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rokutouxei · 3 years

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hiding hunger

ikemen vampire | E | 6198 le comte de saint-germain / OC

Seiya has always kept her feelings for Comte under wraps, but what happens when something lets it slip? Will it finally awaken what has been hiding in Comte's heart for the longest time?

When Seiya realizes that her most treasured bound leather notebook is in Arthur’s hands, her instinct is to lunge at him. What she doesn’t expect is that he would drop it.

Her heart falls to the ground as quickly as her notebook does; the loose sheets of paper littered extensively with little notes about and drawings of no one else but him, of course, Le Comte de Saint-Germain, fly out into the air.

To fall like paper snow onto the waiting garden, where said Comte is taking his afternoon tea.

“Arthur!” is the most of a reprimand she manages to shriek out before she’s running off to the stairs to pick up what’s left of her dignity scattered on the garden grounds.

By the time she gets there, Sebastian has picked up a considerable amount of her loose drawings, both to her relief and embarrassment. She scrambles to gather what else is there, her face heating up with every page she lifts. Comte, reading in the study. Comte, addressing the residents at a dinner party. Comte, in the more formal clothes he wears for events. Comte, Comte, Comte.

All her wandering thoughts about him, strewn across the grass like confetti.

Arthur arrives soon after, to reach out an arm to help. She frowns at him deeply, the corners of her eyes shiny with tears.

“Now, now, no need to be so up—”

“This is your fault,” Seiya whispers lowly, trying her best so that Comte does not hear her. The tone in her voice makes Arthur stand back up, hand scratching the back of his neck.

She doesn’t know what to do. Her little crush on le Comte wasn’t exactly a secret—but it sort of was. To Comte, at least. Her closest friends had an inkling, but Vincent and Isaac weren’t exactly the type that pried. She’s sure Sebastian knows just because he’s Sebastian. And the more observant ones like Arthur and Theo definitely would have known too.

And Maybe Comte, too, but—there’s nothing like confirming a rumor, confessing a crime, with a gallery’s worth of art stumbling out of a window, right?

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to say it: keeping it a secret was just the least she could do to quiet her heart.

Leonardo is one of her closest companions. He has also been with Saint-Germain longer than anyone else in the mansion. So when Leonardo told her not to keep her hopes up about Comte, she said, “okay.”

And at this point, she’s mastered the art of keeping her feelings bottled tightly in her heart. She pours it out only in the scribbles of her pen.

And now it was here, laid bare in front of Saint-Germain’s eyes.

She holds back the sniffle as she gets up from her knees. Sebastian approaches her while she’s dusting her skirt, a sheaf of her drawings in hand. Her heart rises to her throat once she notices that the Comte is, in fact, watching her.

She has only the briefest of moments to speak before her voice goes away altogether. With a nod to Sebastian in thanks, she says, “Sorry for interrupting your tea time, Comte,” bowing lowly in regret before turning away again, heading off to the mansion sadly, Arthur following close behind.

Comte watches her without a word as she makes her escape back to the mansion. He had wanted to help, rising from his chair to pick up some of the illustrations, but he was sent back down by Sebastian. The butler said he should leave the menial task to him. That was rather true, by etiquette, but in consideration of the contents of the drawings, Comte knew better.

He knows Seiya is an artist. She spends a lot of her free time drawing quietly in nooks and crannies she finds comfortable to work in. Sometimes she joins Vincent out when he paints. Sometimes she accompanies Napoleon and Isaac when they go to teach the kids, so she can sketch and draw out in the city with company. She had even shown him some of her illustrations in the past—but only with a little nagging from Leonardo.

…Ah, yes, Leonardo.

Seiya and Leonardo have a peculiar relationship, one that Comte has always thought was akin to lovers. When she first arrived at the mansion, Comte had asked his old friend if he could leave Seiya in his care. There were complaints—as he expected—but Leonardo took up the favor in time. It has been months since then, and she and Leonardo are rather intimately close to one another; it’s easy to find them snuggled against each other in random sofas in the mansion sleeping. There are also mornings when they both emerge out of Leonardo’s room in the morning for breakfast.

It was hard not to imagine that they were lovers.

But were they?

Comte had never given it much thought because while the hunger resides in him, a wolf sleeping in the cave, he isn’t the type to go after something, someone, that his friend already holds. He has no interest in coveting something that isn’t available to him, to begin with. In hindsight, he recalls that Leonardo hadn’t spoken to him about anything regarding his relationship with Seiya either, so perhaps—

“More tea, sir?”

He takes a deep breath. Thinks of Seiya with her lavender hair and her light blue eyes, glassy when she looked at him earlier, sheets of paper with his face on it in her hands.

The heart is a troublesome thing, he thinks, as he hands his teacup quietly to Sebastian.

Saint-Germain had intended to just let it unravel.

For the mystery to go on its own pace. For him to wait until Seiya is ready to tell her feelings for him to his face.

Unfortunately for the poor Comte, his heart is a stubborn one.

It happens before he even notices—how his eyes begin to wander. Up and down the mansion when he is unoccupied, hoping for a glimpse of her in the hallway. When he sees her and she is busy, he watches. Eyes grazing the curves of her body, the long lines of her legs, and the roundness of her breasts arching against the seams of her corset.

Seiya is a quiet girl, and for that, she does most of her talking through the rest of her body; the way she tugs at her sleeves when she is nervous, the little tug of the corner of her mouth when she is pleased, the crinkle of her nose when she is embarrassed, the way her eyebrows shoot up when she is surprised. Comte had noticed these in the past, and perhaps have teased her a little about it as well, but—until now, he hadn’t really thought much about it.

It’s different now.

Now, when he gets the opportunity to talk to her, he notices all the little things: the flush on her cheeks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way she curls forward toward him when he speaks. It even gets to the point where he gets embarrassed with how lost he is in the conversation, marveling at all the little details he is only now noticing. How much had he been missing all this time, and how long had he been blind?

This goes on for days, then weeks. Comte is astonished at himself for every little thing he notices. He and Seiya do not bring up what had happened with the drawings. Perhaps they do not need to. Eventually they return to their friendly conversations as if nothing had happened at all, as if it was just another mishap tucked away into the past.

He never sees the notebook again—as if she is much more careful with where it is now, away from his sight.

But there are other things Comte notices.

About himself. The way something in his heart stills whenever he sees her cuddled against Leonardo in the library while reading a book. The way a smile rises golden in his face whenever she comes up to him, to tell him about a new painting or a new musical piece or a new chapter of Sherlock Holmes. The way his heart pounds when it’s late at night and he remembers her, a fleeting thought that casts glitters all over his mind, thoughts he will try to brush away but still find there, hiding in its corners, an eternity from now.

The way he becomes more watchful of how Leonardo takes care of her—has she eaten? Where did she fall asleep, where are you carrying her to?—like he is trying to take on the role, see if he can fit a spot next to her in between the two of them, even if he isn’t so sure she is his for the taking.

Le Comte de Saint-Germain is a greedy man.

Leonardo knows this. And Leonardo notices.

Comte does not.

And just like that, the sleeping wolf begins to wake.

Leonardo doesn’t often go out on trips. In his long history of staying with Saint-Germain, Leonardo’s trips were often of the “I don’t know if I’ll come back” nature—the kind with the hanging goodbyes only those who have the rest of eternities to live can truly become accustomed to.

He goes to the city, sure, beloved as he is to the other citizens downtown, but to go out on long trips outside of Paris isn’t something that occurred a lot, except if he was running away. So when Leonardo announces that he would be out for “a couple of weeks to the countryside”, Comte knows that there is something up.

And true enough, there is something up, because when asked why he was leaving, Leonardo’s answer is the most deadpan “I’m getting tired of seeing you make that face.”

Comte understands without elaboration.

In a few days, Leonardo is gone.

The weeks leading up to Leonardo’s departure meant that Seiya hung around him like a baby koala a lot. Once he’d left, she is left drifting about, wandering the halls as if looking for anchor—spending time with Isaac, watching Vincent paint.

But it’s the nights that are ruthless.

Sleeping in her room with a too-big bed in a too-quiet mansion that smells too clean without the constant assault of tobacco—Seiya somehow cannot sleep properly without Leonardo around. Her sleep becomes so erratic she has become a sort of Leonardo herself, being found by the residents sleeping in the middle of the day in the most unexpected of places—on a stool in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop; in the gazebo at the garden, Vic and King at her side; on the sofa in the library, curled up uncomfortably.

Comte finds himself walking down the hallways of the mansion looking for her at odd hours of the day, a blanket in tow, to make sure she is comfortable, to make sure she is warm. He knows that to her he is not Leonardo, but he can try to be a suitable substitute.

In truth, she sleeps because when she is awake, the sound of Leonardo’s parting words with her echoes in her brain like an alarm. “There’s only so much time I can buy for you, cara mia,” he had said, ruffling her hair before he left. Seiya understands but at the same time she doesn’t. The deep-gold silhouette of Saint-Germain watching over them at the staircase burns itself at the back of her eyelids.

Leonardo is so cruel, telling her to not keep her hopes up but then opening the door. Shining the light. Leading her down the hall.

He’s just the same as his old friend.

A week into Leonardo’s trip, the dark circles under Seiya’s eyes have grown to a worrisome shade, the kind that Comte just can’t let pass. So on one afternoon, in-between sharing tea with her, even when he knows it would spell the death of him, he offers: “You could sleep with me, if you like.”

She nearly chokes on the jasmine tea she’s just taken a sip of. “Pardon?”

“You haven’t had good sleep the past week, have you not? If you want company, I can be a warm body.”

Seiya…hesitates. She could say yes, of course, as it ultimately means more time spent with him—and it wasn’t like she was admitting to anything by agreeing to it. Just friendly, platonic naps, the kind she also took with Leonardo. But at the same time she feared her will would break, at the touch of his arms around her, the thrum of his pulse underneath his clothes—he might just ruin her and make her surrender.

But when she looks up to make sure Comte is really offering her this, the honey gold of his eyes only gets her to say “Yes… please?”

It starts… slow. It’s a dynamic they’ve never tried before, as someone Comte has always felt one step higher than her, a distance she could never find the courage to cross. Being with Leonardo is easy, because he treats her like a younger sibling, the comfort, familiarity, and tease of an older brother to a sister he wants to protect. But with Comte? The race of her heart in her chest would only serve to get her caught.

But then it gets easy.

