He sighs against their skin. "Saints' tits, Al."

Ale snickers. His other hand is lost in their waist, half-tangled through their beltloops, weighing down on them—and then they feel him, and—

"Oh."

Terzo nips at their ear. Gristles like a beast. "Mnh...you are not leaving, now," he breathes. The squeeze of his palm is the only restraint they need. "Not now."

[creative-frequency]

Astarion x Reader: Contradictions and Other Counter-Measures Ch.1

Summary: If you want to spend some time with Astarion, you only have to say so. Though, it seems to happen just as well without saying anything.

Moments in camp during your journey to find a cure for the tadpole issue. You are a sorceress, daughter of the noble Caldwell family and Wyll's old friend.

Word count: 2067 Notes: Eventual romance, building friendships, camp shenanigans, game rewrite scenes, spoilers ahoy.

CHAPTER 1: Escape

The tavern sign creaks in the cool, windy night of the Lower City. The rain is calming into a drizzle after a full day of pouring torrent. Muddy puddles litter the roads and alleys of Baldur’s Gate. An errant step into one has already soiled your boots and the hem of your heavy cape.

You’re the only traveller on the road making your way towards the infamous den, hopefully looking like one with the promise of a cheap pint or blithe time on your mind. Though with the current dreadful weather, no one looks up from their feet or pays any mind to the hood covering your face.

And that is exactly why you chose tonight.

In your hurry, you fail to notice the pair of red eyes peering down from the tavern’s upper floor window to the street. They are already calculating possible openings for a temptation and chances for seduction.

Astarion is beginning to feel nervous as he turns away from the window. This streak of cold, quiet nights is proving difficult for someone looking for, well… people to meet. If only he hadn’t agreed to the stupid bet with Petras and Dal on top of drawing the shortest stick. Travellers and tourists don’t go out in this weather unless they absolutely have to. He wouldn’t either if he had a choice.

When no one else enters the tavern for a while after you, Astarion decides to take another look at the night’s menu of patrons downstairs. It has been slim pickings so far, but there must be someone, who even barely passes the bar to be served for his Master. He cannot return empty-handed. Not tonight.

Astarion descends the stairs leisurely, an empty wine cup dangling between his slender fingers. He walks towards his usual stalking spot in the corner, a vantage point from where he can see the faces of those walking in, but before he can sit down, a commotion by the bar draws his attention.

You are arguing with the burly bartender and apparently trying to hush the towering man with frantic motions. He says it’s not ‘that kind of establishment.’ And he rather loudly tells you to order something or get lost. You shy away for a bit, gathering yourself and making sure your scarf covers the lower half of your face. Some of the other patrons are already shooting curious looks at you. The attention is the last thing you need.

And thus, Astarion alters his course to prowl closer.

He scans your voice and frame, even though it’s difficult to make any conclusions as you’re dressed in something resembling a loose and large potato sack with a hood. Quite the fashion statement, Astarion sneers and almost turns on his heels, just as a glimpse of something golden catches his eye.

Astarion’s gaze narrows and he can’t help the slight curve of a smile forming. So you were trying to pawn off something at the counter. How silly of you to think that any local establishment that happens to be located in a side alley would be willing to do some side hustle as a fence. In Astarion’s experience, this kind of situation usually means a delicious damsel in distress and someone with no touch into the reality of Lower City life.

Perfect.

Astarion has never heard of anyone finding gold at the bottom of a potato sack, but with the unlucky streak he’s had, he is willing to give it a try.

“Is there a problem, darling?” Astarion says in the smoothest, most calming tone his 200 years of experience in the art of seduction can provide.

The golden glimpse – a ring with an intricate pattern on its surface – disappears into your cloak with such sleight of hand and speed that Astarion almost wants to applaud.

“Of course not,” you mutter, glance at him, do a double take because burning Hells, he is gorgeous, and turn away quickly. This is just the kind of attention you were trying to avoid by choosing the not-so-complimenting outfit.

There is something familiar about you, but before Astarion can look more closely, the grumpy bartender clears his throat rather loudly.

“Is there something I can get you?” he asks, clearly telling Astarion to mind his own damn business.

“Well, since you’re asking, you could stop treating this lady so boorishly and pour us both a glass of red,” Astarion says and places his empty cup on the counter along with the required coin.

“I don’t–”, you start but Astarion silences you with a worried look that says ‘let me handle the brute’.

The bartender glares at the pair of you before picking up the coin and turning around to find a bottle of wine.

You swallow the rest of your protest and fiddle with your scarf, compulsively lifting it to hide the lower part of your face.

