#prompt: beguile

[gglitchold]

tag dump!

my life is a constant entrapment of tunnels which tangle and wind and beguile . / musings

you've been concealing your worries from the world ... but you can reveal them to me . / answer

is there anyone out there ? or am i all alone ? / dash comm

the devil made me do it but i also kinda wanted to ! / about

when you become untouchable you're unable to touch . / headcanons

let her crash and burn . the attention just encourages her . / aesthetic

i might be catching so don't touch . you'll start believing you're immune to gravity and stuff . / prompts

[redacted] is the girl who leaves you to rot . she says i am real and you are not . / blip

i am the observer . the witness of life . i live in the space between the stars and the sky . / overseer

i'm the main character and you have to like me ! / crack

i am here alone at the end of the world . i reach out and touch nothing . / in character

most days i am a museum of things i want to forget . / visage

[unravelingwires]

Beguilement

In the old tag yourself memes, I always picked pride as my deadly sin, but I kind of assumed the issue was just that you’re setting yourself up for a third act breakdown. I thought highly of myself, so I was more likely to fall into the trap of thinking I’m better at something than I am and getting cartoonishly walloped by the consequences. By now, I’ve realized over time what all the stupid Hindu philosophy was trying to tell me. Pride isn’t the problem; it’s ego. Both excessive self-deprecation and self-aggrandizing prevents you from transcending material desire, which is the only way you can commit yourself wholly to duty– or God, or community, or the betterment of humanity. However you want to phrase it is fine.

This is actually part of the reason I don’t like the seven deadly sin framework. Pride, gluttony, greed, sloth, envy, and lust– in its original definition– all grow from the same cardinal problem, which is ego. 

[fayes-fics]

Ruler & Subject

Paring: Benedict Bridgerton x royal!fem!reader

Summary: blurb where a princess and a certain untitled artist play together…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, power swap, dom/sub dom!Benedict, sub!Princessreader, hair pulling, blow job, deepthroat, breathplay, derogatory names, masturbation, swallowing, smidge of cunnilingus and face-sitting.

Word count: 1.4 k

Authors note: Another smut blurb that came as a result of a roulette prompt (“Swallow. All of it”). Written in an hour. Unbetaed. Utter and complete filth. Enjoy? 🤷‍♀️

Something about his slightly rough treatment makes you mindless with need—a want to be used by him. And he knows it. Gets that glint in his eye when you give him the signal across a room at a boring soirée.

Once in a quiet corridor, he grabs you by the back of the neck and steers you away from prying eyes. Out across the manicured gardens. Deep into your aunt’s Byzantine maze, a mist clinging to the neat privet hedges in the crisp night air.

He doesn’t even have to tell you to get on your knees anymore; it’s a reflex. As soon as he stops marching, you drop. Eager to please. His crooked smile beguiling as you gaze up at him roughly, pulling open the buttons at his hip.

“Hands behind your back,” he tuts as you go to touch his clothed thigh. 

Instantly, you obey, fingers clasped over the small of your back. The rough pebble path under your knees is already a slight discomfort you know will only heighten your experience. Bruises on both your knees for him.

His cock is already leaking as it bobs against your nose, leaving a patch of wetness there that you will savour later. Without being told, you shuffle a fraction, greedily wrap your lips around the tip, suckling into your mouth. Hot, salty and tart against your tongue as you lathe the underside, and he exhales raggedly. A large hand rounding your scalp and pulling your hair at the root, a slight burn on your scalp.

“What's your signal?” He checks quickly.

You raise your left hand and tap twice on his outer thigh. Then, obediently, place the hand back. You never want to use it. 

“Good,” he nods, scraping blunt fingernails over your crown. “I’m not going to be gentle,” he warns, a prickle of excitement running down your spine at that news.

He thrusts his hips forward and slides his cock deep into your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut at the blunt force attempting to school your gag reflex.

“Eyes open,” he snaps, “you will look at me the whole time.”

You do as bidden. Wide-eyed as he holds for a few beats, watching you suckle hard and accommodate his girth.

This is what you crave. So very opposite to who you both are; the role reversal and personality juxtaposition are intoxicating. A strong-willed princess on your knees for a sweet, affable, untitled artist. But not when you play like this. He is dominating and rough, bossing you around in ways no one dares. And you revel in it, insist upon it. The submission, the abdication of power, control. The pleasure to be used when, in all other aspects of your existence, you are the designated user, purely by the luck of your birth. 

“My filthy princess,” he coos, one hand moving to tap your hollowed cheek, a thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth to break the tight seal you hold around his cock. “Relax your throat; let me in,” the order is velvet and steel, just like his shaft.

Slackening your suction, you exhale around him, letting your throat open. He tips forward, deeper than before, groaning at the restriction your throat provides, a bead of precum sliding over your tastebuds as he rocks back moments later.

Then his hands clamp around your ears, and he is thrusting. Using your pliant mouth, your lips a ring of soft friction as he grunts, a slick gurgling noise every time he plugs your throat. His movements get rougher, plunging in, his grip strong in your hair, the gravel crunching around your knees and toes as he rocks your whole being. 

He stills, your nose buried in his pubic hair as you burble around his invasion, gaze locked on his. Unable to draw breath, You know he is waiting for that slight hint of panic on your face before giving your reprieve.

He withdraws, letting you take a shuddering, coughed breath as ropes of saliva web from your lips to his glistening cock.

“Call me it,” you implore hoarsely, feeling your spit drooping across the priceless large diamonds that drape around your neck.

“Wanton little slut,” he growls, and you flood yourself, a trickle of arousal running down your trembling inner thigh to your right knee.

“Please fuck me,” you beseech as he roughly moves your head around by your hair, chasing your mouth with his cock, a game of cat and mouse he is playing with himself as much as you.

“No. Ride your fingers if you must, but tonight, you stay on your knees.”

You whimper in disappointment before he slides back into your mouth, holding still shallow, awaiting your suckling attentions. Which you enthusiastically do. Humming and lapping at his cock, sucking hard with your tongue swirling over his frenulum. He mewls little noises, praising your talented mouth as you hitch up your skirt and hurriedly drive two fingers deep into your dripping cunt, wishing it was his cock.

He takes over again, thrusting deep as you ride your own hand, spiralling greedily towards completion. His gaze slips down, and he smirks when he sees your hand thrust under the hem of your dress.

“Give me that hand,” he instructs, holding still a weight over the length of your tongue as you offer your hand above your head. 

He pulls your arm straight, a slight burn in your shoulder socket as he wraps his warm, wet mouth around your soaked fingers and laps at your juices lasciviously. 

“You always taste so deliciously sweet,” he groans as he lets your fingers slip from his lips, thoroughly cleaned.

You can’t answer, your mouth too full, but he already knows it, both so feral for each other's taste. An irresistible tang that leaves you constantly coming back for more. 

Just last week, he was buried under your cloak, making you orgasm - silently - over his tongue in the royal box at the opera. You wanted to scream louder than every singer on stage but had to settle for a vice-like grip on your opera goggles and a few ragged, mute whimpers. Knowing he would stop immediately if you so much as made a peep. You are sure other box patrons likely saw him emerging from under your layers, a smug smirk on his dampened face, before being summarily dismissed from your company. And yet word never got back to your mother, the queen of Prussia, or your aunt Queen Charlotte. Women of power need their pretty playthings, likely being the Ton’s shared sentiment.

Urgency takes over for both of you. A need to climax clawing at your beings. You roughly rub your clit as his movements turn sharp, more pronounced, using you without mercy, knowing it is driving you closer, too, the heady sensation of denied breaths. You feel his peak as much as you hear his barked warning, a ripple up his shaft that has you readying yourself for the salty, tart taste, his tip at the back of your tongue. You have to hold your breath as it coats the inside of your mouth, him curled over and around you, cursing, his hand heavily matted into your hair.

“Swallow,” he commands. “All of it.”

You do as you are told, almost unable not to, mouth filled, his hand slipping to your throat to ensure you follow the directive.

“Good,” he groans, rubbing your windpipe soothingly with his palm as he shudders with little aftershocks.

You feel the throb of denial, unable to complete before he did, your clit burning, engorged, needing relief. As he withdraws from your mouth, you cannot stop the little shimmy in your hips, desperate for reprieve.

“Did my little Princess not finish?” he chuckles as he tucks himself back into his britches.

You pout and shake your head, looking up at him imploringly. The smirk that grows on his face makes your heart light up.

“Alright, you can sit on my face,” he offers conciliatoryly, sinking to join you on the ground. “But it will cost you…” he ends with a clipped warning.

“What is the price?” your voice slightly hoarse, eagerly gathering your dress around your hips and shuffling over him.

“I’ll think of something,” he hums affably before disappearing under your gown.

You offer him half of Bavaria when he slides his tongue deep into your slit and has you howling at the moon. Instead, ever your loyal subject, he settles on what you already had planned for him—one of his paintings hung in the National Gallery and you wearing a choker with his initials hidden amongst a cluster of sapphires.

No taglist cos just a writing sprint blurb.

[mochinomnoms]

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Congrats on 1k followers Mochi (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡ you so so so so deserve it. You always make me smile when I see your posts so I hope you have fun writing them.

If I might make a request, could I have Jade, Trey, and Ace with a romantic prompt 16 (“I won't lose you again.”)? I want to see them cry a lot just a tiny bit. Feel free to let the vibes guide you, I trust it will be very good.

-Yuri

jade leech, trey clover, ace trappola (separate) x gn!reader [tags] — angst in Ace's, hurt in Trey's, humor in Jade, implied time loop theory [wc} - 1,000+ each prompt 16: “I won't lose you again.” song: Be, Talk (Hozier, “Wasteland, Baby!”), Francesca (Hozier, “Unreal Unearth”) note - @yuri-is-online got it! went a lil wild cause I got massive inspo lmao. Also, let me know if yall can guess the anime I got inspired from with Ace's francesca (1k event)

“Be like the love that discovered the sin (Lover, be good to me) / That freed the first man and will do so again / And, lover, be good to me (Lover, be good to me)”

There were several things that caught Jade Leech’s attention during his life, but only a few kept his attention, after which he’d abandon his ‘toy’. Fungi, mountains, and poisonous flowers, were exceptions, to name a few. He had to admit to himself (and only himself) that there was one thing that revolved in his mind all this time later, dug deep into his brain like the mycelium of his beloved mushrooms in the forest floor. 

One. Thing. You. The funny little human from the broken down dorm. The funny little human with not a single ounce of magic in their veins. The cute little human that was captivated by his merform, an entirely foreign concept to them. The sweet little human with the even sweeter crush on him all throughout his second and third years. 

Perhaps it was cruel of him to entertain your affections with no real desire to follow through on them. Actually, scratch that, it was cruel of him to do so. It was just so…interesting to him at the time. He grew alongside his brother and Azul, none of them exactly being the most sought after during their childhood or teens. They were feared, each of them for multiple reasons, not exactly prime boyfriend material, despite some of their attempts to curate a specially crafted facade. 

Yet, you were so bewitched by him, enthralled, beguiled, and dare he say lovesick with him despite all the signs screaming “DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!” So please, forgive him for shamelessly flirting, and finding entertainment in your reactions. 

The dilated pupils as he leaned down to make eye contact. The sharp intakes when he cornered you against a library shelf, nonchalantly reaching for a random book. The shiver down your spine as he would lean over in class to whisper some nonsense in your ear regarding the class. All for the sole purpose to see you blush a pretty color and get flustered. Not for the jump in his heart at the thought of being revered so sweetly, or a potential lover being so good to him. 

It was just a bit of fun. That’s all it was. That’s all it was meant to be, when he finally left for his internship his third year. He paid no mind to the wistful look on your face as he gave his goodbyes, nor the strange creak in his heart at the sight.

Jade Leech was all he’s always been, and all he will ever be: a man that left his toys once they ceased to interest him.

Which is why he loathed that he’s been unable to remove you from his mind. Though, did he really? It wasn’t annoyance or hate, but an aching yearning that resided in his being. Jade spent many months tossing and turning in bed as he dreamt of you: shy smiles, soft eyes, and sweet words. He wanted, he needed to be free from this love-struck feeling, this infatuation. It was dragging him down from his finely constructed pedestal, like a sin striking an angel down from heaven. 

Yet, coming back to campus now, presenting his internship research at the end of the year, Jade found himself strangely content with the concept as he watched you. You’d taken on your role at NRC quite beautifully, and were the object of affection for many admirers, much to his dismay. Currently, you were attending to visitors, directing them to their destinations and helping the fourth years find their old clubs and friends, while he admired from around the corner.  

You were as you’ve always been, sweet, cute, and clueless to your surroundings as he stalked closer until he was behind you, leaning down until his lips inched close to your ear. 

He purred breathlessly into your ear, “Oh Prefect~ Is that you, my dear?” Jade didn’t miss the shudder that flew up your spine as you jumped away in shock. 

“EEP! W-what the—” You whipped your head around to berate the man before realizing who it was. “Oh, jeez, Jade! You’re back—why’d you do that?!”

The tall man chuckled as he straightened to his normal height. Oh, how he missed you. And your reactions, of course. 

“I simply missed your delightful expressions, you always have been rather reactive with me, haven’t you?”

“What—nooo. I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Huffing, you crossed your arms and jerked your gaze away in irritation. At least, it would be if not for the blush on your cheeks. 

“Fuhuhuh, that blush suggests otherwise.” A giddy feeling filled his chest as Jade inched closer to you, in which you backed away. This continued until he managed to corner you against the stone way of the hallway. 

“This is a familiar sight, is it not?” Jade cooed as he leaned down again, a hand reaching to caress your cheek. “I did miss you, didn’t you—”

A smack. Jade blinked in surprise as his hand was thrown back by your own. Now you looked more annoyed than flustered. 

“I’m sure you did.” You hissed sarcastically, narrowing your gaze at him. “Ha! Please, more like missed messing with me. If you really missed me, you’d’ve called or messaged me like the others in our class. Even Azul checked up on me!”

Jade…hadn’t been aware of that. He’s been too into his own head, reliving memories with you that it hadn’t occurred to him that you’d actually might lose affection for him. 

The thought made him a little sick. 

He pouted, taking your chin in his hand to tilt your head up to his. “Is that so? Please forgive me for my most egregious sin. I don’t wish to lose you again.”

“Hmph, again?” You made a sound of offense. Despite your words, you still looked up at Jade with a  shy gaze, eyes darting down to his lips every so often. 

You never had me in the first place.” You scoffed, trying to avert your blushing gaze, though he kept a firm grip, moving to squeeze your cheeks into a pucker.  

Jade chuckled, “Your previous actions say otherwise, though I am quite a fool for not taking what was mine in the first place.”

“Y-yours?! You-you-you can’t just say things like that—eep!” You let you a deliciously cute squeak, which he swallowed up as he stole a kiss. 

“Now, now my little lover, be good to me and let me revel in your affections, I’ve derived myself from them for far too long now, have I not?”

And I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice / Imagine being loved by me / I won't deny I've got in my mind now (Hey, yeah) / All the things I would do

He wasn’t sure why he had any faith in Crowley to get you back home. Really, that’s on him for thinking the headmage would put any work into your return home. If Trey had known that you’d still be here in Twisted Wonderland, years after his graduation, he wouldn’t have ever broken up with you. 

Granted, it hadn’t exactly been his choice in the first place, as you had abruptly ended the relationship towards the end of his fourth year. Told him to enjoy his life without you weighing him down, despite his insistence that you’d do no such thing. 

Trey finally relented when you told him that you had a world, a family, a home (without him) to get to. Somewhere you belonged, somewhere that wasn’t with him. 

It hurt, yes, knowing that you were never really meant to be with him in the first place. It was simply by magical chance that you were plucked from your world to turn his own upside down. Likewise, it was simply by chance that you and him got together to steal and eat his heart, leaving him almost an empty shell of himself. 

So it was a surprise to see you at Riddle’s wedding, of all places, dressed up in a pretty green outfit as you giggled with some bridesmaids. Seven, you looked good, the fabric hugging all the right spots. Maybe he was being a bit delusional, but Trey swears that the green of your outfit matched the color of his hair, and he had a small possessive streak pass through him at the thought. If it wasn’t for Cater pinching his arm, Trey would be sure that he was in a dream. 

“Ow! Cater!” Trey hissed, rubbing his arm as the strawberry-blonde smirked at him. Cater’s hair was longer now, but he kept his signature style from school still. 

“Go on, talk to them.” Cater nudged him with his elbow, gesturing to you. “I know you want too~”

Trey huffed, watching the liquid in his cup as he swirled his punch. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Oh, come on!” Cater whined, latching on to Trey’s arm. 

“We didn’t end on good terms.”

Cater countered, “You didn’t end on bad ones either.”

“Hmph.” Trey clicked his tongue, eyeing you from the corner of his eye. Your hair had grown longer, and was dyed. It looked nice on you.

Still leaning against Trey, Cater pouted before a mischievous look passed over his face as he leaned in to whisper in Trey’s ear. 

“Besides, I heard they’ve stayed single since being with you.”

“…” A sigh. “Really?”

“Totes, so you really ought to go make a move before that blonde dude does, though it doesn’t look like he’s having much luck.”