She first starts with accompanying Comte in his room as he’s working. As she readjusts her sleeping schedule, she sneaks in naps in his bed or on armchairs and sofas, the scribble of his pen on paper lulling her to rest. Later on, she begins to work around him as well—sometimes she reads, sometimes she draws; he spots the notebook she’d been hiding from him as she resumes making sketches of him. They have tea together in the afternoon. When he has something to do at town, she accompanies him. When she wants alone time but would still like him around, he stays in his room and she lays at the lounge chair in the balcony, the one overlooking the Paris horizon.

Leonardo has been gone for three weeks.

And at this point, it feels… just fine. Seiya misses him, for sure, but having Comte as company is an experience she appreciates having had. The incident at the garden is now long behind them. It’s as if they’ve found a suitable rhythm for the two of them, one they can live by.

But it isn’t enough.

Not yet.

And Leonardo is coming home soon, because there is only so long the Renaissance man can buy for Comte, and Saint-Germain knows this. The longer Comte spends with Seiya the more he learns how much her company means to him. Sure, he has driven the thought at the back of his mind for the longest time, and maybe he’s not taken care of the feeling properly. But it’s still there, growing roots in his mind, enclosing his heart, drawing nourishment out of it.

Making him thirsty.

Making him want.

The wolf quietly sitting in the bushes, waiting for the perfect moment to chase and pounce.

He can deny his heart but not the lunge of his pulse, not the pain of fangs growing sharper the more the scent of her lingers in his room, her shampoo on the bedsheets, her perfume in the air. His heart is patient but his hands are not.

And time and fate wait for no one.

Comte takes two bottles of rouge per day; one in the morning, and one in the evening. His thirst has placated through the years; it only flows calmly inside of him.

But not as of late. Sebastian’s brought him his fourth bottle late in the afternoon. The butler looks at him curiously, and offers to take the sleeping Seiya—out in the veranda—back to her room to sleep.

“No,” is Comte’s quick answer, a little too quick that Sebastian wavers, and with a deep breath Comte composes himself and adds, “it’s alright.”

(It isn’t quite so.)

He downs the bottle of rouge slowly, feeling the blood going down his throat. Making sure it’s there, as if telling his instincts: this is your share. Stop longing for something else. But his fangs still hang painfully in his mouth, searching for flesh.

Maybe if he covers her scent with a sheet, he’ll relax.

He stands up, picks up one of the folded blankets on the bed, and heads out to the veranda for Seiya. The southern-facing veranda lets the sun leave an angled golden glow on the balcony; Comte traces it with his gaze from the city, back to the lounge where the one he loves sits.

She’s lying on the sofa with her leg raised up, perhaps after having been used as a table for her sketching; the open notebook on her lap reveals a sketch of the city. The other sketchbook next to her is folded closed, but a couple of pages peek out from in between, revealing little sketches of Saint-Germain—the same kind he’d seen that afternoon in the garden.

Not that Comte is paying attention to the sketches when she’s right there, with the milky line of her long legs underneath her stockings; the plush flesh of her thighs where her skirt has ridden up; the curves of the top of her breasts under her blouse; the small, pink o of her mouth slightly open as she sleeps; the brush of her bangs light on her forehead; the flush on her cheeks a healthy, vibrant glow.

He’s about to drape the blanket he’s brought with him when her even breathing is interrupted by a sighed syllable. He holds the blanket in his arms as he waits for her to finish the word.

“…main…”

Hm?

“Ss…ger…”

Her breath hitches and she curls a little tighter, the notebook on her lap falling quietly on the floor. Her foot curls against her other ankle; her thighs rub against each other.

“Comte… Saint-Germain…”

And then she moans.

That’s it.

Something howls and sings inside of him and he listens to it. The blanket drops to the ground as Comte falls to his knees next to her like a devotee. He encloses her mouth with his; restraint snapping like a frail string. She makes a half-asleep moan at the feeling of it and it goes straight down his cock, lighting him on fire. When she reaches out for him on instinct, he envelops her with her arms right back.

She opens her eyes slowly, as if she’s still asleep. “Am I… dreaming?”

Comte brushes the stray hairs off her face and says, “Even better.”

It doesn’t register immediately. Seiya reaches out to press the palm of her hand against Comte’s cheek as if making sure he’s real. Comte slides a hand on her calf, feeling the warmth of her flesh through the stockings.

And then it hits.

Seiya jolts backward on instinct, knees bending in front of her as she lets go of Comte like he’s hot. “I’m—Comte, I—”

“Seiya,” he says, the syllables of her name rolling out of his mouth like something sacred, “Tell me. Tell me and I’ll show you.”

“Le Comte…”

His voice sounds strained. “Tell me, let me, and I’ll show you what you do to me.”

Seiya takes a moment.

Lets it linger; the gleaming glow of the afternoon sun over the both of them; the hunger in his eyes; the fear that was thrumming underneath her skin;

The need.

She brushes his bangs off his forehead so she sees him clearly, and then says, “I love you.”

And it’s like something snaps.

Saint-Germain kisses her like she’s the sun and he’s been underground for months. One of his hands cradles her head, tangling in between the lavender strands of her hair. The other holds her cheek, to prove that she’s there, as if convincing himself that he’s not just at wits’ end clinging into hallucinations.

He gives her a moment to breathe; holds her heart in his hands when he brushes off with his thumb the pooled saliva at the corner of her mouth and says: “I can’t believe you’ve gone on for so long without knowing how much I’ve wanted you.” And when she moves her lips as if to retaliate or to deny, Comte gets up and pushes her further onto the sofa, “Talk later” coming out harsh from his mouth.

His hands are quick as he undoes her garments, but the ease is nowhere near coolheaded. Something burns underneath his skin and only touching her can cool it. He starts with the ribbons and hooks of her skirt and then inward; tugs off her blouse in between leaving bruising kisses on her mouth—he still can’t get enough of her—and loosens the lacings of her undergarments with precision.

But by this time he’s run out of his patience, so he sinks his fingers into her stockings and rips them apart.

The gasp is half of surprise and half of pleasure. Comte does not stop until the stockings are nothing but tattered cloth pooling on the floor. Seiya does not feel fully bare until this moment. The thrum of blood in her ears makes her dizzy; she thinks of the scar she’s always had to hide on her leg, and in a panic, she suddenly whispers, “Wait—out here? We should go—”

Comte does not need to shush her; the words go back down her throat when his hands touch her bare calf. Time stills; his fingers, earlier all brute force and tearing apart, are gentle as they trace up her leg; he runs his fingers down the discolored flesh like a reverent worshipper. He raises her leg up toward him and presses a trail of kisses downward.

She sighs at the sensation and it makes Comte look up at her.

The full force of his gaze into hers leaves her unsteady—will she ever get used to him being this way?

For a moment, the instinct is to hide. The instinct of prey in the face of a predator, Seiya tries to jerk her leg back toward her but Comte does not budge. She decides to attempt to close them instead, to push him away, but his hands are on her knees, holding her thighs apart.

When Seiya catches Comte graze his tongue underneath his fang, like nursing it, she knows she is a goner.

Comte positions her knees over his shoulders and then proceeds to have a taste of her. The heat and scent of her sex against his face nearly drives him to the point of insanity. But this is a meal he would like to relish. He presses small kisses down her slit before urging the folds open with his fingers, Seiya panting above him; his nose nudges her clit and her hands fly to his hair.

“Comte…” she cries out, her voice hoarse, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. When Comte looks up at her, a shudder runs down her spine.

“‘Abel,’” he says, gently, pressing a kiss on her inner thigh. “That’s my name. Call me that.”

Seiya nods; slides her fingers from the flaxen mop of his hair to his cheek, and croons out: “Abel.”

God, he thinks, just how much can this woman drive me insane?

Much to Seiya’s delight (and embarrassment), Comte has a sharp learning curve that points him in the right direction in no time. His tongue teases her sensitive bundle of nerves, circling and teasing until all she can do is sob out his name. Her fingers leave crescent-moon marks against his scalp but it only urges him on; lathers two fingers with the slick coming out of her before slipping them inside her wet heat.

The world is spinning. Has it been an eternity or only a moment? Comte is not giving her what she wants, just dangling her over the edge, giving her the sweet taste of it but not enough to satisfy. Tongue making delicate work of her pussy, fingers of one hand curling inside of her, another squeezing her breast like seeking comfort—she lifts her fist to her mouth and bites into it as Comte toys with her a little bit longer, long fingers finding something electric, grazing it, molding it, and then—

She falls. The orgasm is unlike anything else—not when it means everything at the same time: that maybe Comte does return her feelings, that Comte wants to do this with her, that Comte is thinking of her—she shivers and her heels dig against his back as she spasms against him; and he lets her, continues to eat her out for the entirety of it, wringing her dry and overstimulated.

“Abel!” she cries out, hands flying to his face to get him to look up at her and to pause lest she loses all that’s left of her sanity. His face is slick with her juices and it sends a new wave of warmth through her but she’s had enough. “Take me, please. Have me.”

“If you so wish,” Comte says, running the back of his hand against his lips before kissing her again; he doesn’t let go even as he readjusts their position into a comfortable one. Her legs curl around his waist as if on instinct. Comte quickly undresses, his coat and vest landing on the floor and his bottoms kicked somewhere else; his shirt unbuttoned all the way. When her wandering touch strays onto the sharp curls of trailing yellow hair upward his stomach, he guides her hand toward his cock, relishing in her face’s darkening shade of red. She can barely wrap her hands around his girth; for a moment she worries about it being too big. “Guide me,” he says—an order and not a request—and it makes her breath stop in her throat.

But her need is stronger than her shyness, and so she guides his hardness against her dripping cunt, sighing as she rocks it between her folds before slotting it into her. Comte lifts her hips up once he’s in, supporting her as he slides inch by inch to fill her. He brushes her hair to the back of the sofa, out of the way; her hands cling onto her biceps as she begins to feel the weight of him inside of her.

She spots Comte looking at something beyond her but she doesn’t get to ask before he roughly jolts forward, causing her to cry out.

Seiya has always thought that Comte had a monster hiding inside of him; below his coolly composed demeanor, there was a hungry beast in him that he had long learned to tame. Now, here, fucking on the sofa at his room’s veranda, in the full view of whoever dared look up, the sun sinking into twilight, Seiya comes face to face with the wolf that Comte had shackled inside of him for so long.

His thrusts are frantic and rushed; there is only rhythm and speed, no patience or art. Seiya’s had her share; now, Comte is using her for his pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, his grip harsh on her hips—there will be bruises tomorrow. He presses her face against the valley in between her breasts and moans. Her name falls from his mouth, “Seiya, Seiya,” in between syllables of “Fuck” and “So good,” the brusqueness of the words so unbecoming of Comte it makes her even more sensitive to them.