And it truly is an exasperatingly familiar face, Astarion thinks, tapping his slender fingers on the counter. He knows who you are, for some reason. Or knows of you. He just quite can’t put his finger on it. But, there is one thing he knows:

When he is hunting for a bag of blood for his Master’s supper, meeting someone Astarion thinks he might know is always a bad thing. Random travellers, excitement-hunting tourists and the dregs of society make for the best prey. No one will miss them for days.

“Now, would you do me the honour of telling me your name?” Astarion asks sweetly, settling into his most irresistible smile.

You tug the hood lower over your face, avoiding the inspecting stare, but Astarion can clearly see how your eyes are darting around, looking for ideas for a false story.

“T-Tav. I’m, uhh, a merchant. Selling… the local farmers’ crops down by Waukeen’s Rest.”

Potato sack woman, indeed, but also the saddest display of deception Astarion has seen in years. Your voice, however, doesn’t ring any alarm bells of familiarity, so he might as well continue.

“Nice to meet you, Tav. My name is Astarion,” he purrs.

The bartender sets down two cups of red wine with a grunt and a glare, and walks away to serve the patrons by the other end of the counter.

Astarion takes the wine cups and offers one to you. You accept it but don’t drink.

“What shall we drink to?” he inquires.

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable with the situation. It is not quite the reaction Astarion is used to receiving when pointing his charms and full attention at someone. You’re avoiding his gaze, hiding behind the hood and scarf. How annoying.

“Darling, is something the matter?” Astarion asks in a hushed tone that almost convinces you to trust him a little. He leans slightly closer, just into your personal space. “You obviously didn’t come here for a drink.”

Maybe it’s his uncannily sharp skills of perception or you’re just that obviously desperate, but the jury of your mind is frantically trying to reach an agreement – and, unsurprisingly, it turns into Astarion’s favour.

You turn to fully look at him. It’s his first win of the night, but still far from winning the bet. Astarion’s expression stays neutral with a very convincing hint of artfully crafted worry.

“I need to get out of the city. Tonight,” you say so quietly that barely any sound leaves your lips.

Astarion leans closer like a co-conspirator. “Is that why you were trying to pawn off that ring of yours?” he asks and sips the wine.

You freeze. “No. I wasn’t trying to–”

Astarion hushes your rising panic. ”You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” He draws an exaggerated thoughtful look at you and whispers: “In fact, I could help you.”

Your eyes narrow. “And why would you do that, good sir?”

“Oh, I like to call myself somewhat of a humanitarian,” he replies coolly, swirling the wine in his cup.

You still eye him suspiciously. Your scarf gradually falls, revealing red-painted lips. “Apologies for my wariness, but how exactly do you plan on helping me? The gates at the main road are closed for the night,” you point out.

Astarion shoots a humorous look at you. “Darling, there are other ways to leave the city besides the main road.”

You arch a brow at the suggestion. Unbeknown to each other, maybe both of your fortunes are about to take a turn.

“Such as?” you ask.

“Why spoil the surprise?” Astarion smiles irresistibly, leaning towards you, but you coil back.

“Can’t say I like surprises. Especially tonight,” you say and Astarion realises that he started reeling his catch in too early.

He places the wine cup on the counter and looks you in the eyes. Yours are surprisingly pretty – also beautified with skillfully applied makeup that doesn’t add up with the potato sack outfit. How curious. There must be a scandalous story to this and Astarion ponders forsaking his mission for digging out the details to sate his curiosity. If he hadn’t been on such an unlucky streak already, he probably would’ve changed his mind and actually pried for the whole story. It’s been years since anything piqued his interest like this.

“Very well then,” Astarion sighs, acting all exasperated at having to spoil the surprise. “My family happens to possess a portal for, ah. A quick escape.”

You twitch at the word ‘escape’ as your heart jumps – the reaction is so easy to read.

“Go back to the city? I barely made it this far,” you say quietly, brows furrowing.

“What do you mean?”

You realise you said too much and shut up for a moment. “Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding.”

Astarion would smile if the situation wasn’t so delicate. You’re too easy to manipulate.

“A misunderstanding? With who?” Astarion asks innocently with the appropriate amount of concern.

Just as you’re looking around for an escape from replying, the only door of the tavern is suddenly swarmed by three very loud Flaming Fist soldiers. Everyone turns to look at the door and you realise too late that your scarf has fallen again.

“There she is!” one of the soldiers yells and points directly at you.

You jump up from the bar stool and dash towards the stairs. Astarion turns curiously to look from you to the soldiers, but is suddenly met with the business end of a longsword.