Finally deciding to look up, Trey noticed your uncomfortable expression as the guy twirled a strand of your hair with his fingers. Despite being known for being rather mild-mannered, a handful of your mutual friends knew the truth: Trey had a nasty jealous streak where you were concerned. 

He wasn’t sure when or how he got across the room, but Trey was suddenly hovering over you and the blond man, hazel eyes piercing his back. Surprise flitted your features as a hand was offered to you, along with a familiar. 

“Sorry, hope I’m not interrupting.” Trey had to withhold a smug smirk as he saw your eyes light up at the sight of him. “But would you mind sharing a dance?”

You eagerly nodded, taking his hand and mumbling a half-hearted apology to the other man as Trey guided you to the dance floor, filled with couples sharing a dance to the latest love song. 

His hands rested on the familiar curve of your waist as your arms wrapped around his neck, hesitating before finally settling your hands on the back of his neck. The two of you swayed to the music, a surprisingly comfortable silence between you two. Honestly? It was as if you two never broke up, with how your bodies curled into each other, heart-to-heart.

Yet, neither one of you seems willing to start the conversation he was begging to have.

“… You look beautiful—”

“You look wonderful—” 

Both of you opened your mouths at the same time, interrupting each other before sharing a giggle.

“Sorry, sorry. You go first.”

Trey shook his head. “No, go ahead.”

You smiled, something soft and a bit sad, before looking him up and down. “You look good, got stockier. The bakery’s got you working hard, hm?”

“Ha, yeah. It has, what…about you?”

Your lips thinned, as you looked away. “Still at NRC with Grim, we teach the new Beast-tamer curriculum. It’s…fun.”

Silence fell over you two again, the elephant in the room hanging between you two.

“You’ve been here, all this time, then?”

You nodded, a sliver of shame passing over your features. 

“He never did find me a way home after we…you know…”

Trey sharply inhaled, tightening his grip and rubbing soothing circles as he nodded. “Yeah…why didn’t you…tell me. Why didn’t you come back?” He left out the ‘to me.’

You stopped dancing, making him stumble slightly as he watched your face intently, heart aching at the tears growing in your eyes. 

 “I—” Trey watched as you swallowed a lump in your throat, voice shaky. “—I felt so bad that you’d spent your time and energy on being with me when I might not even stay, so I wanted you to go off and live life. But then, he never did find me a way back, and I realized that I just pushed you away, and I just couldn’t face you—”

You broke into sobs, burying your face into his chest as Trey led you away from the dance floor. He managed to pull you into a secluded hallway, one for the staff to enter in and out of the kitchen. Trey held you close as he rubbed your back, resting his cheek on the top of your head as you rested into the crook of his neck.

“I-I'm sorry… I shouldn't be…” You were sniffling, letting out little hiccups as you spoke. “—crying like this… I'm not trying to make you… feel bad… I just… I should go…”

As you moved to pull away, Trey tightened his grip, hand reaching up to caress your cheek as you looked up at him with watery eyes. You were as beautiful as the day you left him, tears streaking your makeup and all. 

“Don’t, please, I—” Trey sighed, resting his forehead against yours. “I won’t lose you again. I missed you so much, please, stay?”

You nodded, still sniffling, as you moved to kiss the palm holding your cheek. “I missed you too, but aren’t you mad at me? For not coming back?”

Trey shook his head, smiling softly at you. Whatever anger he had was immediately forgiven at the sight of you before him. He couldn’t care less about the last few years, as long as he had you back in his arms again. 

“As long as I can have you back in my arms, the past is forgiven. As long as…you’ll have me?”

The two of you shared another sweet smile, leaning into each other to press your lips in a soft, fleeting kiss. The type of kiss you give when you can’t tell the difference between a dream and reality. Cater’s quick photo of you two lovers would later help cement that fact that this was reality. 

It’s a week later that Trey has that exact same picture set as his home and lock screen.

I'd tell them, "Put me back in it" (Da-ah, darlin') / I would do it again (Ah-ah, ah-ah) / If I could hold you for a minute (Da-ah, darlin') / I'd go through it again (Ah-ah, ah-ah)

It’s all dark. It’s always dark until the moment Ace opens his eyes and the coffin opens. Ace goes through the orientation ceremony, only to have it interrupted by you stumbling into the Mirror Chamber, an energetic and egotistical Grim demanding to take your spot. 

It’s dark in the cave that he goes into with you two and Deuce to collect the new chandelier magistone. You're screaming, he’s screaming, so are Deuce and Grim. It’s a shit show, even before Riddle comes to drag him and Deuce back to the dorm. 

It’s dark when he makes the trek to your dorm after being collared. Grumbling about just wanting a snack, about Riddle’s unnecessary rage, and about who the hell can remember all 810 rules. It’s light, though, that he sees when you open the door to Ramshackle, the warm, old lightbulbs from the hallway creating a halo around you. 

It’s light again, in the morning as the sun filters through the broken window, you poking him awake to get to class.

Ace has never been one to get sentimental, the idea of love is frightening, to be frank. But looking at you again, light curtaining your features, he was reminded why he did what he did. 

Why he punched Riddle for his outburst and insults to you. 

Why he threw himself into the fight against Leona as he threatened to turn you to sand. 

Why he let himself get “tricked” by Azul again and again, get beaten up by the twins under the sea again and again. Why he tried to run back to school to your rescue, only to be too late again and again. Why he endured the embarrassment of losing the SDC. 

He’d hoped that this time he’d be able to avoid getting into a coma from the S.T.Y.X. Charon robots again, but he had no luck, so you once again had to depend on Rook and Epel getting you through the Isle of Woe. Maybe he should’ve focused on getting Grim back after scratching you, or maybe just prevented him from eating all the blot stones, then you wouldn’t have been in this mess. 

It might have prevented Malleus’s own blot, though Ace wasn’t really sure what led to his spiraling. It was probably a combination of a lot of information, as it was with the rest of the blots. Either way, he’d been hoping that preventing Grim from eating the 8th blot stone would’ve prevented this. 

Ace wouldn’t know though, as he’s been through this year at least 4 times now. Trying to prevent what he’s slowly starting to believe is inevitable.  

He’s replayed your deaths over and over in his brain. The first one that happened, he was upset for losing a friend, but probably would’ve gotten over it. It sounds harsh, but that was the reality of the situation. 

After the second loop, Ace started noticing you more. Things he missed out on the first time. The way you smiled, the way you walked, the way you tugged on your shirt when you were nervous. It was cute. 

It was his third loop that he started noticing little things. How you liked to grab on to his arm when it got too crowded. How you always made an effort to help him in class, despite having to catch up with nearly 2 decades of curriculum just to understand the professors. He noticed how you’d blush whenever he’d make flirty jokes. 

It was his fourth, and current, loop that he really started to view you differently. That he started to view these second, third, and fourth chances as a way to keep you safe. To not lose you again. 

You were always helping him, despite the stress he caused you. Every time you’d let him crash in your dorm, eventually convincing you to let him share at least your room. He’d be up, tossing and turning as he watched your sleep. He wasn’t trying to be creepy, but seeing you take your whole situation in stride, every overblot, every condescending comment, every shenanigan Grim, Deuce, and him really made Ace think about why he was doing this. 

Was it because he felt bad? No, it certainly wasn’t the first time, anyway. Was it because he liked having you around? Kinda, maybe a little. Was it because every time he’d ask you why you got involved with all the drama at school, you’d answer with a shrug, a smile, and simply answer “I gotta protect my friends, as best I can anyway.” That was probably partially the reason.

He thinks the reason he’s so desperate to make sure you stay around is because of the promise you made with him the first loop around: “If I can’t go home, let’s always stick together! I like you, and you like me, so we can support each other every way we can.”

You’d made this promise, in one form or another, every loop.

“Promise we’ll stay friends, even after graduation! I wanna stick by my first friend’s side!”

“Ace? Do you actually promise to take care of me? I know I’m a pain, no magic and all, but I’ve taken care of you in my own way, do you really promise to do the same?”

It was his fourth time watching you live your year in Twisted Wonderland. And it’s then that it clicked for him: he was falling deep into love with the magicless Prefect that cared way too much for others, and much too little for themselves. 

“Ace…” you gasped, a bloodied hand reaching out for him as an overblotted Grim made a rampage throughout the Mirror Chamber. He could hear the others screaming, magic being cast, and a distinct yowl from Grim as Riddle launched another fire spell at him. 

Ace cringed as the giant direbeast that was once his little fiery friend screamed in pain, running around until he tripped and fell through where there was once a wall. Grim let out an eerie, inhuman scream as he fell, a sickening crunch echoing as he landed on the stone ground. For the fourth time, Grim was gone. But that didn’t matter, not when he was watching you die for the fourth time. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey I’m here.” Ace had managed to crawl over to you, clasping your hand with his own. He rested your head on his lap as you coughed, red liquid leaving your mouth as you did. 

“No, nononononono—you’re fine!” Ace hyperventilated as he looked over your battered body. He was sure that he had prevented Grim from eating Vil’s blot stone. Was that not the reason he turned into this? Did he only need to eat a few before turning into a monster? He was so confident that he’d managed to keep you safe. So why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy—

“Ace.” He froze as you murmured his name, your other hand reaching for his cheek, wiping away the tears he didn’t realize he was leaving. 

“Ace, promise me you’ll stay with me? I don’t want to be alone right now…” you hiccuped as you started crying, curling into his chest as Ace cradled you. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help! I was so useless, so useless to let Grim get to this point. So useless as a friend, I’m so sorry!”

Ace curled into you, ignoring the voices from behind you two, no doubt the other students coming to the realization that you’d be grievously harmed. 

“I’ll stay with you, I’m always with you.” Ace shuddered. He felt like throwing up. “I’m going to try again, I won’t be too late this time. I’ll make sure to keep you safe this time. I won't lose you again.”

Ace ignored the person shaking his shoulder as he watched you hyperventilate, before your breathing slowed and eventually stopped. He ignored the surprised cries as magic swirled around him, as he activated his signature spell for the fifth, and hopefully final time:

With a flick of the wand, a rhythm sublime,

Reverse The Clock, turn back the chime,

No time to say 'Hello', goodbye!

I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!

It’s all dark. It’s always dark until the moment Ace opens his eyes and the coffin opens for the fifth time.

comments and reblogs appreciated 🩷

[veryinnovative]

@jegulus-microfic | january 1, prompt: decent | word count: 1.366 featuring bodyguard regulus black and multi-billionaire heir james potter

“I am not here to be your friend, Mr. Potter.”

There's a crease marring Regulus' forehead, hidden just behind the curl of his sable strands, sculpted brows knitted into a censorious frown. It indicates his internal turmoil well enough, showing just how hard he's struggling to gauge the extent of reprimand he can justifiably express, given his position as the head of James Potter's security team, which still remained a subordinate one at that.

There’s the cocky cant of James’ head as he tries and ward off the smile threatening to quirk at his mouth’s corners. It had taken a decent amount of brainstorming, planning, and persuading to get Regulus to comply—have him begrudgingly acquiesce to the idea of accompanying James inside the club as a more hands-on approach to extending security, even though the former’s constant presence was painstakingly redundant in a heavily monitored club as Godric. But James had pushed his luck even then, insisting Regulus keep wearing his body and thigh holsters, convincing him the ‘streetwear chic’ would be greatly appreciated by the club’s dressing code and grant them easy entrance (as if any club would deny James Potter out of all people, a multi-billionaire heir and continent-renowned philanthropist.). 

The straps of the harness glitter underneath the fluorescent strobes of vibrant purple, though nothing as piercingly brilliant as the dangerous glint catching the edges of Regulus’ withering glare. 

Ah, fuck.

James traces the sugar-coated rim of his glass, biting down on his tongue, only loosened further by the nth cocktail he’s consumed as he speaks with a beguiling drawl, “But I don’t want you to be my friend, Regulus.” 

Life is unfair. Let alone that he lives in a penthouse situated on London’s South Bank overlooking the River Thames or that he can afford designer wear not recognizable by most seeing how James Potter wears quiet luxury clothing brands like Gran Sasso and their perfectly manufactured cashmere sweaters or his current thousand-and-three-hundred quid shirt by Bottega Veneta that’s missing a button at the front with how much he’s been puffing his chest in attempts to draw the attention of his unfairly hot bodyguard.

 Because Regulus Black is just it. Black hair meticulously combed so smoothly, inky-black ringlets curling around his face—complexion milk-white and skin undoubtedly just as soft to touch if James was given the chance. Lithe but possessing swift reflexes and at least seven black belts in seven different martial arts that don’t mandate physical strength. Just three days ago, James had seen him throw a man almost three times his size over his shoulder with effortless ease, and how badly James had wished it had been him being tossed around.

The past months have been torturous, especially when Regulus wore his white button-up, that specific white button-up that stretched around his torso, accentuated his small waist, made only smaller when the straps of his harness clung to his chest. And his legs, those fucking long legs, clad in black dressing pants that made the swell of his ass all the more prominent, like a peach. James wanted to fucking squeeze it and devour the pulp left behind, slurp it like an animal that needed to be caged.

Whether it’s the words or the uncurbed lust he’s exuding, Regulus’ features rearrange into something far more complicated. He sucks on his teeth, squints his eyes, and then casts his gaze back into the crowd—the moving masses of bodies lost to the thrum of music.

“No,” he answers from behind the curve of his drink.

James smiles. He’s got him.

“No?” he asks, scooting closer, shit-eating grin only growing wider when Regulus makes no move to increase the distance between them.

“It’s highly unprofessional and breaks every code of conduct I strictly maintain. Not to mention, you’re my employer and—”

“And you want me.” Because he hasn't missed the glances exchanged between them and will be damned if he doesn't do anything about it.

Regulus coughs, sending drops of whisky flying across because Regulus Black is the type of man to drink something so old-school in a club. “What?” he sputters

James shrugs, an act that makes the fabric around his shoulders stretch thin, and does not miss how Regulus’ gaze briefly flits to the sliver of cleavage showing behind the missing button. “Right now you’re just listing reasons that, on contract, prevent any sort of intimacy between us, but if there weren’t any there, you would want this.”

“You’re being highly presumptuous,” Regulus scoffs.

“No, I’m good at reading people.”

“I am paid to guard you,” Regulus deflects.

This, he saw coming.

“Oh, it’s a money thing then?” James asks, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. He flips it open and thumbs through the wad of bills stashed in the compartment. “That’s fine, I can pay.”

This, however, also doesn’t have its desired effect. Regulus makes a face, downright spiteful this time, and does inch away from him, glass slamming onto the counter so hard James fears it might shatter. “What— So now you treat me like a prostitute?”

“What?” James asks, brows furrowed in confusion. He looks at Regulus, his wallet, back at Regulus and— 

James Potter, an Oxford graduate, top-of-his-class, can also be a massive idiot.

“Oh— Oh, no— Shit, I didn’t mean— No!” He’s fumbling for words and his wallet, almost dropping it in the act of trying to put it away, nearly releasing it when he misses tucking it back in his pocket. “I just thought— Fuck, no, I’m sorry,” Regulus doesn’t look any more convinced and now James is very much panicking, thank you. “I— You know what, fuck it. Hi, I’m James Potter.”

Regulus looks like he’s having a stroke.

But James is insistent, waving his hand like the gesture will dismiss the awkward, terribly embarrassing interaction from just seconds prior. “Can I get you a drink?”

Regulus blinks at him, then his extended hand, and drags a palm down his face, pinching his nose bridge and breathing in deep.

But James is nothing if nothing stubborn. “Must’ve had a long day, huh? Need an ear?”

“I got a boss that’s stupid as fucking rocks,” Regulus mutters, and oh, James swoons. No one ever dared call him stupid or insult him in this manner, and he might just discover something about himself tonight.

“Yeah, what else?”

Regulus down the remnants of his whisky before raising his glass. “I need a refill for that”

The refill comes quick and this time, James doesn’t feel too scared about bridging the gap between them bit by bit. “So this boss of yours…” he starts, because he’s already a little tipsy and on a streak of dauntless moves. “Is he hot?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “He’s okay.”

“Oka—” James starts, bridling, before he catches a sight of the subtlest of smirks. Then, excitement, coiling down his spine like a lick of flame kindled further by the challenging gaze Regulus looks at him with. “I think you’re selling him short.”

“He’s arrogant, I don’t think I could bear him with an ego that’s any more inflated.”

“Oh, but you wound him. He’s been trying very hard to be noticed these past couple of months. Even started waking up early to catch glimpses of a certain someone that moved in with him for work purposes.”

Regulus makes a face that reads like ‘Is that the fucking reason why you have been putting your alarm on 4:30 a.m. in a pathetic effort to catch a glimpse of me preparing for the day and trying to be an unnoticeable presence in your life because that’s expected of me as head of security?’ and James smiles like he’s trying to say ‘Yeah, I did. Seeing you drink coffee, freshly showered, is worth it even if I struggle to stay awake during meetings in the afternoon.’

Regulus quirks an eyebrow. “Why is he trying to be noticed by me?”

James links a leg around Regulus’ bar stool and yanks it closer, relishing in the little gasp that leaves his lips as a result. Their legs bump, James’ knee sliding inside Regulus’ thigh, coming to a rest against it.

“Why spoil the fun by talking? I could just show you instead.”