She curls forward, toward him, trying to meet his thrusts even when her legs have long turned into mush. When Comte realizes what she is trying to do, a new sort of enthusiasm fills him; it’s as if he has woken up from a trance. “Seiya,” he calls out, “mouth,” is all he can say, and she obeys; he slips two fingers into her waiting mouth and she suckles on them as if it were his cock. He hisses at the feeling and pulls them out as soon as he is satisfied; replacing his fingers with his tongue as he returns to making out with her; his now-slick fingers finding a spot in between the both of them to rub her still-sensitive clit, urging her now: come, Seiya, come for me.

Seiya is obedient. It doesn’t take long.

Comte cannot say he hasn’t dreamt of claiming Seiya for his own in the past. But none of his wildest dreams would have been close to what this is like: the feeling of her pulsing and squeezing around him, because of him, he brought this pleasure for her, the sound of her voice as she gasps for air, the broken syllables of his name and sputterings of thanks and disbelief as the white-hot pleasure brands her, her fingers curled around his arms for dear life. It takes all of his self-control to not just surrender at that moment, to pull her by her waist and just fuck into her until he is spent.

And then the door to the veranda clicks open.

By this time, the sun has already long disappeared under the horizon; while the shroud of darkness has comforted her in hiding her rendezvous with the man of the house, the brightness of the inside of Comte’s room with the lights turned up sends her reeling when it illuminates Leonardo’s form. Seiya’s eyes are wide as dinnerplates as she scrambles for something to cover herself—her hair—but Leonardo looks unbothered, only throwing a knowing kind of expression at his friend, half a smile on his face.

And then Comte speaks.

“I was wondering when you would come in.”

Seiya’s neck snaps with how fast she turns to face him.

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt, and it finally seemed like a good time.”

“Haha, how polite of you,” Comte says, genuine amusement in his tone. He returns his gaze back to Seiya, who is looking up at him with such a panicked expression; her legs tense around him. “It’s alright, ma bien-aimée. He will not stay unless you want him to.”

Which meant: he will stay if you want him to.

She turns, one more time, to look at Leonardo. Leonardo, the one that has been with her for every tumultuous rise and fall of her emotions toward Comte. How similar and different he was to his friend. Their gentle, golden eyes like twin fires. But then, the fall of his brown hair against the sides of his face. The kind of half-smirk he always seems to wear. The familiar tobacco smell he brought with him wherever he go; the one she’d longed for the entire time he was absent. Just looking at him, she remembers the feeling of his body underneath hers, memorized after months of cuddled-up sleep.

Seiya isn’t sure.

She doesn’t know what she feels about Leonardo yet.

But she knows one thing.

“Want you to stay,” she says, softly, hand still curled around Comte’s arm. “Please, Leonardo. Stay?”

And the man smiles like he’s won the world. “Just for you, cara mia.”

Comte slides out of her comforting warmth so he can lift her into his arms; the motion makes her sigh lowly, causing the two men to tense for the briefest of moments. Leonardo holds the door open as the two lovers make their way to the room’s large bed. When they get there she is understandably nervous; Comte takes his time kissing every tense muscle. Seiya watches Leonardo move across the room; from shutting the door to pulling one of the plush armchairs so that it faces the bed.

“Don’t mind me,” he says when he spots her staring, but how can Seiya not, when he’s pulled down his trousers just enough to reveal his cock, still at half-mast but very obviously will be as impressive as Comte’s once it’s fully hard.

Seiya’s got the first syllable of Leonardo’s name on her mouth when Comte steals it away with a kiss, light at first but then deep, his tongue prodding her lips open as she relaxes, her hands making their way around him again.

In a moment of tenderness, Comte presses a kiss on her forehead, on her nose, and then on her lips before saying: “Let’s show Leonardo how beautiful you are.”

Comte guides her slowly into position; turning her so that she’s on her hands and knees, facing Leonardo. Her cheeks turn even redder once she catches Leonardo stroking himself quietly, a smirk on his face as he watches Comte maneuver her around for his pleasure. Comte presses a kiss on the dip of her lower back before he guides his still-hard cock to her, coating himself with her essence before slipping into the warmth of her pussy.

Something about being watched by Leonardo sends her brain haywire. Comte is fucking her against the pillow, but his one hand has tangled itself into her hair, pulling her backward and up, allowing her to come eye-to-eye with Leonardo’s careful gaze. She can’t deny the heat that sinks through every inch of her skin, through every bit his eyes land at, tracing the mounds at her chest, the fucked out look she’s wearing on her face—“Leonardo,” she croons, once the pre-cum begins to build around the head of his cock.

Comte’s arm suddenly comes underneath her, pulling her up from the underside of her breasts, forcing her against him. “Remember who is in you,” he growls, before sending her back down. She hears Leonardo’s soft “tsk tsk” before she lands on her elbows; it’s about all she can do to brace herself and stay upright as Comte properly pistons into her, filling the room with the sound of flesh meeting flesh. She can’t look up at Leonardo knowing it would be her ruin, but she can hear the sound of him jerking himself off; at the same time, the sound of Comte’s moans and groans go straight to her core, making her squeeze and contract and pulling Comte deeper into senseless ecstasy.

“I love you,” Comte suddenly says, out of nowhere, causing her to buckle forward onto her cheek. His tone is filled with love and possession and hunger. “I love you, Seiya.” He slides a free hand to the space between her legs, quickly finding the sensitive bud.

“Abel, I—” she cries out as Comte begins to play with her clit and her nipple; he pushes her back up, making sure he’s got her, pressing his face at the junction of her neck and shoulder to fill him with her scent, sweet and intoxicating. “I—I love you, I’ve loved you—” she nearly falls forward with the sudden jolt of pleasure when his cock brushes somewhere electric. “I’m gonna… cum—”

“Cum,” Comte urges, angling himself so he hits that spot that made her spasm over and over again. “Show me how beautiful you are. Show Leonardo.”

And then it was over.

She leans her entire weight against Comte’s arms when the most powerful orgasm she’s had today hits her, knocking the wind out of her. Like an avalanche that only gets stronger and stronger the longer it rolls through her. Comte fucks her throughout the entirety of it, dragging it out for as long as he can until it’s too much even for him, her scent, her warmth, the wetness, her voice—he presses his fangs against her jugular only to sate him but not to break skin, as he pours his cum, white and warm, deep inside of her.

They fall over each other sticky with sweat. Comte rolls off of her, careful to give her space to breathe. When she comes to, she turns toward him and presses a kiss—chaste but filled with love—onto Comte’s lips.

“Was wondering how long it would take the both of you.”

The two new-lovers turn toward Leonardo as if they had just remembered his existence. He’s still sprawled on the armchair, although this time, with his hands out on his sides, leaving his still-hard cock free-standing in front of him. Seiya tries her best not to stare.

“You arrived just in time, actually,” Comte says, as he helps Seiya sit up.

Leonardo shakes his head. “Your patience for the oddest things never made sense to me.”

Seiya considers, for a moment, what this is. Comte who held her heart in his hands for the longest time—Comte who didn’t know how to express it until it was all that consumed him. And across them, Leonardo, sitting there having watched them press their loves onto their bodies, smiling as Comte holds her in his arms. Leonardo who has always been there for her, from every up and down of her feelings with Comte—who, she realizes, probably left knowing this would happen.

Two of the people she loves the most in this mansion. Her heart sings for them.

In what way, they don’t know yet. But for now, the fucking, the loving, the adoration sends confidence fluttering in her heart.

Turning toward Leonardo, she licks her lips.

“Need some help?”

----

written last year (!) for the lovely @beni-draw-ikemen-please for their OC and their beloved, Comte! please check them out, they make amazing art!

#ikemen vampire #comte de saint germain #rated:e #hiding hunger

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bird-in-a-cage · 4 years

Text

Inspired by the wonderful @cockasinthebird, for being my muse and talking filth in my ear.

Whipped

Steve was riled up. Inventory day usually made him edgy, but this week was bad. Bad to the point the regional manager just happened to 'pop by' to help discover why Scoops was down a case of whipped cream and a whole kilo box of rainbow sprinkles. Steve was sure it wasn't him or Robin giving out too much, mostly because him and Robin just didn't give a shit about customer satisfaction and just wanted to get through the day as easily as possible. Yeah if it was a kid's birthday or something they would both put a bit extra on, pile the whipped cream a touch higher, be a little heavy handed with sprinkles, a couple extra cherries even. But not a whole case or a kilo's worth.

It just, bothered him.

It bothered him all the way driving home, tapping his thumbs on the wheel, his brain coming up with ridiculous thoughts like maybe there was a very specific thief that only took cream and sprinkles and not the cash register full of money, or the safe that lived in the back office also full of money from the week's takings ready to go to the bank. Maybe the delivery guys were running a racket, siphoning off little pieces of product and reselling it to make some money on the side. Maybe it was just the fact that Steve couldn't count when taking the delivery, which he knew for a fact couldn't be the case because he didn't do deliveries any more for that exact reason, because of The Butterscotch Incident, which he was pretty sure they were still trying to use up three months later.

The bothering feeling dissipated as soon as Steve saw rainbow sprinkles on his doormat. They did have the tendency to follow him home like glitter, but never carefully arranged into an arrow pointing inside under the closed front door. Steve rolled his eyes like he had an audience but still couldn't help the grin growing to his cheeks.

Only one person had a spare key and the gaul to decorate the welcome mat in such a way.

Unlocking the door revealed a trail of multicoloured arrows over the carpet, clearly placed with loving precision, pointing towards the kitchen where the only light was on, illuminating the scene in the hallway.

Steve kicked his shoes off at the door as always, and followed them like breadcrumbs. He wasn't sure what to expect, but what greeted him wasn't it. Even if the image before him did make his brain melt out his ears, just a little.

Laying on Steve's kitchen island, on top of his mother's best dish towel printed with little corn flowers and chickens, was Billy, naked as the day he was born. He smirked hot at Steve's presence, shifted to lean up on his elbow, and sprayed a whipped cream arrow down his chest, pointing to his rock hard cock.

Steve's dick kicked to life rapidly in his uniform Scoops issued shorts. At least this answered some of his questions. He stepped into the room and could feel Billy's smirk burning his attention. There were little dots of cream all across his chest, in seemingly random spots. Some of them were just simple sprays and others looked a little like cheesy love hearts. The two over his nipples definitely were.