Two of the soldiers run upstairs after you, the fugitive, as the largest one of them growls at Astarion: “What’s your business with her? And keep ‘em hands where I can see them.”

“Saer, surely there’s been a misunderstanding–” Astarion feels the sting of irony as he parrots your words. “I have no idea who the lady is. I was just buying her a drink.”

The soldier looks up at the bartender who shrugs and agrees: “He paid for them.”

As a testimony, your untouched cup of wine still rests on the counter. The soldier sheaths his sword.

“Now, this has been a tad too exciting an evening for myself, so if you’ll excuse me,” Astarion says and gets up to leave. He doesn’t fancy the idea of being thrown into a cell for the remaining night. Prison breaks are so exhausting and usually include wading through the sewers. Eugh.

The soldier doesn’t hear Astarion muttering as he is already marching after the others. But, he doesn’t even make it to the stairs when the heels of something quite large resembling a sack of potatoes land straight on his head. The man instantly falls flat on his bum from the impact, his armour rattling loudly.

You dash past the thunderstruck vampire spawn, spewing mild, ladylike profanities as you go and leave a faint blue stream of light in your wake. Your eyes lock with Astarion’s as you turn by the door to check if your pursuers have already recovered.

Astarion can’t help but burst into a fit of laughter.

On the following evening, he sees that the front page of the Baldur’s Mouth is graced by a photo of ‘Tav’, who turns out to be a progeny of the Caldwell family. And so he has his explanation for why you seemed so familiar and were carrying around a gold ring that is worth a house in one of the less classy neighbourhoods of Baldur’s Gate.

As for what you were running from, the paper offers no satisfactory explanation.

-

Next Chapter

My Writing Masterlist

[theredofoctober]

MANNA PART 6

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham fic, sort of DD/LG dynamic

TW: eating disorders, noncon, abusive relationship

She/her pronouns for reader

NOTE: this chapter occurs chronologically pre-leg, within the first month or so of your captivity. I'm writing Manna out of order; when I upload to ao3 I'll put everything in the right place

---

You pass an evening with Hannibal like so many others, yet unlike for the state induced in you through his studious medicinal enterprise.

You are accustomed to the concoction of drugs that regresses you to a needy youth, the sleepers, the stimulants, the tea that lowers you from the electric heights of your righteous hysteria. Yet whatever element comprises the pill flushed down by water from a gently tipped glass elevates you to orbit a heaven above yourself, so removed from your imprisonment that you observe with an objective eye.

Dr Lecter has bestowed upon you the rare trust that you may eat without assistance, and you have done so, temporarily rescinding your disordered agitation to the mycelium half-dream.

Thus elevated, you watch yourself drape the tines of your fork back and forth across your half-eaten plate, enthralled by patterns on the porcelain that are not there.

Your eyes drift repeatedly to a painting on Hannibal’s wall, mounted coyly for any dinner guest to comment on. Naturally, have seen the piece many times before, in turns startled and disturbed by its subject. Now, however, you find yourself dully intrigued, an attention that does not go unnoticed by Dr Lecter.

“What is it, little one?” he asks, intently, laying down his cutlery on either side of his plate with a quiet clink. “Do you have an interest in art?”

“I don’t know,” you say, confused by the question. “It’s just this picture. Isn’t it... rude?”

Hannibal smirks, eyeing the image with fond appreciation. Its focus is a supine young woman, draped, half-naked, on a rumbled bed, towards which a curious swan approaches with curved neck bowed.

Likely it is the original painting, procured at auction, its price unimaginable; all things in this house are ripe with expense, even you, its demanding charge.

“Artistic nudity is only considered rude by children,” says Hannibal, blithely, “or else by shallow and ignorant adults. Does the depiction of genitalia offend you, my darling?”

You gaze up at the cowrie of a cunt under its shadow cap of hair, pinkly presented on spread silk, and think how often your own has been arranged likewise for Will or Hannibal to admire.

“Why is it in this room, specifically?” you ask; you struggle with the syllables of the word, spit at the sibilants in a manner unbecoming for so distinguished an event. “Doesn’t it put people off their food?”

“I find it makes for an amusing conversation piece,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another generous glass of wine.

You attempt to grimace, none of your muscles quite taking to the motion.

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. Just creepy. Sad.”

“Are familiar with the story of Leda and the Swan?” asks Hannibal, with interest. “Zeus, a virile and insatiable God, looked upon the queen of Sparta and desired her. So, in order to seduce her, he transformed himself into a swan so that she would be fooled by his beauty and appearance of vulnerability to take him to her bed.”

“He tricked her,” you say, quietly. “He didn’t seduce her, at all.”