[katyawriteswhump]

Livin’ the dream (steddielovemonth day 3)

After High School, Eddie and Steve’s lives don’t exactly go as planned… For @steddielovemonth day 3 prompt: Love is being terrified but not letting that stop you from taking a leap (@unclewaynemunson) Thank you <3

Rating: M. CW: Unhealthy/abusive relationship (NOT steddie!) Tags: No Upside Down AU, angst. WC: 2,225

…

“I’d never have dreamed,” said Eddie one morning, during his daily stop at Dave’s Diner, “that Steve Harrington pouring my coffee would become the highlight of my day.”

Steve smirked. “Wasn’t exactly how I saw my future either, Munson.”

While Steve poured, Eddie left his hand on his coffee cup. He always did—even if the cup got too hot. Even if it scalded him. He’d not miss a chance to have Steve that close. Nor to enjoy staring at those lickable arms, today exposed to the shoulders by a snug-fitting vest top.

“I guess you really dig lousy weak coffee, man,” said Steve.

“Sets me up for a busy day fulfilling my childhood ambition of hauling bricks, darlin’.” He’d gotten away with ‘darlin’’ last week. Steve didn’t chew his head off today, either, so… “Living the dream, huh?”

Steve sighed hard, started wiping the counter near Eddie, over and over, as he always did. “How’s your pay?” asked Steve quietly.

“It’s a day rate. Not stellar, not the pits. Why? You looking for other work?” Panic rocked through Eddie. “You’re not leaving this place?” Though it would be awesome if we worked together. Eddie was already fantasising about those hot summer days on the construction site, when Steve might strip his shirt off.

“Nah, not really,” said Steve, “I’m kinda tied to this job.” He ran his free hand distractedly across his eyes. Tied to this job—what the heck did that mean? Steve often seemed world-weary and withdrawn. Incongruously so, given the confident guy he used to be. But that was adult life, so it seemed. It sucked.

All the same, Eddie experienced an uneasy urge to probe deeper. Steve got in first: “Hey, how’s the band?”

Eddie beamed. Yeah, there was one other thing, other than coffee with Steve, that he lived for: “We got a gig Saturday night.”

“Let me guess—the super bowl came begging?”

“Haha, just you wait, big guy. It’s at that new bar in town. You wanna come?”

Steve paused his scrubbing. Something sparked in the depths of those big, beguiling eyes that made Eddie’s throat tighten, and his pulse beat faster. “I’m working,” said Steve. I’ll try and get away aft—”

“Hey, kid! You gone blind or you really this lazy?” That was Steve’s boss, Dave, who’d gotten the biggest arms Eddie had ever seen. “There’s more than one punter in this place. If you can count that high?”

“Jesus, he can be such an a-hole,” mumbled Steve. He shot off, even as Eddie bleated: 

“See you tomorrow?”

…

Only seven people turn up for Corroded Coffin’s gig. It was a total dud, and Eddie didn’t give a shit. 

Among the seven, was Steve. 

The crappy too-bright venue lighting revealed Steve undressing Eddie with his eyes, as surely as Eddie undressed Steve. Eddie was so blown away, he almost messed up the finger work on his most bodacious solo.

After the final number, Eddie placed down his guitar and made a beeline for Steve: “Hey, you made it.”

“Figured I might as well. Jon Bon Jovi wasn’t returning my calls.” Steve snickered, and Eddie literally drooled. Metal thrummed through his every vein, and his blood rushed madly—most of it heading south. Steve Harrington CAME TO MY GIG AND STAYED FOR THE NON-EXISTENT AFTER-PARTY. Steve’s vest top was sadly missed, but his tight t-shirt still afforded Eddie a glimpse of that tasty chest hair, and the skin-tight jeans were… Gnnng! And as for the touch of eyeliner? 

Slayed Eddie dead.

“You wanna come backstage?” Eddie’s voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

“I’d like a drink. Preferably something stronger than coffee, and that I don’t have to pour.”

After his sixth shot, Eddie went in for the kill: “You are literally the hottest fucking thing I have ever goddamn seen.”

“Not exactly slick.” Steve leaned close, and Eddie inhaled his fast, bourbon-spiced breaths. “But I guess it’s a step up on ‘do you come here often.’” 

Eddie silenced him with a blockbuster kiss, which Steve returned instantly. Within moments, Eddie was up off his barstool, hands roving wildly over Steve’s delicious torso. Okay, also wandering around to pry under his tight t-shirt, and to grope that mega-hot denim-clad ass. Steve pawed Eddie with equal enthusiasm, setting his barstool rocking till it toppled back. 

He jumped off, straight into Eddie’s arms. Wow! There was nothing better than kissing somebody roughly your own height. Back at school, he’d figured Steve was a lot taller than him—like most jocks, he’d had that early spurt of growth, Eddie guessed. Then Eddie had more of less caught up, and now..? Yeah, everything had changed, all his preconceptions thrown to the winds. Best of all, Steve had turned out to be a good dude.

Also, the best kisser ever.

They made out like their lives depended on it, tongues sliding together, slickly and keenly. Meanwhile, despite the hotness, all those sweet moments over coffee crammed together in Eddie’s head.

You are the highlight of my life… The light of my goddamn life! How come this took so long?

Then, as abruptly as it started, Steve broke the kiss. He staggered back into his stool, setting it rocking again. “Shit!”

“Oooookay.” Eddie felt like he’d been punched. “Used to that in gig write-ups, but—”

“Oh God, no… It’s not you. It’s so not about you. This was a terrible idea.” He knocked Eddie’s fingers from where they lingered on his hip, and sidestepped, placing the barstool between them.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s about me, Munson, so you can quit the goddamn kicked-puppy-dog eyes.” Erm, back at ya, Harrington. “I’m with another guy, okay?” He laughed, and somehow, it was one of the most miserable sounds Eddie had ever heard. “I didn’t think we’d… Look, I really shouldn’t have come.” 

With that, he bolted.

…

Eddie got to the diner super-early on Monday morning. He’d barely thought of anything other than Steve, who was no longer simply his secret crush. Or even the light of his life. 

Without exactly knowing why, Eddie was pretty much dying with worry for him.

Steve didn’t pour Eddie’s coffee. He dumped the pot on the counter, emoted unwelcomingly with hard-set features, and hurried off to take a table order. Which he then headed out back to prepare.

Eddie waited. He was gonna be late for work, and his boss would give him an earful, and he really couldn’t give a crap.

The diner emptied out, and eventually, Steve emerged from the back, mouthing:

“What the Hell?”

“I needed to see you, Steve.” Steve glared at him, and Eddie did a double take. Steve looked more exhausted than ever, shadows stark as bruises around his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Saturday was a big mistake. Huge. Had an argument with my boyfriend about it, that’s all. Scram, will you?”

Steve’s boss came out from the back. Steve emoted wildly again, shooed Eddie, and the truth dawned. And was slammed home when Dave slapped Steve’s butt—scowling at Eddie, as he did so—then grabbed Steve’s shoulders, spiralled him about, and shoved him off in the direction of another table awaiting service.

“Either you place another order, or get lost,” said Dave to Eddie.

Eddie ordered pancakes and waited.

“Dave? Seriously?” hissed Eddie, when he finally got Steve’s attention again. He begrudgingly admitted Dave was okay looking. All the same: “He’s a dick! And he’s gotta be old enough to be your dad.”

Steve edged close, talking so fast and hushed Eddie strained to follow. “My parents threw me out. I was on the streets! Dave was… good to me, took me in, and now… I’m kinda stuck. He takes my rent out of my wages, and there’s never anything left, and—”

“You need to get away from him, man.” Eddie felt sick. Somehow, he burbled it out: “Leave the son-of-a-bitch. Right now. You can crash with me.”

“You live in your uncle’s trailer! He’d be beyond thrilled, I’m sure, and Dave would…” Steve’s mouth hung open a moment. He’d what? Come after you? “Look, I’m okay. Dave’s all right, really. Gets grouchy sometimes, that’s all.”

Eddie spouts the next question before he can stop himself. “Do you love him?”

Steve tossed his arms up in despair: “What kinda dumbass question is that?” Yeah, Eddie wants to facepalm. In retrospect, it was truly dumb! “Look, he doesn’t know who I saw on Saturday, but he’s already bitching about you hanging around too much. Just fucking go already!”

Eddie didn’t drive on to the construction site. Instead, as his brain screamed, You’re batshit crazy, he pawned all his meagre possessions, even his beloved Warlock. His plan only faltered when Wayne caught wind of him going to a loan shark. His uncle literally dragged him from their office and insisted on lending Eddie all his scant savings.

Eddie refused. Wayne refused harder. They headed to the second-hand dealership and purchased the cheapest RV in the yard.

Next morning, Eddie trundled his rusty 1960s Volkswagen into the forecourt of Dave’s Diner. He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and moseyed through the door like a gunslinger and about to unleash hell. One that was also trembling like jello, packing zero heat, and practically pissing himself.

“Got my own place now,” he said to Steve.

Steve looked mad, refused him even a coffee cup, though Dave didn’t seem to be around. Yet. “This isn’t happening, Eddie.”

“My place has got wheels, darlin’.” Eddie motioned to the RV outside, dropped his voice to an undertone. “It’s a big country. We can go anywhere. I’ll park up half-a-mile along the road. Wait all day. All night, if you need.”

Steve eked tight words from between gritted teeth: “Look, I don��t wanna sound ungrateful. It’s still a ‘no,’ man. You must have gone cuckoo. I mean, what about your band?”

Yeah, that brought a pang to Eddie’s chest: “Honestly? The rest of the guys are losing interest fast. I can fly solo. As long as you’ll fly with me?”

Dave strode out from the back. The flash of fear in Steve’s eyes cut Eddie to the quick, because it also hollered, You’re making things worse!

Oh God, what’ve I done?

“You’re barred,” yelled Dave at Eddie. “I see your long-haired loony mug one more time, you can kiss my fist.”

“Subtle you ain’t, asshat.”  Eddie retreated, literally a mangy, kicked dog. He drove the RV that half-a-mile along the road and waited. And waited. By midnight, he felt like his heart had been wrung dry, and eventually, he fell asleep.

A loud thudding roused him. He sat up, blinked at his unfamiliar surroundings and then… Shiiiit! He dashed to the door.

Steve perched on the step, his wide eyes glowing with something… unfamiliar. Some sparkle that might just be hope. He’d gotten a very small bundle slung over his shoulder.

“I hope you were serious?” asked Steve.

“Deadly serious, darlin’.”

Steve took Eddie’s face in his hands, and kissed him, briefly, almost chastely. Totally mind blowing. “So good to do that without feeling guilty,” he murmured, smoothing kiss-wetted lips together.

Eddie grinned; he wasn’t even quite sure if this was real: “Let’s get the Hell out of Dodge,” he said.

They hit the road, and they never looked back.

…

Three months later

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” cooed Eddie, as the Hawkins pawn shop owner handed his Warlock back across the counter. “I missed you soooo much.”

“Ugh, seriously?” bitched Steve, as soon as they exited the store. He blocked Eddie’s path along the sidewalk, planted his hands on his hips: “Should I be jealous?”

“Nah. We’re a proper family now.” With his guitar safely stowed in its case, he slung an arm around Steve, and they walked on toward where they’d parked the RV. “Tho’ when we get to Wayne’s, I might have a moment with my long-lost beloved. While you two watch the game.”

“No funny business, Sweetcheeks, or I’m absconding with a second-hand Yamaha keyboard.”

Eddie beamed broadly. It felt so weird, being back in Hawkins, and with hope, at least, for a better future. Not even having to worry about… “You know, I kinda want to thank Chief Hopper in person for arresting your douchebag ex.”

“Yeah, well, he put a guy in the hospital.” Steve shuddered. “They’ve charged him with attempted homicide.”

God, I’m so relieved it wasn’t you, thinks Eddie.

Steve rattled out a joyless laugh that Eddie hadn’t heard for some time, and said, “Jesus, I’m so happy it wasn’t you.”

Suddenly, Eddie’s eyes brimmed with tears. It’s too much. He can’t bear to think of what might have been. “Love you so much,” he blurted, fumbling for the keys for the RV. He couldn’t get up the steps and inside with Steve fast enough

“Love you too,” whispered Steve, once the door was closed, and sounding slightly choked, also. Which isn’t like him.

They clasped each other tighter than ever, and did their darndest to kiss the bad memories away.

[mousy-nona]

Prompt. Alastor hits deer mating season and tries not to let anyone know, but Lucifer finds out.

Obligatory warning: It's a mating prompt. There's going to be EXPLICIT SCENES.

“Do you smell that?” 

Husk sniffed the air delicately, then shook his head. “Nothing but Angel Dust’s normal B.O.”

Angel Dust purred. “Don’t pretend like you don’t love it.” 

The cat rolled his eyes and turned back towards the bar, but not before Lucifer caught the rare smile he reserved for Angel Dust curving on the corners of his lips. 

“Do you seriously not smell that?” Lucifer asked, puzzled. The scent was growing stronger by the second, so rich and heavy it seemed to hang in the air. Musky, woody, with a spicy sharpness to it, like crushed pine needles and orange blossoms. There was something else to it though – something that Lucifer couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it filled his head like an opium cloud. His thoughts felt slow, like molasses in winter. 

His body was a different story. Every time he breathed in, a tingle of electricity ran through him. His fingers were trembling, and his skin felt too tight and a little numb at the same time. 

Am I being drugged?

He was just about to excuse himself when Alastor came rushing around the corner. He was moving fast, as if he was being chased by a pack of wolves, and muttering something to himself like a lunatic. He didn’t see Lucifer until it was too late, and they collided into each other so hard the impact sent them both tumbling to the ground. 

“Ouch! Clean up on aisle four!” Angel Dust crowed. 

“Shut up.” Alastor’s voice was distorted, as if it had been spliced into four. He sounded strained, his throat clenched. 

The scent was unbelievably strong now. Lucifer’s head swam with it. On autopilot, he picked himself up off the ground and extended a hand towards Alastor to help him up. Alastor moved to swat it away, but the second their hands touched, it was like a sonic blast ripped through the hotel. Lucifer’s world went numb, flexed and narrowed in on one thing, and one thing only: Alastor. A bolt of lightning ran up his arm, through his chest, down his legs, and pooled underneath his belt. His legs went weak with need. 

Alastor, for his part, didn’t seem much better off. His eyes were wide with disbelief, his chest heaving as his breathing stuttered. He was staring at Lucifer as if he was a ghost. 

And then something shifted. His eyes went blank, and Alastor – the Alastor Lucifer knew, at least – flickered out of view as something else, something infinitely hungrier and far more desperate, took over. 

Alastor snarled and leapt forward, grabbing Lucifer by the neck. People were shouting something behind them, but Lucifer couldn’t hear them, couldn’t see them over the thick fog of musk and wood rolling off of Alastor. 

Shadows swallowed them whole, and spat them back out in a dark bayou, lit only by the weak light of the stars and the moon twinkling high above.

“Where–?”

But Alastor wasn’t listening. His sharp claws ripped Lucifer’s shirt and coat into shreds in a matter of seconds, his red eyes gleaming with a hazy madness. 

Lucifer forced himself to shake off some of that beguiling smell. It was telling him to relax, to give in. It urged him to thread his hands through Alastor’s gorgeous hair, to stroke his antlers, to finally admit to his deepest, most shameful desire – that he had always wondered what Alastor might taste like.

But he still didn’t know what the hell was going on. 

“What – Alastor, wait – slow down!” He pushed Alastor back with a blast of angelic grace. Alastor hissed, his eyes still crazed with need, and came for him again. This time, Lucifer grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him into a nearby spring. 

Alastor spluttered as he surfaced, shaking some of the water off his head. “What the hell was that for?” His voice was still distorted, but at least he was using his words again. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Lucifer demanded. 

Alastor pulled himself out of the spring and flung his drenched coat off with a bitter grumble, revealing his bare forearms and – to Lucifer’s endless delight – a little tuft of a tail. In the gentle light of the moon, Lucifer could see every ripple of his toned abs, every flex of his broad chest beneath the wet shirt that clung to him like a second skin.

The hazy smell grew stronger. Breathe through it. Don’t lose control. “What did you say?”

“It's my mating season,” Alastor snarled, meeting his eyes again. There was something hypnotic in their scarlet gleam. Lucifer found himself taking a step forward before he caught himself. “Every couple of years, my pheromones go into overdrive. I – no, my body – sends out signals to any potential mates. I usually wait it out.” He shuddered, his jaw flexing. “It’s never found anyone before.” 

A sizzle of pride and pure, clean joy cut through the haze filling Lucifer’s brain. So Alastor had never done this with anyone before? 

(Was he special?)

“So what are you saying – that you’re horny?” 

Alastor blurred – and suddenly he was in front of him, ripping the rest of Lucifer’s tattered shirt from his body. He yelped, but Alastor ignored him. 

“If that’s how you want to think about it,” he growled, then he dug his teeth into the crook of Lucifer’s neck. 

A jolt of intense pain that turned into searing pleasure roared through Lucifer. As if in a trance, he grabbed one of Alastor’s antlers and wound his other hand into the softness of his hair. Then he pulled, hard, forcing Alastor to let go with an audible hiss. 

“None of that,” he snapped.

Alastor grinned, and it was sharp enough to cut him to the core. “No need to play coy with me, your Majesty. The thing about these pheromones – they work both ways. And they never work on the unwilling.” 