"How long have you been here?" Steve stopped when he came flush with the edge of the island between Billy's tree trunk legs that dangled down at the knees. His thighs were warm under Steve's hands, sunkissed from sitting in the lifeguard chair all day, a small tan line starting to circle the muscle that Steve's fingers found with ease. He resisted touching what clearly needed the most attention, throbbing and standing proud between them.

"Long enough," Billy purred, reaching down to rub over the back of Steve's left hand, trying to force it higher. Steve dug his fingers into the firm flesh and resisted, just for now, demanding something of an explanation with the look he gave. Not that Billy was about to give him one. Instead he sat up properly, shook what was left in the can, and sprayed a picture perfect whip on the head of his cock. The designs he'd given himself over his body melted down a touch, leaving his skin greasy and shiny. Like he’d oiled himself up. It made his muscles pop. "You want me to put a cherry on top too?"

Steve felt his throat tighten as his mouth threatened to run over. He knew what Billy could do with cherries. The guy had been teasing him all summer with knotted stems left on the glass display counter, much to Robin's annoyance when she would find one. Steve knew first hand how talented that teasing tongue could be. He was lucky enough to feel it most nights.

"Oh, you wouldn't wanna be too sweet now, would ya?" Steve leaned his head down to flick the tip of his tongue through the little cream pile before it started to melt, nowhere near where Billy clearly intended the first lick to be if his unfortunately desperate whine was anything to go by. But Steve wasn't one for a drawn out tease like Billy was, and soon licked again, dragging his tongue slowly through all the sweet to find salt starting to weep through. Billy groaned and moved again, leaning back on both elbows, still elevated enough to watch.

Billy liked to watch. He also liked Steve to wear the stupid sailor hat, which he had thankfully left in his car. He doubted Billy would want to wait for him to go and retrieve it.

Muscular fingers found their way into Steve's hair, twisting and grabbing loose and he started running his tongue over more of Billy's thick, aching length, rolling down low, tracing the edge of a vein that disappeared into a well groomed tuft of musty curls. Just breathing hot over velvety skin was enough to make Billy's thighs tense. He must have been here for a while, just hard and waiting for the grand reveal.

Fuck, if that wasn't a thought to ponder on later.

Just as evenly paced, Steve worked his way back up and slipped his lips around the head in a perfect o, pressing his tongue up firm against the sensitive underside and swirling in a slow circle around all those responsive nerve endings, like he was licking up a dripping cone. The hand on the back of his head started pressing down, getting desperate. Steve flicked his eyes up and was met by dark pools of blue like the middle of the ocean in a storm, straight teeth capturing a plump pink bottom lip to keep the noise back even though there was no need. There were only the two of them here if the purpose of the dish towel was anything to go by.

Steve’s mother would have a fit otherwise.

Only when the sweet taste of the cream was completely cleaned up did Steve start sinking lower, sucking down more until his lips stretched painfully but not unbearable, and Billy hit the back of his throat, twitching on his tongue. Steve groaned softly around what was in his mouth and pressed a hand down the front of his shorts to help alleviate some of the building pressure. Billy’s hand moved to the back of Steve’s neck as he swallowed as best he could, ripping free a strangled cry from the other boy.

“Fuuck! Baby… you’re so good, my double fudge.”

Steve pulled back his mouth immediately at that and pinched at the soft skin of Billy’s inner thigh, which caused him to yelp but not for a moment did it stop the grin under his moustache.

“Call me that again and I’m stopping. I mean it.” Steve tried to sound threatening, even a little, but even by the end of his sentence he wanted to laugh. They both knew he didn’t mean a single word. Not when Billy had literally caused Scoops regional manager to blow a mental fuse trying to work out where all the missing cream stock had gone just to get a blow job.

Steve didn’t want to look in his fridge, but he knew the rest of it would be in there. Depending on how much Billy had eaten during the apparent midnight raid of course. The picture of Billy behind the wheel of his camaro, squirting a whole can down his throat while driving was far too real. He didn’t even want to think how Billy had made it out of the mall with all those cans, but they were in the back room alone a lot, most of the time Steve didn’t have any real recollection of what was happening…

“You don’t like my nicknames, my sweet vanilla bean?”

Steve pinched again. Billy laughed around another small yelp, but Steve’s slender fingers soothed the skin this time, rubbing up higher towards Billy’s sac which looked heavy and full. Not touching but getting teasingly close. It was kind of a reward even though Steve hated the barrage of nicknames he got daily, all based around ice cream flavours. Well, he didn’t hate them really. Just pretended to hate them because he couldn’t really call Billy anything lifeguard related. Steve had called him a pool noodle once, which was quickly turned around as a nickname for his own dick. The timing of it had been quite impressive really so he couldn’t be too mad.

Billy’s hand on his cheek brought Steve back to the moment, to the urgency in front of him. With one last stern look that they both knew meant nothing at all, he sunk back down until his lips were firmly clasped around the wide base of Billy’s cock and sucked. Hard. With all intention to shut his boyfriend up. At least for now. Sweeping his tongue over weak spots seemed to do the trick as Steve started to bob his head, Billy’s hand just resting in his hair again. Not pushing for more or pulling for less, letting Steve take control of the situation at last. He knew every one of Billy’s soft points, had them memorised like landmarks on a city map. Knew the exact amount of pressure to put where and when, whether his tongue should be pointed or flat, when to suck deeper or let up for a second, using more and more spit because Billy liked it messy to the point where all the fluid was spilling down Steve's chin.

He may not have done all that well in school, but he would have aced a cock sucking class hands down.

It was no time at all before he could taste more salt, hear Billy’s moans getting desperate and ragged as he leaked more and more over Steve’s tongue whenever he would make his way to the tip to sweep across the over sensative slit. Every now and then retracting his lips totally so Billy could watch and observe just how much Steve loved his taste. A little ego boost.

The more he tasted, the more the pressure in Steve’s shorts got intolerable. But he refused to just drop and shoot in his kitchen. Not without getting Billy’s hands on him in some way first. And Billy could always go two rounds. Always.

Steve placed his hand on a tanned thigh, felt how tense it was under his fingertips, how much Billy was trying to hold back. That wouldn’t do at all. But Steve still had one card left to play, his guaranteed full house. He glanced up at Billy under hooded eyes, all innocent and coy in the way that made the other boy groan deep and protective, made him pull Steve just that little bit closer and push his head down just a little, desperate to be enveloped again. Steve obliged of course, but ever so faintly, dragged his teeth over the aching cockhead on the way back down.

Billy was gone. He cried out and came heavy and thick over Steve’s tongue, painting the inside of his mouth in three strong surges. Only when the grip on his head relaxed did Steve move, slipping off with an obscenely wet pop and shifted onto the balls of his feet to kiss over Billy’s sculpted torso, licking off what was left of the cream over his stomach hungrily and letting the flavours mix in his mouth.

It wasn’t wholly unpleasant.

Billy sat up before he got any further and cupped Steve’s cheeks to kiss him deeply, tongue licking against his, manic and bold. They panted hard when they broke apart, foreheads resting together as Steve cupped the hands over the ones on his face, thumbing across strong fingers that disappeared into his slightly sweaty hair. The grin Billy wore was adorable and stupid, blissed out but also still socially aware. Aware enough to notice the tent in Steve’s shorts and the unavoidable growing wet patch through two layers of fabric. The grin turned hot again.

“Need some help with that, my sweet honey almond?”

Steve was far too desperate and turned on to correct him a third time. He could do that later, once they were both satisfied.

#harringrove #billy x steve #steve x billy #steve harrington #billy hargrove #smut ahoy #cross posted to ao3 #my writings

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writingforloki · 5 years

Text

Pizza-gate

One shot: Reader x Loki

Random Prompt I found on tumblr

So this was supposed to be under 1000 words but it ran away with me tehe

“Am I your lock screen?” ... “You weren’t supposed to see that”

You stretched and shoved your head deeper under the covers, as the annoying pinging of your alarm filled your ears. You cursed to whatever deity was listening about the fact that your life as a member of the avengers required you to be up at the crack of dawn.

After multiple snoozes of your alarm, you shuffled into the kitchen, your hair still a mess from sleeping, wearing one of Thor's massive T-shirts that you'd claimed when it had been mixed up with your washing one day, and some PJ shorts.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes you eyed the kitchen, spotting a certain Asgardian Prince leaning against one of the counters. “Morning” You mumbled sleepily, not actually looking at him, you knew he’d be smirking at your frumpled appearance so you walked past him and headed over to the fridge pulling out the milk, you could feel his eyes on you.

“Morning little mortal, you look very chirpy this morning, immaculately presented as always.” He jibed, folding his arms across his chest watching you potter around the kitchen.

You and Loki had what most people would call a love-hate relationship, he flirted shamelessly with you but you both infuriated each other, he wound you up to no end and you bit every time at his snarky remarks. But despite all that you were very comfortable around him and considered him to be one of your closest friends. You liked being able to be sassy and sarcastic to him without it cutting deep.

You looked at him deadpan “Its 6.30 am and I have a training session scheduled with a former assassin and a super-soldier. This is about as chipper as I’m going to get seeing as I’m going to get my ass kicked.” You grumbled whilst pouring yourself a cup of coffee.

Loki rolled his eyes at your dramatic response, plucking the coffee out of your hands that you’d just poured yourself and bringing it to his lips. You stared at him jaw slack as he took a long sip, keeping eye contact with you the whole time.

“What the hell Loki! I need that you arse-hole!” you whined at him lunging for your mug back, nearly catching him before he dissolved into thin air and reappeared behind you, leaning gracefully against one of the counters.

“Oh sorry I thought you were making this for me?” He feigned innocence whilst draining the mug of its entire contents. “Not your best anyway, far too sweet.” He winked at you whilst you fumed, glaring at him.

“You make my life a living hell, you know that?” You grumble storming out to your training session, still feeling half asleep and not wanting to spend any more time with the Asgardian Prince as there was a high chance of you stabbing him with a blunt butter knife this morning.

“Good luck with your ass-kicking my dear, I’ll be waiting dotingly to clean your wounds” He shouted after you. You simply flipped him the bird in response.

To say the training session kicked your ass was an understatement, Steve pushed you to your absolute limit making you run for miles and Nat sparred with you for what felt like hours. The icing on the cake was that you forgot your phone was in the side of your gym leggings and when Natasha decided to drop kick you particularly hard and you fell on your ass, she killed your phone along with your dignity.

You dragged yourself out of the gym and into your bedroom, and slipped into the wet room in your ensuite, letting the water soothe your aching body, you hoped it would wash away your bad mood along with your pain.