Dr Lecter’s face scarcely moves, but there is something of laughter in the lines of his strange beauty.

“So it is the deception that unnerves you,” he says. “The pretence that he was an innocent creature rather than the all-powerful and lustful deity he truly was.”

You nod, not wanting to admit that you see your own face mirrored in the brushstrokes of the Grecian queen.

Prophet-like, Hannibal interprets the motion with flawless vision.

“You empathise with Leda. Recognise the parallels between her story and your own.”

“Is that why you put it there?” you retort, emboldened by the miles between you and the girl slumped in the dining chair. “Because you think you’re the swan?”

“The bird is a shield for the truth, remember,” says Hannibal. “So what would the swan be, in me?”

Dropping the fork with a discordant clatter, you consider.

“The polite, handsome doctor,” you say, at last. “You fool everyone; Jack, Alana Bloom. My parents. They would never have left me here if they knew what you really were.”

Hannibal tilts his head at a slight angle, as though by doing so he might uncover some mystery in your face.

“And what am I, little one?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “There are a lot of things you’re hiding from me. How can I know what you really are?”

“Tell me your perceptions, then. There is no need to spare my feelings; after all, you so rarely do.”

Amidst your mushroom-made divinity, you are fearless in your answer.

“You’re a bad person. You’ve done things that would get you into a lot of trouble. Hurt people. Not just me. And you don’t feel bad about it. You think that everything you do is right, somehow. Like you should be allowed to do it. Like you’re a god.”

Hannibal absorbs this with a silence that seems sated, or almost so.

“And what about Will?” he prompts. “Is he, too, a starving monster under the guise of a tender animal?”

“No,” you say, with less certainty. “He’s... sick. You're using him, making him think that this is what he wants.”

Hannibal laughs over the rim of his wine glass.

“That is where you’re wrong, little one. The Will you think you see is only one wing of the swan. Soon, you will see beyond that fragile veil, and feel the mythic need of all immortals to plunder from the weak, merely for the pleasure of knowing that they can.”

A sudden sadness tugs you back to earth like a choke chain, a lump in your throat.

“So you don’t want to help me, after all,” you mumble. “It was all a lie.”

Taking your hand across the table, Hannibal presses a thumb to the pulse at your wrist, a soothing gesture.

“Not at all,” he says, firmly. “To recover from your illness you must be made to relinquish control in its most basic forms. The instances I return it to you are experiments in progress. Remember that Leda did not die after Zeus bedded her: she became a mother. In you, I seek another outcome. More than one, in fact.”

You gaze at him with disbelieving eyes, rejecting the hope he grooms in you.

“What other outcome are you looking for, Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal kisses your knuckles and places the fork back into your hand.

“Nothing you need to think about at the moment,” he says. “Now, finish what’s on your plate. It’s growing cold.”

[lenreli]

go down a little lower (taste your skin)

[AO3]

Carlo/Romeo, Explicit. 1.6k, alternate universe.

-

Carlo scowls as he enters his room, body still aching from―”you’re not still angry about that sparring match we had?” Romeo, his roommate ― and occasional fuck-buddy, says from his bed, laughing as Carlo scowls more. 

“You didn’t have to,” he presses around his left eye, the aching shiner, “you could’ve,” he starts and stops with a huff as Romeo raises an eyebrow, relaxed against the wall, a book in his lap. 

“What? Gone easy on you? If you want that, you can go back out there for it any time,” Romeo tilts his head towards their door, and Carlo scowls, irritated with once again, Romeo pointing out how people treat him differently because of his father. The same father who donated an absurd amount of money to get his darling son out of his sight as he continues to craft more puppets. 

 “You’re very annoying,” he mutters as he walks closer, and Romeo just continues to stare at him, faintly amused, head tilting up as Carlo sits on top of him, a book digging into his leg as Romeo blinks hazel eyes at him. “And you ruined my beautiful looks,” he says as he grabs the book in between them, staring at the fairytale look as Romeo hums. 

“You? Attractive? I don’t see it,” Romeo says blithely, and there’s a faint pang of hurt in his gut, coalescing into sharp anger as he leans in to kiss Romeo ― though, less of a kiss, and more of an attack, biting the other’s lips, his hands clenching tightly at Romeo’s blond hair as as Romeo whimpers. 

“Shut up and fuck me, you asshole,” he hisses in between hot kisses, shivering as Romeo’s hands go up and under his shirt, and of course he’d catch feelings for someone who doesn’t even―who―his thoughts crash as Romeo laughs, the feeling of it addictive so close.