The quick flash of heat (shameshameshame) was invitation enough for Alastor to pounce again. He rid Lucifer of his belt and his pants just as quickly as he did his shirt. Lucifer, not to be outdone, showed Alastor he had a pair of claws on his own and slashed Alastor’s entire outfit in half with one slice of his nail. It wasn’t a clean cut – a thin line of red welled up on Alastor’s chest, his stomach, and his right thigh. 

Lucifer was about to apologize, but the words died in his throat when Alastor dipped his finger into his own blood and sucked it clean.

“Want to try?” He asked in his trademark sing-song. 

Lucifer surged forward. Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and tongue, and Lucifer felt himself go even harder at the dark taste of spice and sin on his lips. 

“You drive me crazy,” he whispered when they broke apart. 

“My dear, I am crazy,” Alastor chuckled. “What did you expect?” 

Then Lucifer grazed his upper thigh, perilously close to his dick, and Alastor cut himself off with a gasp. That strange need clouded his eyes, and once again, Alastor’s primal self took over. He roared, pushing Lucifer onto the ground, their bare legs tangling as he pushed his hand between their legs. 

The haze swirled, that sweet, opium smell wiping out the rest of Lucifer’s good sense as Alastor gripped his naked cock with his claws. He groaned, lifting his hips obligingly towards the deer to give him a better angle. That groan turned into a cry when he felt Alastor smearing his own precum on the head of his dick and pushing it against his entrance. 

More, his heart thudded. More. More. 

He must have been saying it out loud without realizing it, because Alastor grinned. “As you wish.” 

Then he pushed in. Lucifer screamed as he felt Alastor’s hardness invading him, penetrating him, stretching him to the limit. But with it, he felt the bond between them swell, take on a new shape. The hatred was still there, yes, but there was something else now too. 

And through it all, the same sentence kept running over and over in his fevered brain: Alastor’s never taken another mate.

Alastor’s eyes rolled back, his back arching as he let loose a low moan. His body was shaking, and his hips were moving as if he was a man possessed. That smell was thick in the air, drugging them both as the pleasure washed over them, coming faster and faster until finally –

The explosion that ripped through Lucifer was like nothing he had ever felt before. He had been there for the birth of the cosmos, for the first steps of mankind, for everything that had come before and that would come after. He had thought he had experienced all the firsts in the world. 

But this…

He clutched Alastor, who was still trembling from the force of the release. Unlike Lucifer, who was basking in the afterglow, he looked…unsure of himself. Now that the pressing drive of the mating call had disappeared, he looked lost, as if he’d been dumped in the middle of a strange land with no map and no compass. 

“Don’t go,” Lucifer whispered, eyeing the strange shadows that were bubbling by his feet. “Stay here with me.”

Alastor wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Lucifer didn’t make him. But he did hold his hand. 

“We can work it out together. Just stay.”

Alastor didn’t say anything. But the shadows disappeared, and the two of them sat in the stillness and the quiet of the bayou.

He didn’t let go of his hand.

[maries-gallery]

Day ?? of @kissmetwicekissmedeadly 's visions of temptation event! And my first contribution to kinktober <3

PROMPT: NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR,

genre: fluff (if you squint), nsfw, mdni

warnings: dirty talk, variation of doggy style, dacryphilia, praise kink, penetrative sex, female bodied reader

wordcount: 1k

mdni banner by the lovely @/saradika

For more content like this, check the masterlist

You’re a tease. A terrible one at that, who should have known better than to play with your husband’s nerves. 

Honestly Chevalier doesn’t know what you were thinking, showing up to his office in nothing but a light nightdress, the thin fabric giving him a sinful outline of your pert nipples and the short hem giving him a sweet taste of your bare core. 

Surely you must have known what you were doing, because there was no way you’d be as naive as to play with fire and hope not to get burned. Because whilst most people thought Chevalier made of ice, around you he breathed nothing but passionate flames and inspired nothing but fire. 

“What do you think you are doing?” He asks, the hints of a smirk on his lips as he gazes at you. 

“Me? Nothing. I’m simply here to wish you good night.” You say with a grin that has his heart swelling, your eyes glinting with mischievous intent. You know exactly what you are doing, naughty simpleton that you are. 

He watches you slipping out of his office, your scent still embracing his senses and beguiling him to your side. Amusement dances in his eyes, clear blue shadowed by flaming desire. 

You wouldn’t be able to complain about this one. And if you did, he’d be proud to remind you of how you brought this upon yourself. 

You’re on the bed, ass up in the air and chest flat against the mattress as Chevalier pounds into you from behind. A hot tear pearls down your cheek as his merciless thrusts push you forward, his hand clamped on your mouth to muffle your pathetic moans and cries of his name. 

He’s rough, knocking the air out of your lungs with every slam of his hips against yours, eager to see just how long you can last without screaming his name. 

You always try so hard to keep quiet for your son whose bedroom lies just beside yours, biting your lower lip to repress any moan that threatens to spill out of you. 

And as much as Chevalier adores how caring you are for your child, he loves how it only takes his cock drilling inside of you for you to break and sing for him, any thought thrown out of the window as your cries pierce through the silence of the night. 

He leans over you, firm chest against your back as his hot breath fans over the heated skin of your nape. Merciless as he pushes his cock deeper inside of you, stretching you out for him and carving his love inside of you. 

He smirks as you whimper in his embrace. 

“Tu aimes ça, n'est-ce pas ? Devoir rester silencieuse pour ne pas le réveiller alors que je te baise.” (You like it, don't you? Having to keep quiet for our son when I fuck you?) He whispers in your ear, as he ruts his hips against yours, enjoying how it only takes him the right angle and his cock nudging at your sweetest spot for your eyes to cross. 

You can only nod, silenced by his hand and lost to the warmth coiling in your stomach. Thoughts blur and sentences jumble in your head. You flutter around him as the meaning of his words dawn on you. His pants and the slap of his balls against your clit the only thing you can hear through the daze of your pleasure. 

“Tu me prends si bien.” (You take me so well) He groans, on the verge of tumbling down his release. And your desire pools inside of you at the sinful edge to his voice, for Chevalier never groans or grunts, never betrays any sign of vulnerability, apart from when he’s buried deep between your folds and about to give him the fruits of his release. 

But he can’t have that, because Chevalier insists on you coming first, for the sole purpose of watching you lose control as your limbs quiver with the flashes of your release. 

His arm snakes around your waist, fingers trailing down your stomach and flicking over your clit. Electricity jolts through your veins as his thumb dances on your bud, sparks of white flying in your vision as you climb up the ropes of pleasure. 

“Tu vas jouir pour moi, n’est-ce pas ?” (You're going to cum for me, right?) He questions and you have half a mind to nod again, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he sheathes himself all the way inside of you. “Answer me.” 

He knows it takes all your strength for you to formulate a coherent answer and keep your voice even. He doesn’t care, he likes to taste the pleasure stuttering on your tongue. 

“Ye-Yes! Mmhm- so close!” You cry in a wanton moan, “Don-Don’t stop!” 

Oh, he has no intention in stopping, not when you’re so close and your walls flutter around him. Instead his fingers tease at your sensitive clit some more, in pace with his thrusts. 

“Bonne- Ngh- fille.” (Good girl) His words trail down your skin and send a shiver up your spine just as you reach your high. Your jaw falling in a silent cry of his name as dots of hot white pleasure crowd your vision. 

His arms tighten around you, holding you up against him as your pleasure ripples through you, a grunt rumbling through his chest as your walls clamp down on his cock and coax his own orgasm out of him.

His hips stutter with one final thrust, sheathing his cock deep between your folds and painting your insides white with his release. Pulling out just in time for a cry from your three year old to ring through the house. 

With a soft smile he gets out of bed and leans over, placing a tender kiss to your brow as he buttons up his shirt and puts on his underwear. 

“I’ll take care of him. You rest and go to sleep.” 

With that he steps out of your room and into the bedroom of your son. And after a few seconds the crying stops, instead replaced by the gentle voice of your husband as he sings your child back to sleep. 

taglist: @aquagirl1978 @randonauticrap @xbalayage @candied-boys @nightghoul381 @itsjudesfault @veervers @ikemen-writer @ikesimpleton @ikesimp100 @kalims-pessimist-bestie

[aconflagrationofmyown]

but then… Gigi

chapter one (a Big Daddy Elvis fanfic)

Summary: this is a fix-it universe to catch all the feelings I have for this man in the late 70’s. It’s gonna be my least impressive, least dramatic, very plotless, indulgently meandering and self soothing fic that fixes all things through *love* -it’s gonna be so fluffy we might as well cure cancer and invent time travel while we are at it. That being so, and after all the joy that has come from y’all’s interactive prompts and suggestions with Sarge, I welcome any suggestions or prompts y’all might have as this universe expands. I hope you enjoy and this can provide a sweet little escape 🌷💋

Warnings: 18+ this universe is and will be mature due to sexual themes and drug mentions. In this chapter there are discussions about attractiveness, hinted unwanted advances in the past, some mild possible objectification, talking of weight gain and sugar babies, female masturbation with non orthodox self pleasure tools (and cherry coke didn’t come out for another two years shhh)

Special thanks to: my sugar babies @stylespresleyhearted whose pure hearted love for this concept is responsible for its very existence in the first place and her co-conspirator @eliseinmemphis . And as always, to my discord wives who forever back up all my endeavors and fuel my fire @ab4eva @elvisabutler @butlersxbirdy

Circa: early summer 1977, Memphis Tennessee

Word count: an astoundingly moderate 5k

There is a set and type of girls most likely to catch the eye of the most internationally famed rock star on the planet, and it isn’t self pity or self deprecation that makes Gigi acknowledge that she doesn’t quite fit that type. She considers it good fortune enough to run in circles that boast a number of the brazen, flirty and seemingly fearless young sort who can traipse up to Elvis Presley’s sleek Stutz window and, bending themselves over an unnecessary but effectively exposing amount, extract from him a cheeky invitation to a Graceland party.

Elvis is fond of this type, their vivacity and their audacity, even their ceaseless giggles and yes, the availability they clothe themselves with. They remind him of those girls who’d nearly break down his motel door in the early years. The ones that used to scare him shitless even as he fell prey to their perfume and painted lips, their milky soft hands sporting red hot talons that often as not hooked him down to hell with them.

As of late, he finds himself accepting any damn company he can get, after months of pushing company away. It’s a cycle and when he’s fresh outta reclusion he finds he’s probably a little liberal with the invites but it doesn’t matter. He’s still relieved and gratified that he is wanted and loved enough by his fellow Memphians that they’ll accost him on the street, lean into his window, all bubblegum and boobs, and ask for autographs and if he’s interested in some company.

He may be slowing down here lately, as his body and mind and the newspapers remind him constantly, but pretty young things are still one of life’s sweet pleasures, and even if he can’t give as much as he used to, at this rate he’s glad for anyone who’ll drag him out of the slump. Even if he’s more of a museum sort of attraction for them than the living wonder they once claimed he was. Maybe it’s this morbid understanding of these little floozie’s motivations that has him grinning along and offering a free invite for game night, all the while glancing past them to where she stands at a distance behind the giggling gaggle. Her limbs are strong but soft, her face beguiling yet oh so innocent and her posture is leant forward in unscripted eagerness to maybe catch a glimpse of him past her gaggle of friends. She has her hands clasped nervously in front of her -unconsciously highlighting the way the wind whips her thin sundress between her thighs and outlines her perfectly- and it’s adorable the way her sensible keds are scuffing the sidewalk rhythmically until she feel his gaze on her.

The minute Gigi senses his authoritative assessment of her over those tinted shades, her pretty little brain makes her snap to attention, aimless for a minute before falling back on ingrained rules of conduct. She has no seductive artifice, no hip cock or calculated smirk. Gone is the sneaker scuffing and the lip chewing and instead her back snaps straight up like a debutant, feet planted, hands unclasping, shoulders back and tits forward. Elvis thinks her mother, if she’s got one, would be very proud of her social graces. Personally, he is very admiring of those pert nipples straining the cloth, and proud of the eager tremble rustling her in the summer breeze just by a flick of his eyes over her fresh baked womanhood. But maybe it’s the red hot blush under the afternoon sun and the hesitant but almost giddy little wave she gives him that cements the fond flutter he feels in chest into a raging affection.

Falling in affection for a stranger is stupid, dumb and terribly risky. And not at all likely to be requited in the way he craves so badly these days. He knows this, it’s happened before. It’s best to stick to the gals who’ll fawn over his car window and maybe dance together for him later on. But golly, wouldn’t it be nice to pat a cheek that fresh and watch it turn rosier under an ole man’s admiration?

He pulls his cigar out to smile at her, because she deserves a full lipped, white teeth gleaming smile -his ole moneymaker. It still has its intended effect, it makes Gigi beam and her waving little hand clench in excitement. She even does a little bunny hop in place and the way the glorious young shape of her bounces under the demure sundress is all kinds of tonic to a tired fella’s heart.

It’s a lot to take, the way this certified legend ducks and peers past her gaggle of friends at his window to give her not only his attention but that most delightful of grins. The one that is deceptively bashful over being so admired. Gigi would be a pants on fire liar if she didn’t admit that she’s watched enough footage and poured over enough magazine spreads of the man through the eras to nearly swoon under the real life shimmer of it.

And she knows, vaguely, that she’s acting air headed in the way she trembles and bounces but that’s all she’s got, these natural responses, never was good at faking much of anything she feels, and certainly not when she was decidedly embarrassed. Which she was now -what with the way his smile is boyishly fond, his demeanor fatherly and his eyes lewdly assessing. There’s not a bit of the masculine spectrum he isn’t embodying at this moment and her body betrays her by submissively tremoring under his gaze alone. What would a touch be like?

Such slack mouthed, nipple tingling, body electrifying thoughts get interrupted when the myth himself points a bejeweled finger at her -one that is slender and lean and elegant in contrast to the bulk burdening the rest of him- and asks in a meltingly soft voice:

“You any good at charades, sweet cheeks?”

Even if she were terrible at the game, even if she didn’t know how to play it at all, the hopeful raise of his eyebrows would make her lie, hand on the Bible to this Hollywood trained actor, that she was the best charade player the world has ever seen. Her reply in the affirmative is overly confident due to sheer nerves and eagerness, and she vigorously bobs her head to add unneeded emphasis. It makes her beauty queen friends giggle and laugh good naturedly and to his relief she joins in, a hand flying up in humiliation to shut that glossy, pink mouth.

It’s so clumsy and natural a reaction that Elvis’ pointed finger twitches from a desire to tickle her, to watch her writhe from something besides embarrassment. He mourns that she’s standing so far from the window. At least the distance has given him a good view of her from the top of her shiny widdle head to the sole of her itty bitty footsies.

Plans are made at the window, Lamar is to send a car and apparently the lot of them will all be at Dinah’s house for pickup and Gigi tries to get a little closer to overhear these details but the crowd of girlfriends is a few bodies deep and there’s fans gathering, too. So she learns the logistics later, when everyone has finished homework and shifts and are primping in Dinah’s upstairs bedroom, hairspray and nail polish fumes thick in the air, and voices nearly hysterical in pitch from excitement.

-It worked! It worked! It worked! We are going to party at Graceland! Elvis Presley invited us to spend the evening!-

There’s a lot of different reasons for excitement, some of the girls are just curious to see the icon’s home, some are talking of how envious their older sisters (even some mothers) will be over them meeting their crush, others are hoping the scene is as debauched as the rumors would have the world believe, an opportunity to taste drugs and that rock n roll lifestyle for a brief shining evening. Marie asks if they think he’ll make them do naughty, dirty, sexy things for him and that brings up fresh tittering and salacious hearsay regarding his appetites and tastes. Someone deflates that mood by saying that he might just be a dirty old man now, it’s not quite the same as going to his house a few years ago. At forty years old he’s ancient to them. What with his declining health and being a recluse and -what if he lures girls and then murders them? Oh god, the urban legends come out, he’s a vampire, he’s a serial killer, he’s this and he’s that and-

Gigi thinks he’s awfully generous. That’s what she thinks. Inviting strangers into his home. And not just pretty young things. She personally knows folks who he’s helped, the downtrodden and the dehoused and the disadvantaged. She’s grown up in churches and schools and municipalities he’s funded. He practically provided for her and all of Memphis like an omniscient father figure these past three decades. And now there’s this kindhearted invite which most seem to consider akin to a ticket to a Carnival.

As she lets the girls fluff her hair and spritz her in perfume, adding an extra coat of mascara to her lashes -stultifying her if she’s being honest- she gives a brief thought to whether, just maybe, this will be a decadent night after all.

Elvis is still Elvis. It can’t be all hearsay. And for someone like her, who’s been a good student and a decent worker and hasn’t gone chasing every wicked, back alley experience available in Memphis, she frets a little that maybe inside that iconic mansion tonight she’ll lose something that’s been preserved so far.

Innocence? Maybe. But she thinks her greatest concern is that maybe he’ll prove to be something less warm and darling and extraordinary than that brief exchange on the sidewalk and years of idolizing have convinced her that he is. All this talk of him that floats around her makes her feel faintly ill, the morbid curiosity and the vulgar interest. No wonder he secludes himself.