Dressed in some comfy sweats and leggings you decided you needed food, it was 2pm and you still hadn’t eaten anything, your stomach growled accordingly in protest of the lack of food, something you know Bucky would also tell you off for if he found out.

You wanted pizza but all you had in the house was damn healthy food, you needed to order take out and you needed to do it on the sly, ordinarily, this is when you’d turn to one of the multiple fast food apps on your phone, but as you reached for it and jabbed at the home screen button you remembered its tragic and untimely death. You cursed Natasha and her amazing thighs for ruining your life.

You figured you’d have to get your usual partner in crime to order it for you, so you sighed and dragged yourself out of your room and into the lounge you knew was Loki’s favourite. It was stocked with bookshelves and was one of the quieter areas in the compound. If he wasn’t sparring with Thor or annoying you, that is where he would be. You spotted his usual nest things scattered across one of the sofas in the corner but there was no sign of the man in question himself. You headed over to the sofa anyway and resigned yourself to waiting for him, he’d probably just popped out for a drink or something, you’d get him to order for you when he was back.

This seemed like a simple enough plan, until about ten minutes passed, ten long minutes that you attempted to fill by fiddling with the TV remote, and there was still no sign of him. You glanced down to where his book and phone were sat on the arm of the sofa, and looked behind you one final time to see if there was any sign of him. When there wasn't you picked up his phone, he’d probably be annoyed that you went on it but you’d deal with that later, right now all you wanted was a margarita pizza and some cheesy chips.

You tapped the home button praying he didn't have a password when something that you hadn't expected to see took the food right off your mind. It was you on his phone set as his lockscreen. You squinted and put your head closer to the screen in disbelief and stared at your image.

It was a picture of you on your birthday, the whole team had gone out to celebrate and you may have taken hitting 23 pretty hard as you’d consumed nearly as many tequila shots as Thor had and then fell asleep in the taxi on the way home. That was what the picture was, you asleep in the cab, head on Loki’s lap, party hat still on but slightly askew. You had blue glitter on your cheek and a lipstick smudge on the other. All things considered, it was a pretty cute picture, you took it in for a few seconds until you were shocked out of your thought process by the sound of footsteps and a voice.

“There you are, I was looking for a stretcher but there was no sign of one so assume you didn’t take that much of a beating-what are you doing?” The voice that was at first light and joking changed halfway through the sentence, sounding panicked and abrupt.

Your mouth was still open when you made eye contact with Loki, you weren't sure who looked more like a rabbit in the headlights between the two of you.

“I was just gonna order a pizza-” You started to say before he’s in front of you snatching his phone out of your hand.

Loki looked pissed but there's something else underneath and you recognise it straight away, embarrassment. Neither of you said anything as you stood looking at each other, both waiting for the other to say something. You decided it was probably going to have to be you to break the silence.

“Am I your lockscreen?” You asked, aware how dumb it sounds because it’s very clear that you got a good look at the picture of yourself.

Loki clenched his jaw. “You weren't supposed to see that.” his tone was clipped as he stared at you.

At first, you don’t know how to respond, your natural reaction would be to run away and pretend it had never happened but then you remembered the little coffee thief this morning, and how he revelled in your annoyance. You finally had the upper hand.

“Why am I your lock screen Loki?” You asked in a tone heavily dripping with mocking. “Is it because you love me? Do you sit and look at me through your phone longingly?” You put your hand to your heart dramatically. “When will my beloved notice me?” you sigh out.

At this point his eyes were narrow and he was straight out glaring at your performance, you knew you were taking things too far and that you should probably stop, but you couldn't help yourself because it was such a rare sight to see the ever snarky and poised prince looking incredibly uncomfortable and unsettled.

It’s only when he grabbed your arm and tugged you towards his chest hard, that you shut your mouth. He’s only inches away from you and he’s staring at your face with an unreadable expression. This is it, you think, he’s finally gonna murder me, and to be honest, you wouldn't blame him if he swung you out of the window, you admittedly were being a bit of an ass.

But something in the mood changed and suddenly the room was filled with a different type of tension. You noticed his eyes sweep over your face, you were transfixed by his tongue darting out to wet his lips. You couldn't help doing the same as your eyes flitted down to his mouth, the air seemed to grow hot around you and the atmosphere was definitely no longer joking. There was something else in the air that was thicker, and the telltale sign of stirring in your lower stomach made you bite your lip and turn your head up while as he angled his down towards you.

Your lips were a mere centimetre away from each others and he bumped your nose with his, grazing his lips against yours minutely before moving to your ear.

“In your dreams, little mortal.” He whispered and suddenly he was walking backwards away from you, his eyes still on your face before he turned around and walked out not sparing you a backwards glance. All the while you stood there shell shocked, breathing heavily and trying to contemplate what the fuck had just happened.

Two weeks passed since what you started to refer to in your head as pizza-gate, happened and you had barely seen Loki, and to be honest you're weren't sure whos doing that was. Neither of you had reached out to the other, both being stubborn.

Usually, you’d be the one to crack but this time you wanted an apology. Yeah, you teased him and probably kick-started the whole thing but what he did was just plain mean. Not only was it mean but it also made you see things in a whole different way. Your mind was constantly flashing back to the feel of his lips on yours, the soft ghosting touch that was barely there but also there long enough to drive you insane over these past two weeks.

You felt lonely without Loki, without his scathing comments and his quick wit around, everything seemed quiet. You trained extra hard and even managed to knock Nat on her ass and give Sam a shiner. Everyone was impressed but they also noticed your lack of caution, ordinarily, you would rely on your powers in battle but you were throwing yourself into your training sessions, being wild and uncaring about what happened to you, all your pent up anger and emotion was coming to a head.

It isn’t really that much of a problem until it is.

You were on what was supposed to be a fairly tame mission, some recon on a potential hydra base, but of course, it's never really that simple. You were mid-fight with a hyrda agent, and your mind was everywhere; trying to watch your teammates but also trying to keep an eye on the bad guys. It was all going pretty well until you saw Peter in a vulnerable position. One of the hydra agents had him pinned down while the other is pointing some kind of blaster at him. You don't think before you made a beeline for the asshole, sending a flying kick to his temple, knocking him out whilst Peter scrambled to his feet and webbed up the other guy.

You turned to smirk at Peter and high five him, but your victory was short-lived as you heard the familiar sound of a gunshot and felt the pain radiating through your right shoulder. It’s a pain that spreads and feels like fire burning through your veins. The last thing you saw was Bucky break the guy’s neck and then it all went black.

You could hear bits and pieces, and you could feel your body being carried to the quinjet, someone ripping your tac suit open, a calm voice saying something about poison before it was interrupted by a murderous sounding one, demanding to know what happened.

When you really came around you were in a sterile white room which you could only imagine was the med bay, your shoulder hurt and your throat felt like sandpaper. You raised yourself slightly and scanned the room, your head whipping around when you saw someone moving in your peripheral vision, it wasn’t who you expected to see at all.

It’s Loki, and he looked pissed, downright murderous in-fact. He was sitting in the chair next to your bed with his hands folded under his chin and his elbows on his knees, he looked like he hadn’t slept. The look he gave you made you want to go back to being unconscious so you lift the comforter slightly over your face and hide, trying to lighten the mood, bringing it back down when you see no change on his face.

You sighed and tried to stretch your aching limbs, moaning in pain when you moved your injured shoulder and you see Loki flinch in response.

“Be careful, you silly mortal.” He scolded and reached out to prop your pillow under your head so you could sit up.

“Oh he speaks does he?” You said glaring at him. “I was starting to think you’d left planet earth, but no, you were obviously just avoiding me.” You pouted and turned your head, looking anywhere but his face.

He leaned forward and ran a hand down his face. “The bullet in your shoulder was poisoned, you could have been killed yet you want to talk about that right now?” his face was filled with disbelief.

You took a second to think about what he said and looked him in the eyes. “Yes because you’re right, I could have died and the last thing you would have said to me was, In your dreams mortal. " You spat out, willing yourself not to cry.

At least now Loki had the decency to look a little sheepish but when he opened his mouth to talk but you don’t let him.

“What the fuck does that even mean, who does that?! All I wanted to do was order a freaking pizza!” Admittedly you were feeling a little hopped up on the meds you’d been given, but two weeks of confusion paired with being shot must have got to you a little.

“What is it you would like me to say Y/N?” Loki stood up now and began to pace. “That I’m sorry? That you caught me off guard when you said what you did about me being in love with you? That everything you were mocking me with is true? That I was terrified and furious with you that I found out you put yourself in danger as you did? And that if Barnes hadn't already killed that Hydra dolt I would have ripped him into pieces?” He turned to you with his fists clenched and you could see how hard this was for him, it was written all over his face.

That's what made you bite the bullet. No more dancing around each other and teasing. Your heart hurt and you could feel it aching after seeing the vulnerability on his face. That along with a year of stolen glances, and flirty remarks. After years of him paying his dues to the world and changing for the better, you got to see his guard finally fall down.

You were shaking now as you slammed your fist from your good arm on the bed and half-shouted “Loki I love you for fuck sake, and I need you so please don't leave me again.” Now you let yourself cry, big fat tears spilled down your cheeks and you were sure you looked a wreck.

But then he’s there, by your side, kneeling on the ground next to your bed, one hand around the back of your head, his thumb held your jaw, stroking and comforting. The other hand was wiping the tears off your face. You were only inches apart again but this time it’s all you need and you can tell he feels the same because in no time his lips were on yours, needy and desperate as you kissed him back, giving him full access to you.

The kiss was full of unspoken words; apologies and I love yous, things you should have said but have been too stubborn to say, and when you pulled back and look at Loki's face, still furrowed with concern for you, you wonder why it took you so damn long to finally tell him how you felt.

You looked at each other, your hand on his neck and his still on your jaw stroking gently, there were too many things to say so you just say the first thing that comes to mind. “You owe me a coffee and a pizza.”

He rolled his eyes and pulled away, sitting back in his original seat next to the bed, but he intertwined his hand with yours. “You midgardians are such a strange species.. gets shot and is still thinking with her stomach.” But he was smiling underneath his usual sarcastic expression and you decided it's your new favourite thing in the world.

“Oh yeah.” You deadpan “That's why I walked in front of a bullet, just on the off chance you might talk to me and buy me a pizza.” You said rolling your eyes and he mirrored your expression.

“I do have one more question though,” You asked and he cocked his head to one side in a go-ahead gesture.

“Why that picture?” you query and a small smile appeared on his face.