“Well, since His Highness asked so nicely,” Romeo says, voice laden with sarcasm as the other’s mouth goes down his jaw, sucking marks into his neck ― and his breath leaves him suddenly as he’s pushed onto the bed, Romeo’s warm weight covering him. Carlo’s heart races as his shirt is taken off, Romeo’s darkened hazel eyes roving up his body and Carlo bites his tongue to stop himself from saying something too revealing. 

He tries not to squirm as Romeo just looks, light fingers ghosting up his chest, and Carlo opens his mouth, some biting remark on his tongue ― and then it’s whisked away as thumbnails press into his nipples, spikes of pleasure making him gasp and arch into the other’s hands. 

“We do have somewhere to be, so an all-out fucking may have to be postponed, if the Prince obliges,” Romeo mutters, tone almost-soft, and Carlo’s heart tugs fitfully at the way Romeo stares at him. Like he’s someone Romeo adores, but only when they’re like this. 

“I’m not a―fine,” he hisses, or tries to, the words coming out more whiny than he wanted. Romeo smirks and he shivers at the feel of soft blond hair pressing against his stomach, cock aching at how close the other man is. “Romeo,” he breathes, chest twitching under Romeo’s hands, the calluses from fighting and wielding weapons familiar as Romeo nips his belly lightly. 

“You have freckles everywhere,” Romeo says, biting a mark into one near his belly button, and Carlo can only whine, choking on air as his pants get unbuttoned, tugging them down along with his underwear. “So many,” Romeo breathes, and he gasps at the warm breath over his pubic hair ― Carlo wonders vaguely when he grasps Romeo’s head with a hand, the other one clenching the bed sheets tightly. 

“Aren’t we meant to be going somewhere?” He chokes out, fire running through his veins as Romeo looks up at him, only a thin ring of hazel showing as lips hover over his dick, pre-come smearing the other’s jaw as Romeo hums. 

“Dinner, silly. But maybe there’s enough time for,” the sentence doesn’t finish ― and Carlo cries out as his cock is engulfed in Romeo’s hot mouth, a clever tongue licking up and Carlo shivers, tugging at the other’s golden hair to move. 

Romeo hums, vibrating around him and he bucks up, head thrown against the bed as there’s an odd feeling, something pressing against his cock, almost familiar ― and only realises that they were fingers as they get taken out of Romeo’s mouth ― and a finger, slick and tacky presses against his entrance. 

“Romeo,” he pleads, legs twitching under Romeo’s body until he can put them around the other’s torso, tugging him closer by the hand in his hair as Romeo takes more of him into his mouth, pleasure sparking as Romeo pulls his finger out, adding another in and stretching him, the concept of time melting under Romeo’s fingers, his mouth. “‘M close,” he breathes, feeling the edge of the orgasm so close with the two-fold sensations, mind stuttering as a finger brushes against his prostate. 

Carlo gasps, mind whiting out as he comes, feeling Romeo swallow around him, and he shivers as Romeo’s mouth slowly leaves him, tongue pressed to the underside of his cock, a stripe of heat as the rest of his cock, cools down with cold air. There’s a press against his prostate, the fingers still inside and he whimpers, staring up at the dingy ceiling as overstimulation makes the slightest touch against it almost painful. “I didn’t know I was that good,” Romeo says, voice pleased and rough, and Carlo almost pleads, begs for Romeo to come back as the fingers leave him, shutting his eyes tight and biting his lip to stop himself. “Now come on, we don’t have much time.” 

Groaning as Romeo’s body, hot and heavy moves up to press them chest-to-chest, fingers tingling as Romeo guides one of them to the other’s cock. Mind still reeling from the orgasm, it takes him a few moments to grip Romeo’s dick, feeling a gasp against his neck as he starts to stroke, building a faltering rhythm. There’s only Romeo’s breaths against his throat, rising and getting more vocal, a hand holding into his arm as Romeo comes with a gasp, biting into his neck. 

Letting go of Romeo, he stares down at their bodies, the white coating his thighs and hand, and it tastes ― bitter, as he brings the hand up, hearing Romeo groan near him as he licks his fingers clean, “don’t start,” Romeo mumbles against him, a hazel eye glaring at his hand. 

“Start what?” 

-

If there’s one thing Carlo’s grateful for at Krat University, it’s the thick walls because like many places in Krat, it is old. One time Carlo walked into his room to Romeo doing a loud monologue for a play he was in, and Carlo hadn’t even heard it outside the room. 

Although, in this case, it’s more that his loud cries and whines as Romeo fucks into him are unheard, though a part of him still wants to not be so ― there’s a graze across his prostate and he wails, the the noise ringing through him as he gasps into the pillow, biting it to quieten himself as he hears Romeo breathe on top of him, body overwhelmingly hot and everywhere―on top, inside, one hand pulling him up by his hair, the other gripping his hip tightly. 