The car arrives, decadent and alluring like its owner, and driving it is one of the many trusted minions of the king. There might not be seatbelts for every girl here but that doesn’t seem to matter, Gigi happily offers up her lap to Tammy and teases her that Tammy is her safety belt and Gigi is her booster seat. It’s a jolly ride, banter being made with the front seat fella who’s name she has to ask for about five times before Tammy takes pity and informs her he’s “George Klein”. Gigi gets a schooling in the back seat about his radio show and once again Gigi is reminded why Tammy is ‘Miss Memphis’ and she’s not. The babble of voices calms down long enough for Mr. Klein to lay down some ground rules before the car pulls through the gates.

The rules are shockingly normal: stay downstairs, make yourselves at home and but don’t behave like asses, don’t shy away from approaching your host, the last thing he likes is awkwardness or standoffish coolness in his own home. Gigi is rather certain that with her nerves and hero adoration she can manage not being stuck up or acting above it all, but she’s not at all sure she’s gonna manage to not be as awkward as a newborn duckling.

Graceland through the gates is not an unfamiliar sight to most of them, but Graceland up close, caressed in the inky dark of night from inside by golden fingertips of light, is magical. As is the atmosphere inside the place, though that may be more a case of her knowing where she was, rather than anything particularly incredible occurring in the opulent space. Despite the change of clothes to a slinky little number and the fluffed blowout that her more cultured friends gave her in consideration of the evening, Gigi can’t help but feel underdressed for a night in this gaudy Antebellum Establishment. Extra mascara and expensive perfume feels inadequate to match the gold and crimson and white furnishings. If Belle Watling had a home, Gigi reckons it would look rather like this.

That old worry returns that tonight might devolve into being the most debauched of her young life, that maybe she’s stepped into a hospitable bordello, so exotic and seductive are the furnishings alone. But to her surprise, seated on crimson curved couches, and already heatedly invested in a game of charades, is a friendly looking group of men and their wives. They have to be wives, the Mafia’s wives -they look so respectable, so relaxed lounging in Elvis’ Presley’s home. There’s differing ages here, middle and younger and all in between, and a man she’s rather certain is Elvis’ own father. It’s respectable, to her immense relief and confusion.

“Ah, here comes the fresh young blood!” One of the group says and it’s a bit chaotic then, half the group invested in keeping up the game and the other set rather eager to abandon their losing streak to offer welcomes and refreshment.

She lets the bodies swirl around her, a strange feeling of being a little left out taking over her without a single rudeness on the part of anyone present justifying the feeling. It irks her that she's so skittish, it just seems that everyone somehow falls in with another or ten and the established groups begin games or snacking or talking without her and she stands alone in the human eddy watching it all happen so effortlessly.

What’s entirely unexpected a half hour or more into this friendly pandemonium is a playful tap on her shoulder and turning round to find their host himself, clad in a comfy tracksuit, unzipped sufficiently low to display a devout amount of crosses shimmering on sweat slick skin and wearing shades even indoors. He’s asking if she’d like a drink.

“Oh -Elvis!” is a stupid thing to say in reply to his felicitations but it’s all Gigi can manage in such close proximity to his warm smile, his unzipped jacket and his heady scent. He looks her over, taking in the way her friends have erased the fresh faced ingenue on the sidewalk and made her into a sex doll and it takes supreme self discipline to not reach out and wipe some of it off. His scrutiny is making her nervous but she does at last manage to scramble out, “Yes, thank you, Mr. Presley, that would be lovely -it’s lovely of you to have us and your home is so unbelievably lovely, and I can’t believe we’re here, I’ve admired you for so long and -I, I’m only 20 and can’t drink.”

The word vomit robs her of breath and Gigi sucks it back in with a painful wince -she just declined a drink and proclaimed herself a complete goody two shoes, a perfect square, to the King himself. Her face flames hot and the heavy coating of lashes flutters from eye watering embarrassment.

Elvis just tilts his head to the side and gives her sweet face the appreciative study of a blush connoisseur, his grin growing impossibly wider and a little wolfish,

“Well, darlin, I’m a lil over 21 but I don’t drink ‘neither.”

“Really?” Ggi ventures in utter surprise, and that must’ve been redeeming on her part as his smile shifts from wolfish to fond before giving a tight nod,

“I was offerin’ lemonade, or sweet tea, but I think-“ and here he steps back, surveying her head to toe in the gauzy halter dress her friends snazzed her up in, “I think, yeah, yeah, ‘think you’re a cherry coke kinda girl.”

“I’m whatever you say, sir!” Gigi salutes him like a idiot because she’s had never had a cherry coke in her life or been assessed by a powerful man and she is quickly forgetting to be shy when so bewildered by his heavy lidded assessment-

“Yeah,” he nods, satisfied after another survey of the god crafted entirety of her, “Cherry coke for you, I think, lil Miss.”

He doesn’t fetch it, someone else in this crowded place does and it comes with the ordered white straw and she sips the carbonated beverage with a bashful smile, trying to think of something sensible to say in thanks when being looked at like that by the man who having fulfilled his host duties slowly moves away to recline in a decadent crimson armchair.

“Go on now, you’re here to have some fun, sweet cheeks.” he waves her down to the floor where many others are sprawled writing dares and acts, and she settles where he directs her, right by his leg until it’s her turn.

Once she moves to the mantle and acts out her turn, once it’s successfully guessed, she’s a little at a loss as to where to go. It feels presumptive somehow to sit by him again. So she sits by Dee instead, and feels a fool five seconds later, knowing it’s just nerves and shyness keeping her from a chance at sitting by such an extraordinary hero for what’s probably the best night of her life.

Ever.

Gigi wouldn’t get this chance again and yet she decided to act like an awkward idiot for fear of acting like a -what? Cling on? Groupie? It was just his leg, his beefy, muscled, thick leg beside her, and the heat of his body and the little noises of amusement coming from him. But it made her feel like she was burning up inside, it felt intimate, it felt like she should be between those legs and surrounded by his bulk. Like between his thighs would be the cleft in the rock to hide from this vast world that she’d been looking for all her life.

He was just domestic and kind, and she had to make it weird. Tammy’s unimpressed eye roll at her doesn't help matters. Soon the left side of Gigi’s face begins to burn and out of desperation she finally turns to face Elvis and finds him staring straight at her, her abandoned, half-drunk cola being jostled in his hand like a carrot for a horse. His eyebrow beckons, she blushes harder, he keeps shaking the damn thing and ducking his head with that coaxing grin. She rises and crouches through the partiers and moves back to her place at his feet.

“Here ya go.” he says mildly as she settles, nothing mentioned of the command and obedience just enacted.

He just gives Gigi her coke back, his rings clanking on the glass and fingers brushing hers during the handover. She chokes on her next sip when he pats the top of her head. Fatherly, if her father had ever been one for pats and noticing her existence. Unfettered, Elvis’ hand slides down the glossy brushed out length of her hair, to pat her back as she gasps out her shock, somehow making things worse but oh so lovely. She dares to lean back into that caressing hand, finds herself leaning against his leg by proxy, finding herself lulled and squirmy all at once.

Charades at Elvis Presley’s house are very much the same as at anyone else’s, and strangely Gigi finds that simultaneously the most bizarre and adorable thing imaginable. There is, however, a good deal more betting and hollering than would be permissible in most households, and she finds herself enacting dubious scenes with a shockingly plentiful array of cousins and fellow guests, but altogether it’s wholesome and lively and joyous. It seems a bit rigged when Tammy, fresh off winning Miss Memphis, has to enact the white dress subway scene of Marylin Monroe -made snort worthy humorous when an ancient creature, who Gigi has on good cousinly authority is Elvis’ grandmother, provides the wind to blow up Tammy’s flimsy excuse of a dress to her upper thighs. Flashing panties as is the iconic scene.

In a weak moment Gigi tilts her head to see Elvis’ reaction to her friend's beauty, and she doesn't miss the way he guffaws around his cigar at the sight of those award winning stems. Though she doubts it’s his first sight of them, they’ve been plastered all over TV and newspapers ever since Tammy won the damn thing a few months ago. Best body and face in the state. Gigi’s primped up face and heavy coated lashes and gauzy dress suddenly feel like an attempt to mimic something she wasn’t cut out for. Self consciously she tugs at the hem of the short skirt.

Tammy flashes Elvis a wink and shimmies in a mouth watering tease before sitting opposite the two of them, legs crossed and hardly a bit left to the imagination.

Elvis keeps grinning. Tammy licks her lips. Gigi finishes her coke and vaguely recalls the fact that the man is supposedly dating one of Tammy’s rivals from the pageant, or a sister of or a- Gigi doesn’t recall really, and she can be sure that between the way he’s stroking her own sun streaked locks and eye sexing Tammy opposite, the man sure doesn't act taken.

Watching Billy Smith try to act out a cheetah giving birth takes her mind off such self pitying introspection, and before she knows it, the gaudy foyer clock is ringing out 1:00 am.

Homework and college has been running Gigi a little ragged and eventually her little head begins to droop against his leg and the way the empty coke bottle starts to slip from her weak grip catches his attention. He slowly raises his hand from where it was resting ever so lightly on her shoulder and caresses her neck. To his immense relief Gigi leans into his patting eager as a housecat, and it makes him glad. Just as much as it makes him worry.

Only twenty years old and so easily lulled.

“You got a curfew, lil one?” he asks her with concern and that startles Gigi, his warm breath hot against her ear and the grunt of him folding himself over his sizable belly to get down near her face.

“No sir. Not really.” She admits, overly respectful in her sleepy state, “My parents aren’t really into stuff like that. They are pretty liberal that way. And I live with Tammy.”

She gives him an assuring smile even as she stifles a yawn, and two things flash across his mind. This means he (or God forbid, any man) could have her over here at his whim without excuses being made. And secondly, Elvis really must look out for her so that she doesn’t fall into the company of any such other men.

There’s no precedent for a Graceland party to wind down before dawn, but he considerately asks her if she’s got classes tomorrow. The honest way Gigi nods her droopy head and moans “yeah” has his heart clenching and his fingers flex, he wants to put her to bed. His bed, he thinks, though that’s a rather dastardly thought. Really though, he’d like to wrap himself around her and hold her and tell her he’d care very much whether or not she came home late from a stranger's house. That he’d be worried sick about so sweet and darling a little treasure if she were his. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that he’ll care no matter what, his or no.

Instead, he interrupts the game to have Lamar drive her home. Tammy and a few others, noticeably the ones who look like all night partiers, stay longer.

Gigi gets another pat on the head and a commendation to do well on her grades and that’s that.

Gigi last sees him standing in his foyer, jeweled chains gleaming in the nest of his chest hair and a boyish smile on his face, Dinah coming up behind to wave her farewell. Tammy is back there, too, probably going to get up to all sorts of fun while she gets sent home like a child. Wistfully, even as she walks down his drive to her ride, Gigi wishes she had hugged him goodbye. Gushed with more than just words in thanks for the invite, maybe even buried her face there in his chest, just once in that safe haven, sweat and jewels against her cheek. He had seemed to care.

But she wasn’t not that type though, was she? Brazenness was something that always felt awkward to her and landed her splat into uncomfy situations where college boys peered into the women’s locker room and jacked off to the sight of her legs as she tried to change into her track shorts.

The frenzy she often felt in her body to be touched would immediately die in situations such as having her hand clumsily moved up and down a penis in the dark of a movie theater. Or groped over her dress by the drunk jocks she tried to experiment with. Gigi could feel her own potential simmering hot and fervent inside, ready to be appreciated and let out like a fizz from a corked bottle. It was cruel that a fatherly sorta hero was the one to make her finally feel like she would take riding that man’s shoe over the most romantic gesture from one of her many age-appropriate admirers.

If she were Tammy, she wouldn’t have inspired the literal king of rock n roll to send her to bed. If she were Tammy she’d have made a move and said “damn that mythical absentee girlfriend” and would now be flat on her back getting obscenely used by that gorgeous hunk of a man.

Instead, deposited safely home by Lamar and tucked back in her shared flat, Gigi stares at her made up face with adamant animosity. It’s a fine face, she’s been told that plenty and she’s been told she’s smart, but it’s not really inviting the attention she suddenly wants so badly. Maybe she should have worn falsies to add to the effect. Maybe her features and coloring are too light. Tammy’s bleach blonde hair does not occur to her as being a strike against this logic. Instead Gigi thinks of pouring over photos of raven haired Pricilla as a girl and marveling at the thick mask Elvis crafted for her, wonders why she can’t be that kind of girl. She’s not petite, or glamorous or particularly coquettish, but she’d ride that man till he needed IV fluids if he’d just let her.

But he chose Tammy.

Dunking her face into the sink, Gigi scrubs away the artificial bloom until she’s left pink and freckled and so decidedly innocent looking it makes her wanna claw her cheeks to shreds.

“Lil one.”

The way he’d cooed it had turned her insides to jelly and ignited thoughts of her own sizable frame being made small while smothered beneath his sturdy breadth but now it turns her angry, and in the shower she lathers herself and wishes maybe her parents had given a shit about her catching a man instead of being “all she could be” because now at twenty she’s eyeing up the bulbous shape of her Lemon Up shampoo bottle and wondering if she’s big girl enough to take it. He was so big, so bulky and sturdy and muscly with padding to boot, and she’s just so sure his cock has got to match the thighs. A bulky, chubby thing, too, probably. The sort only girls like Tammy can manage.

She wants to be that sorta girl.

Gigi grabs at the bottle. She wrenches the shower handle to off, her wet body bolting for her bed, a jar of Vaseline in her other hand and savage lust in her heart. Halfway to the bed she realizes the shampoo bottle is almost empty and she wants to cry at that. She does stomp her chilled feet like a child and whines. What she needs is weight, her subconscious provides, everything about him was heavy and wonderfully big and she needs more than a hollow bottle to mimic him. She runs back to the shower and grabs at the conditioner, same ginormous shape and this time it’s fully loaded and heavy in her hand and she races back to bed, happy to dive under the covers with her dripping hair and goosefleshed skin.

Tammy has toys to achieve this, Gigi knows from sightings of them being washed in their communal bathroom sink. Pink and veiny and some that even buzz and it was all very funny and silly to come across them when she needed to wash her hands, but right now Gigi wants nothing to do with them, the stupidly large and bulky shaped conditioner bottle not even phasing her. Because it’s hers and not Tammy’s -Tammy who is probably getting railed but Elvis Presley right now. His cockhead probably isn’t shaped like the bottom of a lemon, but it’s gotta be round and this bottle will have to do.

It doesn't do. She lathers on the Vaseline to add to the sticky want she already has pooling, she rubs herself to a frenzy and as her hand cramps she tries putting the oiled up bottle up her channel and finds it’s really just impossible. It’s burns and won’t give and she berates herself and begs a man called “daddy” that she can barely admit to herself is Elvis to “give it to her” and curses Tammy for having a big vagina. She tries and tries with ever increasing anguish and frustration as the clock ticks towards three am and valuable sleeping hours are wasted as she tries to slip more than the crown of the lemon bottle into her untried cunt.

“Give it to me please, please daddy I can

take it.” Gigi insists to the shampoo bottle and her wrist manfully attempts to shove it in after slipping it along her folds for ages.

But it won’t go and she screams more and begs more and cries more and ends up seizing her stuffed valentine's bear -gifted to her by the football team's running back- and rubs herself raw in its button nose. It’s not the first time, but for once her sticky satisfaction doesn’t come to the thought of tiny white shorts ocean wet and clinging to him, or svelte white jumpsuits and chiseled jawline grinning promise. She digs her fingers into the stuffy’s fur and thinks of a hairy chest glistening with sweat and chains jingling with noisy exhales and the smell of him. Oh god the manly smell of him! - and the quiet authority that had her sitting at his feet and having her head petted and being sent home like a child. He acted like he cared for her and could find some use for her and she wets the poor bear’s muzzle at the thought of him telling her that her purpose is to keep him happy.

Worn out and trembling from her orgasm she rolls off the poor stuffed animal and buries her face in her pillow and dreams of warmth.

Outside Gigi’s door, arrested in her trip to the bathroom by shrieks of “daddy” and curses of her own name, Tammy shakes her head in disbelief and grins to herself through her whole nightly routine.

“Why were you cussing me out last night?” Tammy asks her placidly next morning, “Are you jealous of your daddy’s attention being split?”

Gigi groans at Tammy’s mischievous smile and realizes her mistake with a blush, “You didn’t- last night you came back? He didn’t keep you?”

“No, he didn’t.” Tammy agrees through her wheezing laughs and Gigi tries to aim a kick at her shins in mortification. “He was quite the gentleman in fact,” she expounds, “Except for the fact he spent the rest of our time asking me questions about you. I told him he’d lost all his raisin’ talking to a lady about another lady. Made a girl feel like a damn directory.”

“Oh, oh I’m sorry.” Gigi tries to suppress her thrill enough to sympathize with a no doubt annoying event. “You must’ve felt left out.”

Tammy pauses in thought for a bit. “He’s very….sweet.” Is Tammy’s verdict and to Gigi’s incredulity she sounds a little disappointed. “I mean, didn’t you think he was just sorta, ya know, nice?” Tammy presses.

Gigi thinks of the way his hand felt stroking her hair, the care about her curfew, the lack of alcohol, the endearments, the sturdy meat of his thigh against her shoulder. All the things that had made her rub herself puffy with a shampoo bottle that is still hidden under her covers. Yes, he seemed very sweet, and she was desperately in love with a man she’d never see again, who seemed a bit bashful about being “discount bargain Elvis” when all she could think of was how nurturing and mischievous he was.