“Ah, I believe I found it, what you midgardians call, cute.” He replied and leaned forward on his elbows again. “It was also the time it first became apparent that you wanted me.” He raised his eyebrows in a comical way and you felt your face turning beet red.

“Wanted you? What are you talking about Loki?” You said taking your hand out of his and raising it to hide your face in embarrassment.

“I believe your exact words were, Do you sleep on your stomach? No? Can I. oh and this one was a personal favourite, Did you sit in a pile of sugar? Cause you have a pretty sweet ass.” He smirked and looked completely satisfied with your horrified reaction.

“Oh my god, how do I not remember that?!” You squealed. “Most of all how did you not torture me with that information?!”

“You don't remember that because Thor had been slipping you Asgardian shots when Natasha and Steve weren’t looking, and as to why I didn’t torture you? I was saving it for the perfect ammunition next time you really angered me.” He smiled his trademark Villain smile and you couldn’t help yourself pulling him towards you and kissing that annoying smirk off his face.

“Well you have no leverage on me now, I guess the cats out of the bag, and now I’m not afraid to admire that sweet ass.”

#loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson #loki reader insert #loki x you #loki odinson #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #marvel fic #MCU fic #loki #reader insert #loki oneshot #tom hiddelston x reader

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maryellencarter · 4 years

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excessively detailed headcanon meme from camshaft22 about Wes

What does their bedroom look like? Lots and lots and lots of extremely colorful pillows and blankets. Not a hell of a lot else. And Kettch.

Do they have any daily rituals? Um. Not particularly, I think? He’s spent his entire adult life in the military, which pretty much defines what he has to do when.

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often? Yes. We know that Wes is fairly good at hand-to-hand combat. I figure he also does weight training and cardio.

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy? Tricky question, as it often is for characters from military canons. But I’m thinking he’d either barge in and work around the other people using the kitchen, or if all the stoves/ovens/etc were busy, find a ration bar or something.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.) We have pretty much nothing on this in canon. I tend to have his workspace covered in datacards and so forth, because he has that sort of ADHD vibe where your brain needs more than one screen to spread thoughts across. We do know that he has quite a good sense of smell, so he’s probably fairly cleanly in his personal life.

Eating habits and sample daily menu? Again: military. He eats what’s there to be eaten. Probably a fair amount of it, because all that muscle needs a lot of calories. I suspect during the Rebellion he helped supply the cooks by hunting for meat.

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time? Good question. He’s not as hyper as Shalla; there are a couple of points in the books where we see him lying down doing nothing when he has some free time. (Once toward the beginning of Iron Fist iirc, when the three ersatz Zsinjes are discussing plans, Wes is lying on a sofa with a glass of brandy while they talk, and then when Myn goes to find him for the “you can’t look dignified” talk he finds Wes lying down in bed though he has a chair in his quarters.) He’s probably always thinking about random shit and entertaining himself.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging? I think it really depends on the context. On Adumar, we see him cutting loose and enjoying the fame and adulation, and also capes and swords. In the Wraith books, he’s more disciplined, because his quacklings need him to be, but he definitely enjoys pranks, and also setting up the sort of prank-like training methods he uses. I don’t think he really has any guilty pleasures as such, not that he would consider guilty.

Makeup? I kind of doubt he’s been in a context to encounter it much, other than Face’s stage makeup. In universes where he has, he definitely likes body glitter, and has probably experimented with using contouring techniques on his biceps.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such? You can’t be a Wraith without neuroses. He sits on them pretty effectively, but he’s a mess around the whole business with Kell’s father, and he’s fairly fatalistic about his own prospects of survival.

Intellectual pursuits? Good damn question. We know he’s smart, good at numbers, remembers obscure training protocols. We don’t know if he reads philosophy or writes poetry or... what exactly are “intellectual pursuits” anyway?

Favorite book genre? There are a lot of these questions that we don’t especially have answers to. I mean, I know this is a headcanon meme, but a lot of them I also haven’t pondered much. I don’t think we ever see Wes reading for fun, although I speculate he reads NR training manuals in order to figure out ways to mess with his students. I’ll have to ponder on this one.

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general? Wes is pansexual aromantic. He pretty much respects that everybody has different orientations, but finds romance confusing and occasionally distressing, especially when it interferes with his friendships.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.) Um. Not really? The whole Star Wars bacta thing takes care of a lot of that. I have been messing around with a completely self-indulgent little sleep apnea headcanon, because you could just wear a specialized rebreather to sleep instead of a CPAP machine. I haven’t done anything with that, though.

Biggest and smallest short term goal? At what point in the story? That’s the trouble with a shared universe that spans 44 years at least.

Biggest and smallest long term goal? Ditto.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress? Ahahahaha yeah. XD Wes is famous, or infamous, for his unique sense of style -- although apparently there are things even he doesn’t want to wear, because Wedge was able to threaten him with letting Hobbie choose his clothes on Adumar. He likes bright colors, capes, shiny things, weaponry, and glitter.

Favorite beverage? I have no headcanon about this. Star Wars foodstuffs are difficult.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night? Probably ways to cause minor trouble and cheer people up. Or maybe he tells himself stories.

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them? Well, I decided the “Hesken’s fever” that kept him out of the first Death Star battle was space chicken pox, and that he had it as a kid but it didn’t take, because I had chicken pox twice as a kid myself.

Turn-ons? Turn-offs? Sexually, or what? I’m old enough in internet years that I’m never quite sure whether we’re using this in the sense of things that you generally like and don’t like. Also, for as much Wes smut as I’ve written (it is a lot), I don’t really feel that I can produce a list.

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen? Paper airplanes, possibly decorated with dicks.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life? Honestly, Wes is pretty damn organized when it comes to squadron stuff. I feel like this could go either way -- that he’s also super organized about his personal life, or that he’s completely and utterly disorganized outside the military structure.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all? Wes Janson, Ace Statistician. XD Honestly, he could probably be good at most things, he’s a lot smarter than he acts sometimes.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today? Again, at what point in the story?

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout? These are really difficult to answer without specifying a timeframe.

What is their biggest regret? Definitely the Doran Incident.

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy? Best friend is Hobbie. Worst enemy is probably whoever Wedge is currently pointing him at. Wes doesn’t really have a lot of personal enmities.

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?) Go extremely organized and make everything happen that needs to happen.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies) Sit on his feelings until they stop bothering him.

Most prized possession? Kettch.

Thoughts on material possessions in general? He really doesn’t need much. I tend to figure he likes comfy cozy cuddly things and fancy capes, and other than that he mostly does with what the Rebellion / New Republic gives him. Hobbie probably invests his money for him (Ralltiir is a banking planet), and Wes doesn’t pay much attention to it. By the time he gets out of the military at last, he probably has a pretty fair pile.

Concept of home and family? The Fab Four are his family. I forget why, but I also decided he has some attachment to Taanab and probably goes back there to live once he musters out. The air and gravity just feel more correct there.

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?) Wes gives the impression that there’s not a thought in his head that doesn’t come out his mouth, but at the same time he has secrets he doesn’t tell anybody until he has to. So, some of each? It’s a balancing act.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time? Um. I’m not sure he has any. I mean, this is a guy who unabashedly bounces on his bed to make a point.

What makes them feel guilty? Not much. Except the Doran incident and things that remind him of it.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making? Emotional, to the point that he’s made a principle out of it.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality? I honestly don’t know what this means. *googles* Well, I have learned a lot about tobacco lobbyists in the 1980s... ;P If I’m understanding what these mean, though, Wes is definitely not a Type A personality, and therefore is by definition a Type B personality.

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained? Being around people. Having fun. Conversation. Cheering other people up.

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither? Probably neither. Sometimes he pretends to have a superiority complex as a form of goofing around, which is much more difficult to do when you actually have one of these complexes. (Compleces? Plurals are complicated.)

How misanthropic are they? Ahaha. Not very. Hobbie does all of that for him. XD

Hobbies? BEHOLD A PUNE *koff* Sorry. I don’t really know that Wes has any particular hobbies, although I suspect he can sew for purposes of making Kettch new outfits. Somebody had to make that gray Hawk-bats flightsuit.

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education? Well, he definitely left school on Taanab by the time he was about eighteen at the oldest. I feel like he was probably kind of self-conscious about being a Rimworlder for a while (all three of the others are Coreworlders), and that might mix into his feelings about having left school early, if he did.

Religion? When I write Wes, he’s kind of an agnostic. It so happens that he never refers to the Force at all in the X-wing books, in any way, so I’ve riffed on that to a view that, while he’s seen Luke do things with the Force and knows it exists, he ascribes it a lot less power than the Jedi do. He sees the Force basically as a nonsentient temporally-amorphous ocean of impressions, which Jedi can use to foresee things like blaster bolts (which is useful), but when Jedi get larger and vaguer impressions about the “will of the Force”, he’s pretty sure they’re projecting. This doesn’t do too much harm when Luke does it, because Luke is a ball of sunshine who just wants what’s best for everyone, but it means that Sith and other fucked-up people have their own really dangerous views on the Force’s will. ...I may have thought this out rather a lot.

Superstitions or views on the occult? He probably has them. I’m very fond of space superstitions but I don’t think I’ve written any myself. Wes seems like the sort of guy who would laugh over ghost stories and then accidentally scare himself in the middle of the night.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds? Ummm I’m not quite sure what this means. *ponders* Nope, I’ve got nuthin’.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal? That’s also a hell of a question. Like does it mean who would they fall in love with? Are we talking that Anne of Green Gables shit about only being able to fall in love with a tall dark stranger with a melting voice?

How do they express love? Snuggling. Also annoying you into cheering up.

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like? More or less a mixed martial arts thing. We see him use some wrestling moves and spinning kicks. I suspect Shalla gave him some lessons after she joined the Wraiths, because he seems a lot more confident about his hand-to-hand abilities on Adumar than in the first Wraith Squadron book.

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not? Nope. He knows he’s going to die very soon; he’s a soldier in a war with an extremely high rate of attrition. His goal is to have as much fun as possible before he goes.

#wes janson #wes janson ace statistician #rogue squadron #star wars legends #meme

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mzargentum · 6 years

Text

The Stormsender’s Daughter | Chapter XIII | Devil’s Gold

Chapter XII | Chapter XIII | Chapter XIV

Word Count: 4,118

Warnings: Sexual situations, physical abuse, murder

As the sun finally rose against the horizon…

Muerlin nonchalantly enjoyed her nutritious breakfast, a couple pieces of bread and canteen water, perched on a large hill near a small village.

