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londonfallen · 2 years ago

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" am i disrespectful then? " oh, he does this on purpose! what a little brat. it's a moment it'd think of scolding him, raise its hand and flick his nose as it often does, but instead its nose scrunches, and it smiles, tilting its head where it regards him. it still takes it a moment, but it thinks its started to catch on where he pokes fun at it : not that he didn't make it easy, all pomp where he lie wilting beneath it, in a tone it doesn't think its heard from him since the day they met—however short-lived, before he bursts alight with laughter. it thinks it snorts a little, too, quiet as it is. he's ... still so very cute, and alluring besides, where it thinks he does not intend, or know.

the tenderness doesn't necessarily fade, when it brings its hand 'gainst his chest downward, lifts its hips so all satisfaction he'd find would be underneath its fingertips. " i want to hear you just like this, " it starts with a drawl, and just as slowly, it drags its hand down—from his collar, over his pulse, before pausing to tease light pressure against his abdomen. " shameless, " slightly lower still, over his stomach, feeling where he arches into its touch and trying desperately not to let its own amusement show. " wanton, " the emphasis is intentional, for it goes from teasing its hand slow over his body to suddenly drawing lower, abruptly moving its hand down between his legs, curling 'round his erection the best its able where it grins down at him, teases its fingers over his dick for all but a moment before pulling away. " ...and improper. " perhaps it has a sense of humor after all, albeit a particularly mean one. the nearly devilish look it wears doesn't last, though, not as long as the softness still in its eyes, the tenderness in how it shifts back over him, presses down on him again does. " i want to hear how you cry out for me. what you like, what you want, i want to hear you beg— " it would not be out of line to say bark, it considers, though that may be just a touch too pointed to be romantic or erotic.

" ...and to know in every moment just how much you want me. " he cups its jaw, and it complies in earnest—its words murmured and dying 'gainst his lips, its own already parted and open for him, wanting. it doesn't believe its ever craved for anything quite like him, and oh does he leave it ravenous. there's blood on his lip still, it smells it before it tastes it, where its hands raise to cup his face in turn, deepen their kiss, allowing its tongue to taste him more completely. and he is as rich as it remembers, not bitter—it thinks if it were able to stand drinking it, his blood is like the wines it bottles. it leaves it wanting more : a craving never satisfied, even where it moans against his lips, feels him nip and bite against its own in plea, it wants more. dizzy, and drunk, and yearning. he is not the only one who has been left waiting, it is simply that it could no longer restrain itself. it reaches up to capture his hand, and instead of interweaving its fingers with his own, it pulls it against its chest, urging him onward.

it's hardly the sensation that's unfamiliar, but the feelings attached, the intensity—the overwhelming heat between them that rises, coils, and falls; love, it thinks, when there is a break in the fog muddling its thoughts, when it can think at all. overwhelming is not enough to describe it either, not the heat, not its love, nor his own, nor anything beyond it : its hardly inexperienced, even if it isn't necessarily renown for its sexual prowess—it was at least fair enough assumption to make that it has had partners past, not painted prudish like the prevaricator pages, but even it finds what it feels nearly incomprehensible. an ache, or subtle pain, deep within it that thrills underneath his every touch. so focused was it on his own reactions, it fails to catch itself when his hands trail over its body. from jaw to waist, its expression then is something unintentionally lascivious : every trembling false-breath, bitten back gasps where its fangs sink into its lip and it bows its head, brought down to its chest, and beyond that, eyes half-lidded when it finally has the will to open them and look back at him, stolen blood leaving it flushed red to the tips of its ears.

" that's—ah-! " futile is its every effort to speak, like this. it takes too much effort, too much thought it cannot hope to find, every word it grasps at falling breathless against his ministrations, unexpected had they been. but still, it tries regardless, between all its bitten back moans, it tries to praise him. " good— good boy... " however unintentional its features read before, it seems more focused now, its strangled words caught up in purr. its hand presses harder against his chest, nails digging slightly into his skin, and with every roll of its hips he matches, it meets in kind.

what else is it suppose to do, but relent? to its own desires, and his too—when it rocks its hips against him, it feels him—how hard he'd become, and as if it had the slightest hint of humor, it teases him; every moment it gets, squeezing its thighs against his hips, his sides, pressing down harder against his cock and making itself grow louder in turn. it's being cruel, but so is he. though difficult is it to call it cruelty, rather than calling it what it is : love, a chance to explore each other further, express themselves and their longing in whatever way they saw fit. his pulse is racing, it notes, but then again, so is its own, for all his heart may well be its own too.

how unexpected it was when its little spark took some control—it'd asked a lack of decorum, but it is still surprised, however buried that shock may be 'neath lust and hunger alike. he's always been very good at surprises where it mattered most. in contrast, its own confidence at times came off awkward, though never uncertain; and endearingly so is it where its left swallowing back moan and whimper alike, temporarily lifting its hips where the hand 'gainst his chest moves up, over, pins him loosely where it bows over him. a simple readjustment in truth, but it still groans where it feels him pull it back against him, against his hips before it fully adjusts, and the sudden friction makes the bites it starts to trail just a touch sharper than intended, where it forgets itself for all but a moment. if there is any mercy, it is the fact it can muffle itself against his chest and still keep true to its promise.

it groans against his skin, against the subtle red marks it leaves in a path trailing down from his neck, his collar; it's trying to restrain itself, if only a little—it wants to bury its teeth 'gainst his pulse nearly as much as it wishes to truly ravage him : to tear its claws down his sides and push its hips against him and hear him cry out for it in nothing short of ecstasy, but it wants this too. the slow building desperation, where it notices even he still wilts beneath it as it starts to trail its tongue, listens to every whimper and moan where it takes his nipple into its mouth again to nip and tug and tease, feels where he thrusts harder against it, the pressure of his cock against its own and its own increasing wet. it wants to squirm, it settles instead for pushing harder back against him, rocking its hips at a much rougher pace where it teases his chest with its tongue, and where its free hand moves to his side, trails, fingers slipping underneath the elastic. all they have left, and it still wants for—needs—more.