He just seemed -shy. Bizarrely enough. And she could sympathize with that. Laying here on Tammy’s bed watching the dust motes dance in the afternoon sun when she should be studying, she thinks she’s solved Elvis Presley.

He’s shy.

“I thought he was precious.” Gigi agrees with Tammy, though her tone holds a reverence that makes the beauty queen of Memphis’ head spin in a near 180 to observe her now flaming cheeks. It seems the man has that effect on Gigi, present or not.

“Well, well.” Pretty, sultry, darling Tammy hasn’t a malicious bone in her body but she takes delight in making Gigi squirm, “You sound enchanted!”

“He was sweet!” Gigi protests, using her words against her.

“Yeah, he was.” she agrees, her perfectly tweezed brows drawing together for a moment before an epiphany dawns on her, “But I think it’s a means to an end.”

“What do you mean by that?” She balks, fervent in her conviction that it wasn’t an act. In fact, Gigi was certain he was more himself in his own home last night than ever on a stage.

“It’s making sense now.” she starts to pace the room, “He’s an outrageous flirt, you saw him, flirting with everyone he wasn’t related to that night, but he was so sweet to you- hmm, I think he wants to baby you.”

“Baby me?” Gigi repeat, staring up at the ceiling and feeling that flutter in her belly, just from the idea of him having *any* design on little ole her. “What’s- what even is that?” She asks her, a little hopeful, content to get her education from Tammy on this just as she has on all the more mechanical and dynamical aspects of sex and men.

“It means turning you into his baby.” she laughs, like it’s the most obvious thing, “Would probably put a little chain round your neck saying ‘belongs to Elvis Presley’ or something, and in turn spoil you rotten. At least, that’s how it’s worked for the others. It’s what he’s trying with Ginger but she’s got an independent streak.”

Ginger. The others. Of course there had been others. And yet he was so lonely again, already so lonely she was sure of it. Lonely in his own home, what was worse than that? “I wouldn’t mind being his baby.” Gigi mutters, bashful at the fact that what was essentially a future of house arrest, a portly sugar daddy and head pats makes her shiver delightfully.

“You sure about that?” Tammy suddenly seems overly earnest for a conversation in her room on a Thursday evening about a hypothetical scenario where Elvis Presley takes an interest in Gigi.

“Yes.” She gives it the full, weighty two seconds of thought it deserves. “And if all I get out of it is polishing his guns and feeding him yogurt then I’d honestly be happier than studying political science.” She makes a face as she registers the homework currently crinkling somewhere under her lower back.

“So you get that the sex probably isn’t exactly legendary anymore, right? Like -you saw him.” only Tammy, beautiful, southern pageant winner that she is, with the manner to accompany the looks, could say such a thing without Gigi socking her.

She’s looking out for her, just as she looked out for her with the sub par debate President that Gigi went to prom with and found insufferable after two weeks. She thinks Gigi needs to just keep trying the field (like her, Gigi presumes) until she finds the magical unicorn that will blow her mind in bed and satisfy her curious brain.

At this point in life, she’d settle for a man who chooses her drinks for her and cares enough about her well being to get her home by his own, invented curfew. Maybe she wants a father, what with hers being liberal to the point of carelessness, but she’d settle for a daddy, happily. “Tammy,” she says very slowly, trying to distill all these emotions down into something convincing -because strangely she feels a dire need to convince Tammy of her devotion even in this hypothetical scenario- “Tammy, if he gave a crap about me and paid my student loans, I’m pretty sure I could get off by just watching him smile at the way I make a fool of myself. And if that wasn’t enough, then I’d rub myself raw on his hairy belly. -you get me?”

Tammy looms above her, upside down in her view with her blown out bleached hair, heavy coaled eyes and shimmery mouth, studying Gigi for a minute before bursting out laughing. “You really meant that bit about his belly, didn’t you?”

“Yup.” Gigi mutters, throat thick and heart pounding -somewhere else pounds, too- at the very thought of being that intimate with him, that nasty sticky sweet with him. “Why are we talking about this anyway?” She whines, having worked herself up enough she’s damp and actually a little heartbroken knowing that if anything, Tammy is the one he’d go for.

“I got a call from George Klein this morning.” she spins away and busies herself in the closet, rummaging for shoes, Gigi thinks.

“Oh?” She asks, trying to keep the waiver out of her voice as she sits up and watches Tammy as she digs.

“Yeah, we got invited back.” she says, and turns on her award winning haunches to raise a significant eyebrow at Gigi, “All of us. And then, it was specified, you too.” she watches Gigi’s panicked, hopeful blush coat her face and chest.

“What exactly did he say, Tammy?” she demands, forcing herself not to gnaw on her fingernails, having to remember these nails might be in Graceland by the end of the week.

“He said that ‘E.P. wants to make sure the old gang knew they were welcome again, and the invite is only contingent on “Miss cherry coke” coming’.” she sits fully back on her butt now just to fully appreciate the way Gigi hyperventilates. “Cherry coke, huh?” she teases, “Did you ask for that just to be as euphemistic as possible or do you actually favor the drink?”

“He chose it.” Gigi whimpers, scuffing her keds together because it’s either that or her thighs.

“Oh god.” Tammy sounds like some guys do when their team makes a dirty, dirty interception that ends in a touchdown, “What did I say? Baby you, he wants to baby you! Oh my god, like he’s sweet but that’s -that’s nasty honey, just know that’s a nasty little thing to do.” she insists before turning back to her closet and digging through the dozens of pairs again.

Gigi flops back on her back and tries to think of the deep seated meaning behind cherries, and fails to do more than buzz in hopeless nervous anticipation at going back to that warm and kind and slightly bizarre haven that is Elvis Presley and his home.

Hope y’all enjoyed and if you wanna be tagged let me know. I live off your screams and your pestering, y’all are each precious to me!

Xoxo 🌷 Marina

@prompted-wordsmith

@parodsal000

@ab4eva

@stylespresleyhearted

@presleyenterprise

@kendralavon7

@coolgirl462

@colahola

@lillypink

@stephthestallion

@vintageshanny

@landmermaid12

@ashtag2887

@notstefaniepresley

@butlersluvbot

@steph-speaks

@eliseinmemphis

@lookingforrainbows

@dkayfixates

@ellie-24

@memphisflash1935-1977

@marriedtopresley

@powerofelvis

@thatbanditqueen

@elvisabutler

@butlersxbirdy

@heartbrake-hotel

@fav-fanficssss

@austinbutlersbaby

@freudianslumber

@joons

[itsjusthockey]

Playdate - Mat Barzal

This man does things to me

Warning: NSFW (first time ever, hope it doesn't suck)

wc: 2,513 (credit to gif maker)

Feed me. Send in requests and give thoughts

You know from across the room he isn’t a good person. Someone who looks like that can’t be. His appearance alone seems to broadcast this verdict, a beguiling countenance that you can't help but be captivated by its enigmatic allure.

He’s gorgeous. So naturally, you’re curious about him. His casual demeanor exudes an air of confidence. He’s got that suave disposition, enhanced by a sexy half-smirk and eyes that hold an almost magnetic quality as if they could sway your every inclination.

You want to get close to him, to scrutinize those eyes up close and determine whether their impact would be enough to unravel your very foundation. And as fate would have it, a twist of coincidence steers your group toward the bar, positioning you conveniently beside his presence. Amidst the bustling crowd, circumstances bring you into proximity, placing you so close that his back is stiff against yours. The occasional accidental contact sends electric thrills coursing through you.

“What’re you gonna get?”

Your best friend's question solicits your attention and guides your gaze toward the bartender standing at your side. Your patient contemplation coincides with the bartender taking the giant order from the men beside you.

“Can we get six of these,” the near god of a man next to you holds up a beer, “and three shots of whiskey.”

The bartender nods and starts making the drinks, and in a moment of calculated daring, you decide to orchestrate your first move of the evening. A faint, deliberate graze of your fingertips against his arm is executed with finesse. Then your sudden withdrawal from the contact is masked by an apologetic smile and a sweet “I’m sorry” that dons in the air with charming modesty.

Of course, the gesture sparks his attention, prompting him to focus entirely on you. The impact is staggering – he manages to nearly take your breath away. He is almost unfairly attractive, and it elicits a sense of disbelief, as though it shouldn’t be possible.

“Don’t worry about it,” His gaze sweeps over you in a way that is far from subtle, leaving a trail of appreciation in its wake. A beckoning hand extends toward you. "I'm Mat.”

You shake the outstretched hand and lean a little closer to him. “Hi Matt, I’m (Y/N).”

With another lingering look at you and a glance at your friends behind you, a sly smile and a glint of mischief cross his features.

"What's your poison?" he inquires, the question laden with suggestion. You also don’t miss when he subtly elbows his friend behind him.

“What do you suggest?” You bat your lashes.

He lets out a light chuckle and throws out a couple of options, and after a minute of weighing the possibilities, you decide. Seconds later, the bartender returns with their order, and Mat orders the rest of the drinks, handing over a black card that catches your attention.

“Amex, really?”

He signs for the drinks and sends you a slightly shy smile. The night progresses, and the connection between you and Mat deepens, fueled by laughter and electric tension that hangs in the air. The playful touches exchanged become bolder, and every time he gives you those eyes, your stomach turns.

He also reveals he plays hockey, and you can't help but be captivated by the mental image of him in a jersey, his body glistening with sweat. The room grows warmer as your thoughts stray to uncharted and impure territories.

In a moment of playful curiosity, you ask, "So, are you any good?"

Mat's response is nonchalant, accompanied by a modest shrug. "I'm alright."

However, his friend Tito scoffs and chimes in, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "He's more than alright, he's fucking fantastic."

You can't help but raise an amused eyebrow, your gaze flickering between Tito and Mat. The camaraderie between the two friends is evident, and Mat's blush only adds to the charm.

“I mean, clearly, he’s a little bit interested because normally, he’s the most cocky dude I’ve ever met. You’ve got him being all modest and shit.”

Mat rolls his eyes far back.

“And I’m also sure that he really wants to show you his moves, he’s got great stamina and a fantastic-“

“Okay, Tito,” Mat almost panics, sending his friend a semi-glare and shooing him away.

Tito puts his hands up in mock surrender, winking at you and clinking glasses with yours and then moving to talk with your friend behind you.

You continue to talk with Mat for a while when you both realize that the bar's atmosphere is beginning to ebb, and you’re feeling about ready to leave. Yet, you’re unsure if you want to go alone, and your gaze meets Mat's with an unspoken question.

"I should probably get going.“

“Yeah,” he pauses. “Want company?”

You nod frantically and beeline to the exit, Mat trailing behind you. You leave the bar and enter the open air, making your way toward your apartment.

When you arrive, you’re quick to fumble out your keys, and you can feel Mats's burning stare. Once you unlock the door, you rush inside. Mat follows in, briefly looks around, and then locks his eyes on yours. You see his gaze flick down to your lips, and you can feel the silent invitation.

You both pause momentarily, almost unsure what to do, when Mat closes the distance between you. He pushes you gently into the door, and your lips meet for the first time. As soon as his lips mold into yours, it ignites the passion you've both been skirting around all evening.

With each passing second, you want more, and the intensity deepens, your hands finding their way to his chest, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. Mat responds eagerly, his arms encircling your waist, pulling you closer. The soft press of his body against yours only fuels the growing need that courses through you both.

You stay by the door for a minute longer until the heat between you becomes unbearable. You feel Mat's hand slide up your shirt and on your back, sending shivers down your spine.

You genuinely feel like you’re about to die, so you pull away, breathing heavily and locking eyes with Mat, whose hues have grown darker.

Mat speaks first, “Bedroom?”

The immediate answer should be yes, but you’re not the type to have a one-night stand. Yet, as if you’re on autopilot, you nod and lead him toward your room.

Once inside, Mat doesn’t waste any time. He grabs your hips, tugging you into him. He’s not gentle; he knows what he wants to happen, but his fingers are soft as he gently squeezes your sides.

You continue to mold together, his hands gliding up your back until he cups the back of your neck.

“Are you sure?”

You nod fervently, deciding against any logic. He smiles again and begins nipping on your neck. This feeling makes you putty in his hands. You’re almost positive he can feel the gulp you swallow, tilting your head to the side to give him more access to the spot you love.

He continues the assault on your neck, and you whimper out, which only seems to spur him on. He’s quick to unzip your top as you find yourself unlatching his belt. You hear it come loose, and a smirk takes over his face when you grab the zipper and pull it down.

In one bold move, you place your hand in his pants, and Mat moans against your lips, forcing your head to tilt back so that he can kiss you even harder.

You gently squeeze him outside his boxer briefs, and you note that he is already hard, and you can't help but let your ego go a bit. But you refuse to waste time, so you slide your hand past the elastic waistband of his underwear and grab hold of him.

“Holy fuck.” He swears.

You concentrate and watch Mat's face as you gently grab him at the base and his breath shallows. You trail your thumb along his length to gauge his reaction before slowly sliding your hand up and down.

After a few pumps, Mat places one hand beside his head, palm flat against the wall, to support himself. In his other hand, he’s digging into your hips, surely leaving bruises.

"Feel good?" You ask, brushing your lips against his earlobe.

His head drops to your shoulder as you continue to pump him at a steady pace, and you can feel him nodding into your neck. You love that you have him like this, at your whim. But it doesn’t last long when he manages to find the strength to pause his breathy curses to whisper in your ear, "I can’t wait any longer.”

At record speed, you both discard the rest of your clothing, and he practically throws you onto your bed. In a swift motion, his chest is pressed flat against your back, and he snakes around your hips, feeling to see if you’re ready for him as he is ready for you.

“Fuck, baby.” Mat moans, gently kissing your shoulder as he slides a finger inside you.

He works his way a few times, curling inside you while his thumb presses against your clit. You almost feel it’s getting too much when he removes his fingers and frantically searches for his jeans.

You watch, somewhat impatient, as he digs for his wallet, opens it, and finally pulls out a condom.

As if he never left, he pulls you forward, hungrily kissing you before gripping your ass. With your arms around his neck, you smile as you feel his hardness between you. He quickly hooks one of his strong arms around your waist to pull you close to his chest as he slowly places you down on the mattress.

“Ready?" he asks huskily with his forehead pressed against yours.

You nod, breath spent as you feel him against your thigh, "Yes."

Finally, after hours of anticipation, he guides himself inside of you, crawling up your torso as he pushes in inch by inch. Your eyes instinctively close, your jaw drops at the sensation of feeling this close to him, and you release a satisfied hum.

You feel Mat's breath on your cheek as he grabs your hip with one hand, steadying you before pulling out almost all the way. You want to groan at the loss of contact, but your breath is stolen when he slams back in.

“Holy shit," you breathe out, almost not believing a man could make you feel this way. “It’s so good.”

With your praise, the amusement in his eyes vanishes as he lets out deep breaths through his nostrils. He adopts a steady rhythm, neither too fast nor too slow, but the force he thrusts into you has you quickly feeling like you are going over the edge.

You dig your nails into his back, and when he spreads your legs even wider, the sensation he makes you feel becomes even more intense. You bite the inside of your cheek, but you can’t help but beg him for more.

“There we go,” Mat says through broken breaths, not flinching when your nails scratch his back. “Are you close?"

Whimpering, you nod, and Mat grasps your hips and practically lifts them off the bed for each hard thrust. You are barely able to see straight and feel entirely out of control. You feel on fire, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to hold onto the feeling of how he feels buried inside of you.

You were gone when you could no longer assist in the thrusting and were left disorientated with slow breaths. Mat follows suit, speeding up his pace, driving himself into a state of bliss shortly after, and collapses on top of you.

The room seems to pulse with the echoes of your shared passion as you both catch your breath, locked in an intimate embrace. For a moment, time seems to stand still, and the world outside fades away, leaving just the two of you intertwined in the aftermath.

As your breathing begins to steady, Mat shifts, his weight shifting off you and onto the bed beside you. He rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he gazes at the ceiling. You turn your head to the side, your eyes meeting his, and a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

Mat reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. There's a quiet tenderness in his gaze, a vulnerability you hadn't expected, but as soon as you see it, it’s gone.

After a moment, Mat clears his throat, "That was... incredible."

A surge of emotion wells up within you, and you can't help but agree. "Yeah, it was."

For a minute longer, you both lie in silence, the heaviness of the moment hanging in the air. But eventually, Mat shifts again, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You watch as he starts to gather his clothes, and a pang of uncertainty hits you. The reality of the situation dawns on you.

As Mat dresses, you sit up, wrapping the sheets around yourself. Your heart races, a mix of desire and apprehension swirling within you. You want to say something, to reach out and ask him to stay, but the words stick in your throat.

Finally dressed, Mat turns to you, his expression unreadable. He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek again, but this time, the touch feels different. It almost seems like a touch of farewell, of a shared moment that won’t ever happen again.

“Hey," he says softly, his eyes searching yours. "That was fucking amazing, but I have to go find Tito.”

You manage a small smile, though your heart aches at the thought of him leaving. Yet, you nod and watch as he goes. Leaving as quickly as he entered your life. You hear the door click shut behind him, and a small piece of your heart cracks.