“Stop doing that,” Romeo mutters, breath raising the hairs on his neck as teeth bite into it and he shivers, making a questioning sound. “So brash and cocky, except in bed, always hiding,” Romeo’s last word is accompanied with a hard thrust in and Carlo gasps, insides burning as more noise tumbles out of him. 

“I,” he cries, a hand going back to grip soft blond hair as Romeo continues thrusting in and out of him at a leisurely pace, pulling even more sounds from him ― and the words, burning in his throat as he holds them back. Love me, please love me like I love you, don’t hurt me. 

Words knotted in his throat, he comes with a whine, scrabbling under Romeo’s grip as a hand holds onto his neck, strong fingers leaving marks as Romeo joins him soon after, gasping into his shoulder. 

There’s a laugh as Romeo moves his body, hugging him as their mess gets cleaned up with one of their shirts, with the blond’s free hand going to pet his hair, and Carlo sighs, hiding in the pillow next to Romeo’s face. Looking through his lashes, he can see the gold of Romeo’s hair, his cheek and his heart aches pitifully, emotions close to the surface. 

“Romeo,” he says, voice muffled and Romeo blinks, hazel eyes setting on him. “Do you hate me?” 

At this, Romeo lets out a loud chuckle, the arm around his waist squeezing him, “if I hated you I would’ve asked for a room change when we first met,” you idiot is unsaid but he can hear it in the other’s tone, “much less all this. Are you really gonna get maudlin on me after that quite spectacular orgasm?” 

Carlo smiles and shakes his head, hiding his face in Romeo’s hair, pressing even closer until he can nip at the other’s neck. “No,” he says eventually, relief making him light-headed after his recent orgasm. “Shut up,” he mumbles. “Especially with those fancy words right now.” 

There’s another laugh, which he can feel with how he’s lain over Romeo, “only matching His Highnesses level,” Romeo says, tone severe and Carlo groans, pushing the other’s shoulders. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Carlo groans as Romeo starts to cackle, the sound infectious and his lips twitch into an unwilling smile ― before he pushes Romeo off the bed.

Romeo squawks, more offended sounds following as Romeo makes a big drama, terrifying sounds as hands appear over the edge of the bed, a big gusty sigh as the other’s face appears with an exaggerated frown. “This is my bed, you asshole,” Romeo says with a pout. 

[Fin]

[thestalwartheart]

The Weekend WIP

Here's a fic that may or may not be happening. It's Arthur/Eames (hello Inception fandom!), and the summary goes like this:

Yesterday, if anyone were to have asked Eames about nightmares, he'd have told them he stopped dreaming a long time ago. Today, he might say something different. Or: Eames watches, and waits, as Arthur puts everything on the line for Dom Cobb.

Long snippet under the cut!

The first time Eames meets the twisted facsimile of Mal in a dream, he’s in a maze. It’s neat. Geometric. All the art between the hedges is modern and monochromatic. Anyone could tell it’s one of Arthur’s builds because it has no flair at all. Still, it does the trick well enough. The job is small time, and Eames does it as a favour to Cobb, to whom he owes a few favours. Eames dislikes owing. He prefers being owed.

As soon as Eames turns around the maze’s final hedge and reaches the centre, he loses the ability to hold his forge.

Because there is Mal. Beautiful, charismatic, red-lipped Mal, dressed in a floor-length black gown and looking very much not dead.

And she’s putting out her cigarette on Arthur’s jaw.

Eames is not a forgetful man, but even still. He will be a man wasted, a drooling two-hundred-year-old breathing corpse who has forgotten even his own name before he forgets the twist of pain on Arthur’s face. Even then, he suspects he’ll remember.

Immediately, Eames shoots Arthur in the head to wake him up, then he shoots himself. He wakes up regretting that he hadn’t got a shot in at Cobb.

But it’s Arthur he opens his eyes to. Bloody Arthur, who’s already halfway across the empty warehouse, rolling his sleeves down and pretending like everything is still running smoothly. Even when he’s dishevelled, Arthur is neat. His sleeves aren’t just rolled up; they might as well be pressed. His face is blank. He’s never had many tells. It is, after all, the point of a point man to take the stress of the job and contain it—to absorb it, like foam rubber does to sound, and never let it back out again—and Arthur, oh, Arthur’s the best at what he does. Even before he started working with Cobb that was true. Now, it’s indisputable.

Only the slight downturn to Arthur’s mouth tells Eames something is off. Eames experiences a visceral urge to shake Arthur by the shoulders until something else comes loose.