It had been nearly a week since her journey began and so far, it could’ve been worse considering.

It took forever to make it away from the city to the more rural areas where people stayed, but that wasn’t the main problem at the time.

The biggest issue was making it through town with tattered clothes and a shirt that was covered in bullet holes and blood…with no wounds.

Lucky for her, most of them didn’t have radios so there was no way for them to assume she was the Pythoness rather than some kid that was having a reeeeally rough day.

So the villagers were more inclined to assist her. Among finally having an actual bath, she was given new clothes as well as a small satchel for her belongings as well as a holster.

Even though all she had on her at the moment was a canteen and the switchblade she received from Lunafreya, she accepted it nonetheless. At least the ankle holster would be useful.

Muerlin was at a comfortable distance from the city to relax for the time being, but she couldn’t afford to fully lower her guard.

If she knew one thing about the Empire…and their gracious Chancellor…is that they were persistent. Nothing was going to steer him from his search for her…and she knew it.

She could hear them scrambling in the distance foraging through caves, trees, in the most random nooks and crannies they could think of.

Jeez…she thought to herself with an eye roll. Just because she was a wizard didn’t mean that was a reason to throw all practicality and logic clear out the window, but she figured she should be grateful that they weren’t really experts on the matter.

After everything that happened leading up to now, she could use a break from her Imperial stalkers.

As the sun’s rays began to finally blind the lagoon eyed maiden, she took it as her cue to trek on.

Dusting the dirt from her bare thighs and shorts, Muerlin leaps down the hill, sticking a firm landing upon its base.

Once she stood from her crouched position, the young wizard turned to view the actual height of the hill. It wasn’t the tallest she had ever seen, but anyone under her age falling from it would definitely be in some serious shit.

Ever since Muerlin received a larger dosage of her power from the Fulgerian, her overall senses and abilities, as well as her reflexes and nerve activities have heightened to great proportions.

She could already sense the presences of people as well as animals in her vicinity, but with her enhancements, she could detect any disturbances within a radius of 40 kilometers with minimum focus. 60 at max.

Though much concentration was required, her field of vision was nearly 360 and, unlike before, everything stood out to her. She noticed every motion of every object and creature.

Her audible range had extended both in loudness and in pitch. From the lowest frequency possible almost reaching to that of a dolphin, hence how she could even hear the Nifs from so far away.

Yet because of Asteria’s overall animalistic nature, these heightened abilities wrecked absolutely no havoc on her physicality, which she would gladly thank her for.

Somehow her pain tolerance had heightened as well. Pain was, of course, still evident, but it seemed her entire body had underwent a complete rewiring.

I mean, should she expect anything less from a God?

However, despite the beneficial factors of finally accepting her true self, there was still a matter of addressing the elephant in the room…

The daemonic essence within Muerlin’s veins was still very prominent and continued to slowly make its way up her wrists. Her hands were still pitch black so she was still forced to keep them covered in some sort of way.

Her general disguise was a good way to keep the imperial’s off her scent, but these markings would be a dead giveaway. Especially if a lowly, gullible villager decided to rat her out in hopes of some sort of payment.

Lucky for her, the marks upon her feet barely reached her ankles so that was one less thing to worry about.

So as long as she kept moving and stayed out of trouble, she’d be fine.

Heh…easier said than done.

Hours went by…

Muerlin, however, paid little attention until…

*growl*

“Ugh…”, the young wizard groaned in frustration toward her roaring stomach. “Now? But we just-”, the girl suddenly paused upon looking toward now setting sun.

“Ohhhh….dammit”, Muerlin cursed herself under her breath.

She hadn’t eaten since that morning and the despite the daemon energy creeping around in her bloodstream, she really didn’t think taking on a swarm of daemons alone would be the smartest idea.

Looking around, she noticed there was not a haven to be found and it’s not like she really had any decent camping supplies. It had just been easier to find places to sleep in towns. Unfortunately, she was miles from one.

But a good ways in the distance, she suddenly noticed a light flick abruptly. Centering her attention on the anomaly, it was suddenly revealed to be…

“A house?”, she chuckled with a puzzled eyebrow. “All the way out here?”

Judging by their location, it seemed to be the only one and it looked rather huge from this distance.

Normally, the sketchiness of the situation would warrant an alternate solution, but she could feel the evil presence of the daemons preparing to rise from below.

Sighing out of frustration, the young wizard reluctantly made her way toward the house.

What Muerlin was not aware of is what immoral deeds were done within this mansion...

All throughout the inside was plush and polished and roaming about the halls were pristine young women dressed in sequins and glitter.

Tutu skirts, and tight shirts, most without the support of a brassiere. The halls riddled with countless doors, all leading to a chamber unique to the previous.

...And within those chambers, were numerous Niflheim soldiers lavishing in the pleasures of the women’s “forbidden dances”.

“Ugh! I TOLD you that motherfucker would do this!”, a ravishing young platinum blonde, only sporting a pink lace thong and black stilettos, shrieked as she her prized physique bounced furiously as she stormed down the hall. “BIRDIE!!!”

“What?!”, an older, yet youthful strawberry blonde haired woman raced from a separate room to confront the screaming from the hall. Intercepting the young blonde, her baby blue eyes pouring with angry tears over her plush rosy flesh, “Crystal, damn, what’s the problem? Where’s your top?”

“That piece of shit did it again!!”, she shouted. “I told you, he’d tear it! I told you!”

“Oh, hell, again?”, Birdie sighed trying to keep the angry baby faced girl calm. Her plump cherry lips curved into a frustrated pout. “I made that one too”.

“He grabbed it from the collar with his giant sausage fingers and tore it off from the center!!”, the girl whined. “And I really liked this one!!!”, she whimpered with a stomp, the bottom of her shoe clicking against the solid floors.

“I know, shug”, Birdie gently reassured the girl trying to soothe her, “how ‘bout this? Why don’t you head to the dressing room and find yourself a new outfit? I’ll handle our rude guest”, she smiled toward the saddened doll before she stomped off toward the dressing room.

Birdie’s gente myrtle gaze darkened to a vengeful glare as she made her way down the hall toward the soldier’s room. Each step more and more fierce and prominent than the last.

The force of each stomp rattling her porcelain cleavage within her emerald corset dress. Her strawberry locks bouncing at every strut. Her raging aura growing more and more intense as she closed in.

So potent and toxic that it woke the soldier from his slumber. His heart rate increasing at an alarming rate as the doorknob turned before...

“Good evenin’, sir”, Birdie’s silky voice slithered throughout the room upon her entry, leaning against the doorway. A lustrous scarlet red smirk on her face. “Seems like someone got a little too frisky, eh?”

The soldier merely stared at the woman in confusion as well as light arousal as she looked toward the shredded blouse on the floor.

“Oh, dear”, she facetiously pouted. “That was such a nice top too...”.

“Poor poor Crysie”, the woman continued. “That was the 5th stop she’s lost in the past two weeks...y’know I made them”, her voice began to take a more vicious tone.

“...it takes a lot of time...and effort to make these girls look nice for worthless pigs like you...and this is the thanks I get?” The man’s heart skipped a beat upon the click of the lock as the fear of the woman in front of him rose through his abdomen.

“Looks like we’ll have to teach the young man some manners, won’t we?”, Birdie grinned as she slowly approached the man. Her curvy hips swaying back and forth with every step as she shut the door behind her.

“L-Look, lady...”, he whimpered as he scooted against the headboard of the bed, “I...I didn’t mean to ruin the shirt, hones-ghk! Auggghhh!!!”, the man was abruptly silenced by a sharp backhand to his jaw, Birdie’s pointed nails leaving a vicious gash against his face.

“Oh, no, no, no”, the woman’s soft sensual tone returned. “It’s too late for that now...but don’t worry...it doesn’t take much to teach a man...”, a she smirked as her petite hand slid down the front of his pants, intruding his boxers, light whimpers erupting from his throat.

“Please...”.

“All it takes...is a little....persuasion”, she whispered before a blood curdling scream echoed throughout the halls, even to the dressing room at the end.

“There...”, a dapper man in a gold quite delightfully beamed, as he consoled the still mostly bare Crystal. “Sounds like he got his taste of the Strelitzia Reginae”.

“W-what’s that?”, Crystal asked the man.

“The Bird of Paradise”, he grinned. “Daddy’s favorite flower”.

Moments later, Birdie emerges from the room. Her hand, up to her wrist, gloved in crimson as well as a few droplets that stained her dress.

“Ugh...gross”, she sighed upon the few before shouting. “GALAHD!!”

Followed by a brief silence, the woman began to check her surroundings. Noticing no one, she began to call out once more. “GALA-”.

“I’m here”, a small yet firm voice sliced through Birdie’s yelp, startling the woman.

She spun around to see the girl she was addressing already in the room, beginning to place the torn flesh into a trash bag.

Birdie never liked the girl. She was always so quiet, and quite frankly, it creeped out the older woman as well as all of her girls. Her clothes were worn and she never wore shoes, but the main reason why they were fearful of her...was because of her milky grey eyes.

Not that it was anything new. Her eyes had always been this way...ever since the incident...but because of how they frightened the girls and put them on edge, Birdie demanded for them to always remain hidden.

They were always kept hidden away by her hair so she trudged about doing the bidding of anyone in the mansion with any authority over hers.

A slave to their unholy cause.

“Well...make sure you replace the sheets. And get that blood out, ASAP, y’hear? I don’t wanna see none of that nastiness when I check later”, she commanded to the girl.

“Yes, ma’am...”, she mumbled dragging the castrated and maimed corpse off of the bed to get into the bag.

“Good girl”, Birdie nodded before an abrupt knock on the door captured her attention. Glancing at the child clean up her mess, she began to shut the door to conceal the smell before approaching the front door leaving the girl alone in a dark room with a rotting corpse.

Although, her senses remain unhindered.

A light sigh escaped Muerlin’s nostrils as she took in the vast flamboyancy of the mansion as well as it’s size.

The doors were way too big for this to be a regular home. Especially with it’s random placement in the literal middle of nowhere.

A slight shiver crept up her spin as one of those giant doors slowly slid open with a loud creak.

Staring toward the dim red lighting beyond the doorway, a shadowy silhouette of a woman appeared.

“Can I help you?”, Birdie greeted the silver haired wizard. Light sass in her voice.

“Um...sorry, I hope I’m not intruding”, Muerlin’s lightly accented voice fluttered through the woman’s ears. Upon closer examination of her, she actually noticed the silver in her hair as well as a random shading upon her wrists under her glove.