You're suddenly overwhelmed with a mix of emotions as Mat walks out of your apartment. You know you felt something, the intensity of your encounter lingering, but now there's a bitter aftertaste.

Sitting alone in your sheets, slight anger replaces the immediate loneliness. How could he just leave? And how could you be so stupid to think he’d stay?

You spend the next hour cleaning up and thinking way too much. Half of you want to forget this ever happened, but the other half desires revenge. You want to prove that you're not someone to be brushed aside so easily. Your mind races for the rest of the night. Plotting on how you can turn the tables and make him feel the same longing and frustration he left you with.

[g0j0s]

padmavat: the movie

i’m sick to my stomach looking the beauty of sanjay leela bhansali’s padmavat. the rajputana palace is lit with a thousand lamps at most times. the lattice work of the windows and the doors cast a shadow so mesmerising under their flickering light.

the tones in the frame pull you in, prompting you to savour each second that the palace is on the screen. the hand crafted customs and the intricate jewelleries are beguiling, with such beauty and splendour shinning right in your face. one can only speculate the opulence that the rajasthani royals possessed during their reigns.

however scattered and biased the story line may be, with predictable characters & an inconsistent plot. the grandeur of bhansali’s work is undisputed.

[curatoroffiction]

Seductive Speechcraft Midterms: Part 4

Summary:

It's Belphegor's turn to attempt to vie for your soul in the setting of an exam. His attempt is very different from the ones you've encountered so far.

Warnings: - Unreality tag for this one. Belphegor's magic messes with the reader's mind and alters their perception of reality ----- Previous Chapters: - Intro Chapter - Satan's Seduction - Mammon's Magnetism -----

Belphegor's Beguilement:

You don't end up going back into the exams until the next day. When you originally came back from your lunch with Mammon, the teacher checked your energy levels and told you to take the rest of the day off.

So when you come in today, you're fresh and ready, and once again excited to be here.

You have no idea who'll come through that door, but you've brought your collection of props again. The proctor assessing your performance in this exam motions for you to get ready for the first exam taker of the day, and to let her know when you're ready.

You reach into your bag of persona prompts and you pull out "Busy". Okay, you can work with that. You grab your laptop and set it up on the table and you pull up a game to play. You have headphones that you connect and use to immerse yourself. Whoever is coming in will be testing on hardmode. You motion to the teacher that they can send in the first student, and you begin playing.

The game you've chosen is an open-world RPG, so you're following quests and collecting goods and unlocking story lore.

You almost forget that you're in the middle of an exam, until you smell the soft scent of warm melon and honey. A scent you're most familiar with from the youngest of the brothers. He moves to sit beside you, and you can see that he's brought his own book.

He's planning to ignore you?

Well that's fine. You're pretending you're a busy person.

You choose to ignore him right back. You're playing a particularly difficult questline. Given that this is a game you've played a lot, and you're actually invested in the plot, it's not hard for you to ignore him. Especially given that you're wearing your headphones.

You gently yawn. Despite it being the first exam of the day, and having had caffeine just beforehand, you feel the gentle lull of every warm delight of slumber tugging at your mind. Ah, so this is his impact. Interesting.

You're a little interested, given that you've never really gotten to see Belphegor use his power in an attempt to attract you and make you want to know more. Even when he was in the attic, it was less.. 'Dreamy' and more 'Nightmarish'. But you find yourself yawning again, and this time it feels like you're struggling to keep a straight thought towards your video game. You're distracted and thinking about Belphegor.

How is his power affecting you? You're not looking at him, you haven't looked him in the eye- It can't be his scent.. Can it?

Ahh.. Dammit.

It's definitely his scent. That's how he's invading your senses. You have to cut that off, or you'll find yourself lulled out of your work. You reach into your book bag at your feet and take out a small balm of vapo rub. You usually use it to help yourself when the air of Devildom is particularly horrible - But you know it'll work in this instance. You apply a small dab under your nose to replace the scent, and your senses are flooded with the thick scent of vapo rub.

And it's no surprise to you that you suddenly feel much more awake.

You put the balm back into your book bag, curious to see how he'll deal with your resourcefulness. You return to your game, and for a while, it seems like he's not even trying. No approach. No attempt to connect.

Is he capable of affecting you in other ways?

It's not until a little while later that he produces a small soft drink and slides it across the table to you. You pause your game and look up to see the can. You glance up to him and see that he's looking to his book as he wordlessly offers you the drink.

"... Are you offering that to me?"

"Sure. You look like you could use some refreshment."

You pick up the drink, looking it over. It's a can, unopened. There's no reason to believe that it's what poses the danger here. You look him over once and pause, but you can't find a reason that a typical human wouldn't accept aside from preference. Right now, he's coming across as a gentle stranger.

You decide to take the drink, cracking it open and taking only a sip, just to test the waters.

When you do, you expect for him to ask something about it. Or maybe to follow up and see if you're responding to his influence yet.. But he just continues to passively read his book. You expect to feel his power ebbing at the edges of your mind - You expect for yourself to be overwhelmed by drinking the drink.. But nothing comes.

You feel as in control of yourself as ever.

You return to your game, once again refocusing yourself. You're meant to be busy. The game takes you into a small village where you have to use your character's senses to solve a mystery- And you can still give it your whole attention. Still, in the quiet moments, when the work is mindless and you're killing monsters that are attacking you, you can't help but to feel the... Monotony of it all.

Your mind keeps coming back to Belphegor, who is sitting only a chair away from you.

You feel his voice dancing on your thoughts, and you feel drawn to look towards him. What is he reading? You only take a glance, but you quickly catch that it's a book about artificery - Which piques some deep part of your mind that dances with the fancy of the unknown.

You realize at once that you're under his influence again, but how did he do it? His voice soothingly plays in your mind once again. 'You look like you could use a break' - But that's not what he said, right?

He knows exactly how to tantalize a human, how to play into their deepest desires. The demon of dreams. He can tell when he's got your interest piqued, and he'll make you think every point of engagement is your own choice. How is he doing it?

Was it sound?

You're not sure, because as soon as you disengaged, all you can hear in your mind is the sound of your game.

If that was his influence, did you break it, or did he release you?

It's driving you a little nuts that you can't tell the difference. Mammon's influence was easy to see because he was trying to impress - But.. Belphegor's playing a much longer game. A much slower game. The avatar of sloth. He can afford to wait.

You can hear through your headset as he opens himself a drink, sipping it as he reads. You feel a yearning tugging at your chest, wanting to engage. He seems so gentle and easy to approach. You want to ask about his book. You want to know about his interests. You want to hear his gentle, warm voice envelop you with every answer. What's wild is that it feels so.. organic. Like he's a stranger passing you on a rare chance, and you can take it.

And unlike some demons' influences, you're not feeling fear when you tell yourself not to engage. You feel regret, but it's like the soft regret you feel when you want to tell a stranger that they look nice, but you're too shy to get it out. It doesn't feel like you're being pulled by strings.

You decide to break the silence and engage with him to see where it goes. A typical human would engage. You pause your game and look to the demon. ".. Do I know you?"

He pauses in his reading, glancing to you as though surprised that you're engaging with him. He makes it seem so natural. He really does make it feel like you're the one approaching him. "Hmn? I'm sorry, I was really deep in my book. Can you repeat that?" He grins sheepishly, his hand holding the book resting in his lap as he gives you all of his warm attention. You feel shy, warm, as though you're basking in the soft glow of the embers of a campfire.

"... I was asking if I knew you." You feel almost embarrassed that you ask again. You find yourself yearning to make a good impression. Like you need to match his energy.

"Oh, no. Sorry if I confused you. I always bring extra drinks for the people around me. You looked busy, so, I figured you could use one." His smile is so warm and organic. Like he thinks your misunderstanding is funny, but in an endearing way. Wait. Your misunderstanding?

This isn't a misunderstanding.

He's really worming his way into your mind.

You have to disengage.

You turn back to your computer. "Ah, well.. Thank you."

"No problem." He's back to reading his book. It's easy for him to disengage from you. There's no pressure from him. You feel no pressure. The only pressure you really feel is the pressure to reach out. You want to reach out. You want to ask more. You want to know more...

But you keep disengaging.

He turns the page, and you can hear it through your headphones. Even when you're disengaging, you can hear it, and feel it, and each turn of the page, however slow, however long it takes... It anchors you back to him. You get lost in your game, but soon enough, the turning of the page comes through once again. It's not invasive. It's almost exciting. You almost look forward to the sound of the turning of the page as you try to lose yourself in the escapism of the game.

Soon enough, you find yourself slowly.. bored. The plots of the game are too.. Overdone. You've played RPGs before. Fight the monsters, collect the treasure, learn the lore.. But even learning the lore seems so.. Unattractive in this moment.

He turns the page, and your mind sparks with excitement. He's interesting. He's an unknown. You have no idea who he is, and yet, he seems so.. Inviting. And what of artificery? Is it a real study? Is it a fiction book that he's playing with? Who's the author? You feel like you want to know more.

You've forgotten what artificery even is.

You've forgotten who he is.

You've forgotten that this isn't real.

All that's real is this moment, and it's a chance to get to explore something magical.. Magic doesn't exist. You know that there is no magic in this world. You have no magic.

You look to your game and you feel like you're just busying yourself with escapism - But he could be a real escape from the monotony of the world around you.

You hear the distant scribbling of the proctor's notes as they watch, and it brings you back to the moment.

You know that magic is real, and that it's real because you're not in your world anymore. Artificery is your biggest passion. You're a leading mage in the field.

How did he make you think it wasn't real? How did he revert you back to a time when it wasn't real to you?

And wait, you know him. This is Belphegor.

In this brief moment of clarity where you can remember who you are and what's going on, you remember you need to stop this. You have to completely disengage. If you don't, you'll lose this. You close out of your game and close your laptop and begin getting up to leave. As you leave, you hear him call after you - "Hey, do you want your drink?"

And you look back to him reflexively, your guard being completely down as you catch a dooming glimpse of his eyes. His violet eyes soothe your soul, gently beckoning you to come back, to sit with him in this escape. He can take you to places you've never thought could exist. He can make every dream you've ever had feel insignificant with the excitement he can bring to your life.

This is a chance.

No.

This is a choice.

You gently wave your hand. ".. No, thank you." and break eye-contact, walking out of the scene.

When you reach the wall, you lean against it, the pressure of his influence still making your heart yearn - Because his influence, though he's ended it, was tugging at your deepest dreams and desires. He stoked a flame inside you and made you want to know more. You feel like you missed out, even though the scene is over.

Seeing you lean against the wall, he breaks character to check in on you. "Hey, ___, are you okay?"

"Yeah, that was just.. intense. Still is." You look up to him and see his concern. But what you don't see is his thought process.

So when he says "I'm sorry, I tried really hard not to push it, and to not use too much of my influence on you. I didn't want to remind you of when I-..." He cuts himself off, sheepish at his own faults, worried that he's hurt you.

".... That was you PULLING your power??" Your exclamation surprises him and he is visibly startled. You begin laughing as your previous emotions bubble away. "God.. It's no wonder I'm still feeling like I missed out. You made it so real, and SO organic, I thought it was all me - And I think it was."

The professor cuts in and motions for you two to come over for your assessments.

"You did an amazing job of discretely cutting off points of influence from Belphegor. This was absolutely an instance of him just knowing his power and strength well enough to keep finding new points of contact." She explains, looking over her notes.

You cut in - "How WAS he getting through? Was it the sound?"

"Yes, absolutely. Originally, he got through to you through the scent, then through sound, and something you didn't catch onto was that he got through to you through the drink."

"But the drink was closed and felt so.. Normal. I didn't get ANY whiff of magic off of it."

"Yes, but he wasn't just getting through to you with magic. He was toying with you by tantalizing your natural human curiosity. It was truly an amazing display of cunning and an in-depth understanding of humans and how their minds work." The proctor sounds genuinely impressed with Belphegor's performance in the exam.

"It really was." You nod in agreement. He absolutely would have gotten you if you hadn't been able to distract yourself and tether yourself back to reality with the teacher's distant sounds of scribbling. Honestly, it took a great amount of effort to pull yourself back from that. You grin to him, and see that he's visibly shy about your praise.

- ".. Thank you." He smiles softly, looking away.

The teacher motions to you. "Back to you, I'm especially proud that you avoided eye-contact. You're getting better at that. He definitely pulled some tricks out to get you to make eye-contact. If he weren't so good at helping humans bring their guards down-"

You can see how Belphegor's shy warmth shifts into embarrassed guilt as the teacher goes on about how great he is at manipulating humans. You clear your throat. "And my performance?" redirecting her focus away from him, so he doesn't have to listen to how good he was at manipulating you.

"Ah, yes, your performance was admirable. You held your own, you stealthily protected yourself, and you appropriately disengaged when it became apparent that you were outmatched. Can I ask, how did his influence feel?"

".. Ahhh.." You pause, glancing over to him. He seems to be cautiously watching you. "Well, it felt.. Real. Like he was a magical stranger in the sense of being someone who was exciting and new and charismatic without even trying. I found myself forgetting core details about myself, which I think was the height of his influence. He somehow made me forget artificery, even though it's something I love dearly and am very passionate about. He somehow made it feel like it was a dream he could show me existed. I have no idea how he did that, but.. Damn."

Belphegor looks away, feeling guilty that he even did that to you. Having gotten his feedback, he heads towards the door.

The teacher is ecstatic though. She gives you both high marks for the occasion. She's about to tell you to get ready for the next one when you go "I'm gonna need a breather after that one. To get my head straight, if that's okay."

"Oh, absolutely. Please, take your time. Return soon though, we do have others waiting."

You follow Belphegor out of the room. He pauses and turns to see you.

And for a moment, you're both quiet.

"... Are you okay?" You ask, worried that he's shutting down.

He nods. "... Are you?"

You nod, giving him a gentle smile.

He feels embarrassed that you're checking in on him. "..."

"Do you wanna hang out later? I'll be pretty exhausted after the exams, and I'll definitely need someone to help me wind down."

"... Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I still feel safe with you."

He looks away, extra embarrassed, but he holds his arms out for you. You close the distance and warmly hug him, giving him a reassuring squeeze. He hugs you back, and you can hear how he decompresses into you, his exhale sounding like he was holding a lot inside. You two stand like this for a long moment, soaking in the comfort of each other's arms, and the safety you've built with each other.

You take as long as you need to recover from this one, and he does too. ----- If you like my writing and wanna check out other works I've done, check out my Masterlist/Rules I write pieces like this and more on my AO3 too!

[fayes-fics]

Benedict ÷ modern + tied to a door

Kinktober: Benedict + Bondage

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Mrs Bridgerton Masterpost

Paring: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader, modern AU.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, mild dom/sub play sub!Benedict domme!reader, soft rope bondage, quickie sex, woman on top.

Author’s note: hi nonny 🫶 thanks for this. I realised I had not written a sub!Benedict for Kinktober, and this was the perfect prompt to rectify that. This is set in the Mrs Bridgerton universe, a few years after the sequel, when they now have three children. Enjoy! 😁🧡

He looks so beguiling, kneeling and tied to the cupboard door with colourful skipping ropes, even if his expression looks harried. At his side is a swag bag with Monopoly money scattered around it.

“What happened here?” you smirk, crossing your arms, leaning on the door jamb of the playroom.

“We were playing cops and robbers. Sadly, our children are better at knot tying than I give them credit for,” Benedict responds dryly, shaking his shoulders to indicate how well ensnared he is by the three of them, as the strains of them now playing boisterously in the garden below filter through the window pane.

“How was work?” he asks, seemingly giving up on his plight and shooting you a puppy dog look to come to his aid.

“Fine,” you shrug, sauntering over to tower above him.

“Are you going to help?” he frowns when you don't move to unfurl the knots.

“Oh, I don't know….I rather like the look of you all trussed up like this,” a devilish smile twitching the corner of your lips. You bend to lean over him, tilting his chin up with a finger, his jawline catching the light so handsomely as you do. “Imagine all the things I could do to you, Mr Bridgerton,” you whisper coquettish, his pupils dilating rapidly at your words.

“Mrs Bridgerton, how could you possibly?” he gasps in mock outrage. “This is our children’s playroom of all places.” Even as his face screams, ‘Please, god, yes, take me’.

You rub your thumb over his lush bottom lip as he shuffles his legs around to sit, legs straight in front of him, nodding at his lap with a bashful smile. You kiss him deeply, running your tongue into his mouth possessively before placing a heel on either side of his knees and hitching up your hem right in front of his face. He makes a slight growl as you give him a fleeting glimpse as you push down your underwear, then slowly lower yourself onto his thighs. 

“Better make it quick,” you warn with a brow raise, eyeing the telltale swelling in his jeans that makes your mouth water.

“Before they come back inside?” he guesses correctly as your hand shoots out to unzip him.

“Exactly,” you hum, distracted, delving into his underwear to wrap your hand around his always delightfully warm cock, revelling in his twitch and throaty gasp as you pump him lightly to full hardness, your other hand pushing your dress higher over your hips as you shuffle closer.

You groan loudly as you sink onto him, the soft ropes that bind him squeaking slightly around the door handle as he attempts to surge his hips up to meet your downstroke, a curse falling from his lips.

“Don't try to move, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease softly, “just enjoy the ride.”