Unprofessional, that.

Instead, he removes his cannula and watches as Arthur sucks at the bloodied pinprick on his arm.

“Thanks,” says Arthur.

“Arthur.”

Arthur ignores him.

“Arthur,” he repeats slowly. “Darling.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Arthur marches off to the bathroom, and Eames watches as he does. His eyes dart to the same spot on Arthur’s jaw where Mal’s cigarette left its mark in the dream. There’s nothing there. Clean-shaven Arthur. Aftershaved Arthur. Stick-up-the-arse Arthur. He’s as spotless as he ever was.

Beside Eames, Cobb wakes up. Eames doesn’t look at him. Can’t. If he looks at Cobb, he’ll feel sorry for the bastard, and he’s too full of fury for that.

“Now, wasn’t that interesting?” he asks blithely. Instead of answering, Cobb lurches to the side of his chair and throws up.

There’s trouble, thinks Eames. There’s a lot of trouble.

Unfortunately for everyone, the trouble persists all day. Cobb retains a glazed, far-away look about him. It’s the look of a man who’d do anything, anything at all, to be back in that dream, standing next to the woman he loved. Eames isn’t unsympathetic. Few might believe it, but he’s a romantic man by nature. He knows the power of a good woman. He knows what love can do to a man. Eames may never have managed to hold onto it for long—love is always slipping through his fingers, always in a different city, in a different time—but he’s no stranger to it. He’s worried precisely because he knows what it can do.

No, even Arthur won’t be able to take care of this. Eames has seen better men than Dom fucking Cobb give in to temptation.

In the end, he’s right. It’s two very long years of trouble.

[sicklyseraphnsuch]

tw: manipulation; dark; angst

(If you only want Simon happy and comfy, this is NOT the ficlet for you)

(Inspired by Twitter, which is a warning in and of itself)

Simon holds the papers - the evidence - the proberbial smoking gun - in his shaking, sweaty hands. Despite the thick walls of ice on all sides, even with his fingers numb and blue, heat radiates off his skin as if he spent a whole day baking under a midwestern sun. Rage boils his blood, pushing his pulse to fill every artery and capillary with his fury. His intellect could find a thousand cutting words - formulate a piercing and accurate accusation - but he knows if he opens his mouth, only a howling, senseless screech would pour out.

So he clamps his jaw shut, bites his tongue till he tastes blood, and he stares at the Winter King.

"As if you could do any better," his so-called counterpart - alternate self - fellow Petrikov says blithely with a shrug. With a shrug!

"So you admit it!" Fionna gasps. "Winter King, how could you?"

"Very easily," Winter King replies, crossing his arms. There isn't a hint of guilt. "Fionna, darling -"

"Don't call me that!" Fionna breathes heavy and thick, trembling with the effort to keep her tears at bay. "You - You - You lied to us! I h-hurt all those - all those -" Her voice breaks as a sob squirms loose.

Seeing her sister's tears, Cake lunges for the Winter King, claws out. "You've crossed the line, blue boy! You've crossed all the lines!"

Winter King scoffs and with a casual wave of his hand, freezes Cake mid-air. "Cool it, kitty. I'm still King around here."

"CAKE!" Fionna cries out. "You monster!"

"Fionna, don't!" Simon yells a second too late.

Fionna is already charging at the Winter King, one fist cocked back, ready to flatten him. And to her surprise - Simon's horror, the punch lands against the Winter King's cheek. The force tilts the Crown on Winter King's head but he remains standing, completely unmoved.

"Oh fuck you," Fionna snarls.

"Manners, young lady!" Winter King gasps before snapping his fingers.

Frost bursts over Fionna's knuckles right at the point of contact with Winter King's face. It explodes over Fionna's hand, up her arm, and despite her desperate attempts to pull away, the frost slides over her shoulder, down her torso, and up her neck. Before her face is fully covered, Fionna hacks a mouthful of spit at Winter King. Fortunately, she freezes completely before she could watch her glob of spit turn into a sphere of ice, falling to the floor with a quiet tink.

Winter King, supremely unbothered, carefully straightens his Crown.

Simon swallows what feels like a mouthful of dust, as he cracks open his lips. "How... How could you? There's no way... You can't be me... I -"

Winter King turns to him like a bird of prey finding a mouse. "You would never? Is that so? Are you sure? Think carefully."

Simon squares his shoulders. "Even as Ice King, I never went so far -"

"Not as Ice King, no." Winter King adopts a sneer, stepping closer and closer. "But I have your memories. And with the clarity afforded by my lack of madness, I can say for certain, that you have done as I have done when we were Simon Petrikov."