The woman’s eyes suddenly lit up upon her realization of their new guest’s identity and her attitude took a complete 180.

“Oh...”, Birdie smirked, her delightful tone making the microscopic silver hairs on the back of Muerlin’s neck stand at attention. “Not at all, deary. How may we be of service?”

“Well...”, Muerlin began to explain with a light chuckle. “I’m just traveling through the countryside and seems I lost track of time and ventured too far without any proper plans for food and shelter for the night”.

“Oh, you poor sweet baby doll”, Birdie cooed at the nervous teen bending down toward her. “Not to worry, precious. I’m sure we can find something for you”, her sinister silky voice crept through the young girl’s mind followed by yep...already regretting it as she slowly made her way inside.

“Take a seat, sweetheart”, Birdie calmly suggested, gesturing to one of the plush chairs in the foyer. “Make yourself comfy”.

As Muerlin sat down, a rather foul aroma floated through her nostrils causing her to scrunch up her nose in slight disgust.

Upon realizing this, Birdie attempts to cover up the incident. “Uh, I will be back in a jiffy, sweetie”, the woman chuckled. “There’s someone special I want you to meet. Stay right here, shug. Right here”, she grinned before hurriedly heading down the hall.

The further out of sight the silver haired girl became, the quicker Birdie’s pace. Her heart pounding against her eardrums as her excitement grew. Once she finally reached the farthest end of the hall, her excitement had grew to such immense proportions, she practically kicked the door open allowing it to swing and slam against the wall.

“Goddammit, Birdie!”, the man in gold shouted, startled from his favorite whore’s outburst. “What in the hell has gotten into you?!”

“Our big break, Dion Honey, that’s what!”, she loudly whispered toward the confused man.

“What does that even mean?!”, he began to calm down.

“It means that tonight is the night we finally get to stick it to them Imperial bastards”.

“How?”

“The Pythoness is here!”

The man immediately calmed down upon hearing this news before fixing his tie. “Well, alright...let the game’s begin”.

A few moments later, Muerlin begins to get used to the silences despite the overall creepy nature of this place.

Although she notices the hordes of bare bodies floating about in skimpy sparkly outfits, her presence still remains unknown, thankfully.

“Welly, well, well, what have we here?”

...or it did.

Muerlin’s gaze quickly shifted to the slender man in a golden suit as he approached her. She was surprised at how well she hid her anxiety toward him.

His hair seemed a million times shinier than his outfit despite the fact it was a dark brown, but if the point was to keep the waves in place, it was working for him spectacularly.

As much as she hoped his thin mustache wasn’t smoothed out by the same gel, she was almost certain she was incorrect.

She had to give him some credit by the fact he was very sharply dressed, but his appearance coupled with Birdie’s and the obviousness of what this mansion actually was, it made her incredibly uncomfortable and in that moment, her regret for even considering this place skyrocketed.

“This is our new special guest I was telling you about”, Birdie explained, that sly and creepy grin still plastered upon her face.

“Special, indeed”, the man’s slimy voice slipped through Muerlin’s ears. His light brown iris’ examining her body thoroughly.

“Dionysus Mammon”, he gently took her hand placing a damp kiss upon it, “but you can call my Dion”. The fibers from his mustache tickling her knuckles. “A pleasure”.

As much as Muerlin wanted to slap the gel out of this guy’s mustache, she needed a place to stay...so, trying not to be rude, she forced herself to smile with a light chuckle. “Th...The pleasure’s all mine”.

“This young lady was hoping to find a place to stay for the night”, Birdie explained. “She got all turned up and didn’t get a chance to eat”, the woman pouted with false concern.

“Is that so?”, Ferdinan asked the young woman, perching himself upon the edge of the chair she was sitting in.

His cologne filling Muerlin’s nostrils nearly rendering her comatose.

“It is, sir”, she continued to force her smile, while trying her hardest to hold her breath. “...unless it would be too much trouble?”

“Oh, nonsense”, the man waved his hand in the air with a toothy grin at her. “It would be no trouble at all”.

“Thank you, sir”, Muerlin graciously nodded, still heavily creeped out by his demeanor.

“GALAHD!!!”, the man loudly snapped his fingers.

After a moment, the young girl emerged from the dimly lit hallway rather hastily approaching the group.

Her appearance was fairly unnerving to the young wizard. Not really because of her in general, but the juxtaposition between the clearly pristine and pressed, dolled-up duo in front of her and the ghostliness of this girl rose suspicious.

Her clothes had clearly been lived in and there was no telling how long her feet had been bare, or when was the last time she had a proper bath.

Her hands seemed to be the cleanest thing about her.

Like they had been recently washed.

“Yes, sir?”, her voice was solid. Monotoned. No sense of emotion behind it in any way. Almost robotic...and chilling.

Her long pitch hair shifted just enough for Muerlin to notice an eye, but the girl’s gaze was toward the floor so she was unable to really make it out.

“Please escort our special new guest to one of the empty rooms on the second floor”.

Upon receiving the order, the girl suddenly peered up to the silver haired girl revealing a light grey and blue iris behind a milky film.

Muerlin’s gaze upon the eye intensified though her face never changed expression.

She noticed the girl’s eye dart around in her direction and it seemed they widened every second.

What was she possibly looking at? Muerlin had no idea, but whatever it was...judging how sharply the grey eyed girl’s gaze returns to Muerlin’s teal pools, it had her shook.

A deafening crack abruptly broke the wizard’s trance, causing her to jump in her seat.

Muerlin glanced toward the two snappy dressed adults in front of her to notice a gold plated pistol dangling in front of her face in Mr. Mammon’s hand.

“What did I say about showing people those disgusting eyes of yours?!”, Dion shouted, his voice snarled and cruel. His general suave demeanor instantly shifted.

It took a few seconds for Muerlin to realize the girl was on the floor holding her face in one hand while trying to hoist herself up with the other, clearly struggling not to make a sound or tremble.

“Well?”, Dion hissed at her.

Upon removing her hand from her face, her gaze was once again plastered against the floor, however Muerlin could clearly see the black and purple blemish around her eye as well as the hint of red shaded upon her pale palm.

“My apologies, sir”.

“NOT...to me”, the man instructed.

“...Apologies, miss”.

Completely dumbfounded by the fact that he actually forced this girl to apologize to her, Muerlin was more and more eager to get away from those two.

“Now then”, Mammon’s gentlemenly manner returned like nothing happened as he holstered his pistol, “would you kindly escort our guest to her room? Be a good little one and make sure she’s comfortable. Can you do that little favor, sweet-pea?”

“Yes, sir”.

Muerlin felt absolutely sick to her stomach. Sleep and food now came second and third to getting the hell out of here, but what would happen if she just left?

She didn’t want to risk them blaming this girl for her sudden departure. So, she reluctantly followed the girl, with no rebuttal.

Feeling slightly better now that there was some distance between her and those two.

Slightly.

Moments before midnight...

The luscious moans and fervorous groans that usually echoed through the halls had long ceased.

And toward the end of the hall, a mere glimmer was shown through a cracked door.

“You and me have hit the jackpot now, Big Daddy”, Birdie sensually beamed as she gently knocked the ash from her cigarette without knock it off it’s holder. “The Emperor will surely be pleased”.

“Yes...he would be...wouldn’t he?”, Dion responded half-heartedly as he sat at his desk, staring intensely into the fireplace pondering to himself.

Birdie however appeared so enthusiastic about their apparent success, she didn’t seem to catch this.

“The Chancellor’s prized possession walks in our humble establishment”, he began expressing his thoughts, “and is now counting sheep in one of our rooms”.

Rising from his seat, he slowly paces about his office. “One phone call...and we finally get the reward and position we so rightfully deserve in the emperor’s circle”.

“We’ll be the talk of Niflheim, baby”, Birdie hummed against her cigarette before taking another hit.

“Yes, yes, but...is this really the answer?”

Birdie’s parade suddenly came to a halt at Dion’s words. “What’re ya talking about?”, Birdie’s voice shook with light concern. “We’ve got this in the bag. Give the Pythoness to that creep Izunia and we’ll live like royalty until death do us part”.

“Yes, but...is this all my great legacy will be? Will I only be the man that captured the Pythoness?”

“What you tryin’ to say?”, Birdie’s demeanor beginning to sour.

“Returning the Pythoness to the Chancellor would get us in with the gold, but...keepin’ her for myself, makin’ her one of my girls...my girl...with her at my side...why, I’d have Aldercapt at my balls”.

“Now, hold on there, Dion”, Birdie nervously chuckled as she rose from her seat. “We already got a plan. Gettin’ under Aldercapt’s skin would be nice and all, but gettin’ in his circle, we’d be swimming in dough”.

“True...but makin’ that ol’ shriveled motherfucker sweat, I become the circle”, Dion’s greed continuing to get the best of him.

Birdie gulped with anxiety at Dion suddenly turning his back on their reward. HER reward. Instead of splitting the fame and glory, he was actually willing to make the Pythoness his personal favorite. His new personal favorite.

“Now, Dion, what in heaven’s name gave you such a ridiculous idea like that?”, Birdie tried to keep it together.

Dion was silent. His back to the woman.

“Really. Makin’ that child one of your girls just to piss off the Empire”, Birdie snorted hoping that he’d come to his senses and agree. “Now, what we need to be doin’ is-”, a pitch black tunnel suddenly placed directly between the bridge of her nose silenced Birdie.

“I’m sorry”, Dion softly murmured. “I don’t seem to recall asking you for your input, sweetheart. Please...”, he paused before before slowly removing the safety, “...enlighten me if I am mistaken”.

Sweat began to build upon the woman’s brow as she balled her fist, trying to push her rage back down.

“Not at all, baby”, the woman reluctantly replied.

“That’s what I thought”, Dion hissed before returned his weapon to it’s rightful spot on his side, in his jacket.

A sudden light echo caught Birdie’s attention outside the room, down the pitch corridor. Dion heard nothing over his avarice.

“In a few days, the name Dionysus Mammon will be the name of the Niflheim Empire...”, the man sinisterly beamed as Birdie began to slowly shut the door.

“...and Aldercapt will be the footnote”.

______________________________________________________________________

Tagging: @digitalkanvas @insomniasix @aquathemermaidstripper @glacian-apocalypse @a-new-recipehhh @prettyprompto @dizzymoogle

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy xv oc #the Stormsender's Daughter #muerlinian zephyr #The Pythoness #sibyl ramses #dionysus mammon #bird of paradise #birdie #brothel #ardyn izunia #iedolas aldercapt #niflheim

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