His face is beautiful—desire, hope, pleading, blown eyes as you fulfil your promise. He snags a tooth over his bottom lip, arms tied helplessly behind his back. You begin a rousing rhythm, rising leisurely and sinking dramatically, enjoying the stretch his cock always provides.

“How many other parents fuck in their children's playroom, do you think?” he murmurs as you close your eyes, tilting your head back, wrapping your hands around his broad shoulders for leverage.

“I hope all of them. If not, they are missing out,” you sigh in response, revelling in the nudge to your hilt with each drop you make. Your eyes open, and you snap your chin back to look down at him. “Now stop talking, you dastardly robber. The only noise I want to hear from you is groaning of my name.”

“Yes, Mrs Bridgerton,” he rumbles dutifully as you reach around without breaking tempo to pull down your dress zip enough to loosen the neckline and unhook your bra. Wordlessly, you tip forward against his hot mouth, hissing as he gently bites your nipple, making you ride harder.

Oh yes, Mr Bridgerton. YES….

No taglist as these drabbles are short

[mochinomnoms]

"I want all of you. Every piece of you" + Sunlight with azul please! Fluff/nsfw

🦩

azul ashengrotto x gn!reader [tags] — nsfw-ish, fluff, lots of reference to the myth of icarus [wc} - 910 prompt 15: “I want all of you. Every piece of you.” song: Sunlight (Hozier, “Wasteland, Baby!”) note - idk why but i had a hard time with this one, so it's more romantic that nsfw. it's more alluded to it than explicit francesca (1k event)

“I had been lost to you, sunlight / And flew like a moth to you, sunlight, oh, sunlight / Oh, your love is sunlight”

Growing up in the deep sea, the only light was provided by bioluminescent algae shaped into lanterns. Not from sunlight. Growing up in the deep sea, the only warmth Azul experienced was from the embrace of his mother. Not from sunlight. 

So the early day sun peaking through the roof opening of the grotto over his eyes was still foreign, despite his time living on the surface. The warmth of the light was pleasant, however, it was currently blocked by something, or someone. 

“Azul, love?” you spoke softly as he sunk deeper into the water until only his eyes were visible. He felt a warmth in his cheeks as you admired him. 

“Come on, let me see you. My pretty, pretty boy.” 

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this, but you’d only seen his merform once during his overblot. Azul wasn’t fond of the idea of letting you see him in his natural form, though. He spent so much time specially curating his image as a human, someone sleek, neat, and confident. Not this…squishy, wriggly, clumsy form he was born with. 

He was a creature suited for nothing but the dark, cold spaces of the deep sea, only seen by the bioluminescent patterning on his skin. 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to go back to the docks?”

He flinched as he heard a splash, hiding behind a rock as he felt you move through the water. Azul rested his forehead against the cool surface of the stone, sighing and closing his eyes. 

“Please, Angelfish, are you sure you want to do this? I don’t want to scare you…”

The sound of water alerted him to your movement again, though he couldn’t make out where you were without 

“I want you.” A soft hand threaded through Azul’s hair, making him open his eyes and look up at your form. You were sitting on the rock he rested against, leaning down as your hair fell over your shoulders the closer you came. The sunlight peering through the cave roof shone over you like a halo, you looked like a painting an artist made of an angel. 

“All of you. Please? My love?”

Despite his mind screaming at him to back up, to not let you touch his slimy, squishy skin, his tentacles had a mind of their own. 

One of his arms curled around your hand, another around your waist, two more around your hips, drawn to you. Drawn to your affections that you so freely give to a greedy man like he. Azul sighed again. 

“You’ve taken the water-breathing potion, yes?”

“Mm-hm, just a bit ago.”

“… Good.”

You gasped as Azul dragged you into the water as he sunk backwards. The water under the grotto was dark, almost black, except for the rays of sunlight turning the water into an ethereal green. Once again, Azul found himself beguiled by your visage, hair and clothes floating around you…his arms tightening his grip at the sight. 

They truly had a mind of their own, drawing their energy from Azul’s true thoughts and urges. And how could he resist when you so freely offered yourself, love and body, to him.

Azul tangled himself in your embrace, claiming your mouth with his, drawing your tongue into his mouth to suck and explore. He reveled in the whimper that left you, tightening his hold as his tentacles slithered under your clothes, groping and suckers leaving behind marks. 

“Mmmh, Azul…” You gasped, exposing your neck for him to suckle marks, trailing down your body. Several of Azul’s arms gently pushed your clothes and undergarments off to have easier access to you. His suckers attached themselves to your sensitive area, shivering in its taste. 

“I almost forgot the benefits of being in this body… I can feel and taste your entire being with more than just my tongue. Your pulse drums beneath my grip, the salt on your skin floods my senses, and the sweetness down here.”

One tentacle with a spade-shape was brushing over your hole, pressing in slowly as you clenched onto Azul’s shoulders at the sudden stretch. 

“S-slower, Azul please, it’s too much—AAAH~”

Pressing his tentacle dick into your heat, Azul nuzzled his nose against your own as he fell deeper into desire. He shuddered at the surrounding tightness, getting drunk at the pleasure of your being, at the kisses you fluttered against his face, at the thought of permanently mark you as his with more than just his seed. 

Like Icarus reaching for his love Apollo, Azul would gladly risk flying too close to the sun, and feel the intense burn of its fiery gaze. Unlike Icarus, the way you looked at him like he was the celestial body itself made him certain that you’d never burn him and cast him back to the dark sea. 

Perhaps it was the intoxication from the sybaritism in his veins, bringing him and closer to an orgasm, that would let you two see the god. But he had no need when you were before him, his warmth. The Apollo to your Icarus, the root to his pleasure.

The cry you let out as he brushed against a particularly sensitive spot, throwing your head back as the sun shone on you like a heavenly being, reaffirmed you as his own sunlight.

comments and reblogs appreciated 🩷

[voxmortuus]

►PAIRING: Tangerine x Fem!Reader ►UNIVERSE: Bullet Train ►WORDS: 1.3k ►SUMMARY/PROMPT: Tangerine is constantly traveling for his work. Never really in one place for too long. Never gets attached, the only person he's ever truly loved was his brother. But work brought him back to that place. That place you met. That place you had such a beautiful night together, that one time he let down his walls, and that one night he opened up, and that one night of nothing but raw passion. Standing there, that spot on the beach, the palm trees, and the sounds of the waves crashing sends Tangerine into a trance, and it all comes rushing back to him. That's the night that crosses his mind. It's been a year, and it's as fresh in his mind as the night it happened. ►SONG INSPIRATION: Heat Waves - Glass Animals ►TRIGGER WARNINGS: Unguarded "soft" Tangerine | Public Intoxication Tipsy feeling not drunk | Heavy Petting & Making-out | Public Nudity | Sex on the beach | Vaginal Unprotected Penetration | Hints of Internal Ejaculation | Cuddling | Multiple times implied | Tangerine Waking you up to go back to work | Cliff Hanger | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ►NOTE: Sorry if this isn't what you expected, or had envisioned yourself, I apologize. But I hope you enjoyed my vision. ►IMAGE & DIVIDER CREDIT: @nyxvuxoa ►My Master Masterlist

The hot sand mixed with sunscreen and maybe even a hint of coconut, a sweet scent, an enveloping scent, a warm scent that takes over that memory part of the brain, that memory part that taps into the pleasure senses. The gurgling waves were metronomic. The gushing waves were comforting. The humming of the wave song beguiled him. The sea was kindling its own symphony. It was as if it was putting him in a trance. Standing there, the salty breeze kissed his face, his bright gray eyes closed for a moment and that's when it settled in. That memory from that one night a year to this very day.

"Careful! You're going to spill the bottle!" you chuckled watching him as he took a sip. "You're draggin' me Darlin'! Course I'm going to spill the bottle." he chuckled as you both stumbled in the sand. "I don't want you to leave in the morning." you told him. Taking the bottle you place it in the sand after taking a swig from it and you place your arms around him and hold him close. Looking up you gaze into his eyes. "Can't you just... miss... your flight?" you asked him with a small pout on your lips. "Darlin' I wish I could. But I don't think they'd appreciate that very much. They'll come looking for me and then what are we going to do?" He looked over your face and pushed the hair from your face. Leaning in he kissed you sweetly, lovingly, yearning for that connection.

He never got close with people, but there was something about you that just really made him want to be close. Maybe it was your curves, maybe it was the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself. It could have been anything, but it was enough for this workaholic to stop and take notice of you, and to want to spend time with you. Especially like this.

Eventually, both of you find your way to the sitting in the sand, you're straddling his lap, your hands on his shoulders, and they move up to play at his hairline. You lean in and nuzzled into him. You nipped at his lips. Holding him close you run your nose along his jaw taking in his scent. Feeling his hands on your waist, moving up under your shirt.

Your breathing picked up a bit, and your skin was sensitive from the consumption of liquor. But you were of sound mind, you knew exactly what he was doing, what you were doing. Leaning in you kiss him deeply, and your tongue finds its way to dance with his, doing a sensual tango. You feel him getting excited under you, feeling the twitch of excitement. Letting out a jagged breath, you grind your hips against him. His hands find their way to your ass and gripped you and pull you closer to him.

He watches you for a brief moment, and there were no words spoken. He knew what you wanted, and boy did he want it too. He wet his lips slowly running his tongue over his lower lip and he moves his hands to strip the shirt from your figure, removing the bathing suit top with it. He tossed it to the side. Returning the loss of shirt with him as well, he turns both of you over, and the sand, warm from the heat of the sun from earlier that day caresses the curves of your back as you fall upon it.

Moving to stay between your legs, he gets on his knees and looks down at you. He wanted to admire you, he wanted to just look at you. He reaches forward and unties the cover-up skirt and your bikini bottoms opening them up to see all of you. The way the moonlight hits your body, he smiles, taking every curve in, taking each and every ounce of you in. Logging it in his memory bank.

Reaching forward you run your hand over his stomach, playing at his own curves of how his body worked against your fingers you smile into a giggle, and you bite your lip and you sit up, and reach forward and lower his swim trunks and look over him. He was beautiful, you thought of him the same way he thought of you.

Grabbing at his hips you bring him back to you, wanting to feel his weight against you, wanting to feel that warmth against you. You wanted to feel him. When he came to hover over you, he took your hands and placed them on his sides, as he leaned in and planted his lips against yours, kissing you deeply, yearning still. His member pressing against your swollen lower wanting eager lips.

The dewy wetness coated the underside of his hard member as he moved in such a way the tip of his member slipped into your eager hole. Licking his lips, he leaned in and kissed you deeply. As your hands gripped his sides, his forehead rested against yours and he let out a slow groan as you let out a heavy moan. How he felt, it was like you felt each and every vein, each and every groove of his cock against your lips, against your velvet, wet, warm, wanting walls.

As he thrusts you whimper and moan, and as he grunts and groans, the sounds of your bodies colliding was hidden and masked by the crashes of the waves on the shore.

His hands move to yours and he moves them above your head, his motions were loving, passionate, they were personal. This felt more personal than he could fathom. He was lost in this moment with you, his eyes locking with yours, your moans matched his. It was how you both moved.

Moving you both work together to find yourself on top of him. At first, you're laying against him, your hips moving against his member. Your breasts pressed against him, his hands dragging down your sides and after picking up some pace you move to your hands pressed into his chest as you begin to bounce on him, your head falling back as you press him into you, feeling him hit that back wall, that perfect spot found.

Rocking your hips your breasts bouncing, his hands cupping them, both of you let your moans be carried off by the wind. Carried out to sea finding the sirens of the deep as you both let out such a finishing moan you both tremble. The way that finish filled you was one you will never forget. That finish seemed to just come on so strong, and it was the way you moved together. The way your moans played off the waves it was an intoxicating tune of an echo that seemed to play on those waves for many clicks.

You move to lie next to him, your fingers play against his chest, no words exchanged, there were no need for words to be exchanged. But it was like you both couldn't keep your hands off each other. You didn't want to, he didn't want to. It was nothing but raw passion. Genuine and true. You couldn't keep your distance, feeling how he filled you again, and again.

Ring... Ring... He groans and checks his phone, damn near dead, he looks down at you, the sun just now coming up, he moves some hair behind your ear and leans in and kisses your cheek. He didn't want to wake you but he didn't want just leave you.

"Darlin, wake up, I've gotta go..." he whispers against your ear. "Mmm, please no..." you mutter. "I'm sorry... I wish I could stay. I'm sure we'll see each other soon." He says softly.

Shaking his head he came back from the memory and felt this tightness in his chest. Licking his lips he shoved his hands in his pants pocket and looked down at his feet a moment before turning and walking back to the car. He looks back over his shoulder to see what he thought was you, and an almost one-year-old child.... He tilted his head, but it couldn't be. Could it?

"Look at those waves Clementine."

[llondonfog]

twst (horror) tober — day 1 (listen)

and we're back for round 2!! to keep my sanity this year, i'm going to do my best to keep prompts to ~500 words. if some go longer, then more delight for us all, but this is to keep my expectations manageable and who knows? perhaps i might come back to some of these prompts the way that i still am so very fond of 2022's twstober drabbles :) anyways, i do hope you enjoy the first day's piece! (fun fact: this is a snippet from a fic idea i have buried away....) and of course, these will eventually go up on ao3 when i have the time<3

➤ Day 1: Listen | "Listen to me!"

Sebek is haunted.

Not in the way that his family and friends and neighbors who pass him by on the street and cast him pitying, sorrowful glances think— but oh, how he wishes that he was.

He hears their whispers and murmured commiseration, the hushed voices that speak of a lonely boy lost to the clutches of the unforgiving woods. They shake their heads weighed with grief like the cattails by the river, unable to imagine the gruesome sight that one of their own had stumbled upon— ah, but it was the nature of the world they bargained to live in. A true shame, a tragic reminder, that the youngest Zigvolt was fated to learn such realities from the death of his dearest friend.

Sebek does not correct them.

It is better to let them believe that his drained expression was on account of having found Silver's body mauled in the woods by the animals they are familiar with, rather than the true ones that lurk deep within those ancient glades. It is better to let them cling to their ignorance, to think that the madness of paranoia scratching at his spine is only too understandable by having to discover one's best friend at the scene of his death and the ensuring nightmares that would follow— not that he doesn't have nightmares, that is to say, only that the contents contain horrific figures very much among the living.

Either way, his family knows no better when they find him tangled within his bedsheets, trembling and choking on Silver's name.

No, Sebek is haunted by a presence far too real than the ghost of memory, and his unnerved fingers twitch in the curtains of his bedroom window as his sleep-deprived gaze blinks out to the forest's edge where he can see them.

Three figures where there had once been only two, weaving in and out of the tree line like fish in the stream beneath the call of the moonlight. If he squints, he can make out the lethal curl of dark ivory spouting from the top of one of the figures, and the way that the smaller of the trio does not touch the ground as it tugs their newest member along in a macabre vision of a dance that Sebek cannot pull his gaze away from no matter how hard he tries. There is no mistaking the gleam of familiar silver hair in the beguiling welcome of the night— and even from a mile away, Sebek can all too clearly hear the words that smiling, laughing mouth is speaking, as if Silver himself stood directly behind him in the stillness of his bedroom.

(He wonders if he turns to look, if the boy will surely be there as Sebek remembers him last; blood-stained and smiling so sweetly even in death as Sebek had found him, reaching in the dirt as if to take the hand of one who had led him to his doom.)

"Malleus begs of you to join us, he misses you terribly," Silver's voice all but sings against his strained thoughts, tremors anew bursting down his spine like shrapnel. "Please, Sebek— don't you remember the promises we made? Father came back for me, just as he said he would."

That thing is NOT your father, Sebek wishes to shout and scream in spite of how it would wake his entire family to the horrors lurking outside, the entities cursed to wander the woods and tempt those desperate enough to find solace in their gleaming smiles. But Silver is right, as he often is; Sebek does remember— he remembers a childhood of playing in the woods with Silver, an orphan his family had come to foster and adore. He remembers two imaginary friends who could breathe fire and fly, who could coax butterflies to dance along the breeze and flowers to bloom into the prettiest of crowns. He remembers how much Silver would cling to the affections of a figure with burning crimson eyes, and how much he would the same for a being that smiled down at him with crinkled emeralds older than time itself.

As he had grown older, such strange fantasies had become just that: the result of lonely and imaginative children left to their own devices, spinning stories in the fertile soil of an enchanting landscape. Sebek did not question the time Silver continued to spend within the shadowed trees, for the other boy always did have a unique aptitude for the local wildlife, nor did he find himself with time to spare to wonder about the dreamy smile Silver would often return with, or the odd snatches of unfamiliar songs he'd hear the boy humming tunelessly to himself.

In hindsight, he'd have grabbed a torch and burnt the whole fucking forest down.

Sebek's fingers force themselves to move with a herculean effort that he did not know himself to possess, yanking the curtains shut and blocking out the terrifying sight as Silver's voice rises and fades like radio static, a nauseating sickness pitching forward in his stomach.

"We're supposed to be a family now, Sebek, aren't you listening? Can you not hear them call for you too? I won't let them leave here without you, I promise we'll stay and wait—"

They'd already waited forty-five days. Sebek rocks forward on his heels, squeezing his eyes shut and swallows a hoarse, empty sob.

How many more remained until he found himself walking out to join them?