Simon forcefully shakes his head. "You're wrong! You haven't lost your madness at all!"

"And you can't even see your madness, excusing yourself by calling it love. A rose by another name would still prick the careless finger. You hurt her the same way I hurt precious Princess Bonnibel. But at least, I am aware of it, and you are not."

"What are you talking about? I could never hurt Betty!"

"You also couldn't spare two thoughts for her. She gave up everything for you."

"I didn't ask for her to sacrifice herself! If I could stay as Ice King and spare her the pain, I would!"

Winter King stands before Simon, the distance between them barely the length of a finger. Simon holds his ground even as the Winter King towers over him.

"Fool. She was long gone before then, tormented by her madness that you never noticed. Always, she followed your choice, always she stayed by your side! So obsessed, so enraptured. And you, utterly blind to all the ways you groomed her to stay."

"She wanted to stay with me! She loved me!"

Winter King laughs, sharp and mean, as he traces the curve of Simon's chin with a bent finger. Simon slaps away his touch. Winter King rolls his eyes, and snaps his hand forward, grabbing hold of Simon's throat. His nails now tipped with icicle claws that gently pierce Simon's soft skin.

"Yes, I admit. Therein lies the difference. Bonnie hates me. Betty loves you. Yet they both ended up cursed. I intended to, you did not, but what does intent matter when they both suffer? And continue to suffer!"

Simon desperately tries to pull away but Winter King holds on tight. He pushes forward until that long nose presses flat against Simon's, until Simon has no choice but to share his breath with the Winter King.

"How could I do this to Bonnie?" Winter King coos. "How could you do that to Betty? How could you be so selfish? So self centered? How could you be so different from me?"

"That's... That's not true... It can't be..."

"You drove her insane! That's what we do, Simon! That's who we are!"

"Shut up!" Simon lashes out, his fist swinging wide. His knuckles graze against the Crown's gems, knocking it clean off the Winter King's head.

"Hey!" Winter King shouts, tearing away from Simon to chase after his Crown.

Simon finds his feet and scrambles away, running out of the room - running down the hall - running, running, running.

"Flee all you want, Simon!" Winter King's voice echoes off the ice walls, dogging Simon's every step. "The truth always catches up!"

Simon grits his teeth, pushing himself to run faster - further - faster. Winter King was wrong. He was crazy. He had no idea how Betty and him were really like. Right? Right?!

[johnwickb1tsch]

Hi darling, I’m kinda sad or whatever If you had the time and were in the mood, would you please write me John wick as a new daddy? Not that he wasn’t before, but daddy being a dad

Like imagine the day you tell him you’re pregnant all his emotions come unchecked and his world turns upside down expecting a product of their love

The first ultrasound ends w him crying with happiness after going through it all

Talking to your bump when you’re sleeping

Him being the absolute best dad

I have many more of these ¿headcannons ?

STAY HYDRATED

unfffghhhhhh no. I'm sorry, and I know I wrote about some past baby drama in Bittersweet, but that is probably all the baby fic you will ever see from me. I have A Thing due to past experiences and current hooey I constantly have to deal with. This Thing which I usually keep to myself, but since you asked, here's my two cents: (don't read this if baby stuff triggers you, or if you're pregnant you probably don't want to read this, just keep scrolling just keep scrolling)

i'm so tired of Having A Baby being considered the apex of love in a relationship, as a literary trope, and in real life. I'm tired of it being shoved down my throat. i'm a woman in my late thirties with no children (on purpose) and i'm so tired of people asking me when my husband and I are having kids, and when I blithely tell them "We're not! :))))))))))" they look at me so sadly like I'm losing the game (when we are perfectly happy and fulfilled human beings, and let's be honest, this dying planet does not need MORE people on it if we can help it). Meanwhile, they're all posting on Facebook about how haaappy they are with their kids and how fuuunny and bright their lives are, while I get to hear about what's going on behind the cut and I know they are in fact exhausted, losing their minds, losing their Selves, and their once happy marriages are strained.

I don't dislike children, and children who are here absolutely deserve all the love and energy you can give them, but there really needs to be more honesty about it.

if i wrote you a baby fic it would be about wonder and fear and uncertainty. it would be about being sick as a dog (not just in the morning, boy howdy is that a lie!) and how your body will be changed forever by this miracle/trick/burden nature plays on women. it would be about John being happy but totally freaked out about the prospect of being a father, because this world is a fucked up place and he knows all about the darkest corners of it.

I probably have not made you happy with this, but now I'm sad and agitated too, so there's that. Let's look at this gif and be happy again.

gif by cristinaricci