" elysium ... " out of everything in their present, it believes with no uncertainty that the way it says his name then is the most unexpected—half-moan, half-sigh. it's noisier than it intends to be, but it can't help it. certainly no more than he can help himself, and all the equally tantalizing sounds it's drawn free similarly. his movements grow more desperate with it, but there is only so much friction it can bear; its countenance has more than just a couple cracks, and it becomes all the more clear in the way it exhales as it lifts its hips once more away, as if it'd been holding its breath for some time, but the way it shakes, the hard swallow that follows as it tries to ground itself again, is something nearly obscene. at the very least, its sure they'd be censored. it doesn't want to stop their movements, but it isn't enough. its hand 'neath what little clothes remain tightens its grip against his hip, and with its tighter hold does it pull itself lower, using its other hand to push against and urge his thighs to part. " please. " how murmured its words makes it difficult to say whether it is asking him permission or wanting him to encourage it further, earnest and eager. both answers, at least, are true, no matter what interpretation he took—that's to say he heard it at all.

it isn't embarrassed. even if it could be, it doubts it would—its position 'tween his thighs is clearly provocative, but it doesn't see it worth blushing over. and yet blush it does, but not for shame ; its the heat, stolen and smothering, that keeps it warm, something almost alive. it's restless, and though its patience is thin, the way it waits is half as cruel as if it hadn't waited at all; moving to wrap one arm 'neath his leg, around it, hold him steady where it presses heated kisses up the inside of his thigh, and higher still—over the bulge straining 'gainst his garments, and again, does it tease with its tongue. hardly subtle, too, the way it has to squeeze its own thighs together not to suffer, though even this makes it groan against him, and this might be the lewdest its ever intentionally tried to come off ; looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, buried between his legs where it puts aside itself, waiting for him to beg.

he's not sure what expectations he'd had, if any at all : a master of the bazaar, societally considered the coldest, gasping for its breath over top him had not quite been it, though. there is no reality in which his own heart is not moved by this, where he is not a ragged, emotional mess at the hands of the very soulmate he'd imprinted 'pon. the passion that overwhelms him is somehow not something he had anticipated sharing between the both of them, and though lust leaves his body aching, it is something far softer that leaves his heart with similar yearning. he had realized it, a great deal before they had ever reached this point ... but there is no denying it now, the way it fights for its composure, or perhaps anticipates losing it. irons loved him — spoken and shown in every way but the words themselves. as much had been inevitable, the moment they had seen each other, and it had showed up on his door. to know that, to hope for it, and to have it displayed so plainly that he has no choice but to believe it are two vastly different things. were it a more sentimental encounter, he thinks he'd get a bit teary eyed : it doesn't stop the raw emotion that he regards it with, though.

"i am a gentleman," he argues back, voice cracking in a way that makes it hard to tell whether it is a result of his ailing composure, or due to said sentimentality. "i, unlike you, come from a rather respectable—" he can barely make it through that much before he starts laughing, a strangely sultry sound when paired with its tightening hold of him. he is teasing it! though there's truth in the words themselves, and genuine inexperience littered through his reactions, he doesn't actually mind at all. by time he settles, he's staring up at it, starry-eyed and smiling, even against the shivers that run 'long his body from its touch. its smirk, sadistic, is met almost wholly by his adoration. "hear me? how so? you're being vague now."

he knows very well. it isn't the only one that can be mean, though he doesn't look the part. even his own happiness is muddled with eroticism, when he doesn't lose his smile, but instead lets it falter ever so slight in favor of groans caught in his throat. its clothes start slipping and he is keenly aware of it, though true to his respectability, he only glances before getting flustered and turning his head again. he's almost thankful it's own composure slips up, just enough for him to notice. it settles him, makes him feel less self conscious when he has to muffle his own moans against his shoulder. however subtle it is that he catches on, eventually he does : his writhing becomes less accidental, more pointed. he isn't the only one who's turned on. he can feel it, too, as it presses into his thigh, its own hardening length grinding similarly into him as a consequence of his own movement. it he hadn't been noticeably flushed before, he is now.

his hand 'gainst his lips is a boon then, and one he has no illusion it'll let him keep even after it'd freed his wrists. he closes his eyes, presses his fangs down into one of his fingers, and ignores the metallic taste of blood that seeps from his fingers 'pon doing so. it is almost a relief to feel the sensation of pain against how deeply pleasure aches through the rest of his body. it leaves blood on his lips against, but he doesn't particularly care. not for the first time, a rather humiliating want crosses his mind ... he wishes it would ravage him, whilst in the same breath knowing that, this time, it is likely for the best their time is taken. but he is whiny, all the same. however it clearly craves him, for all he'd called it out on as much, he is no less wanting.

"that's—" he stops biting down on his finger, turning his attention back to it, even though it makes his heart skip to do so. its hands tease his waist, but even in all his impatience, he does not hurry it, instead watching with equal parts desire and devotion at how it moves over him. he regards it with such tenderness one would think him the pious one : not a fallen god, but the worshipper on his own knees before one. "that's not fair," he murmurs, but they both are like to know it is empty complaining to fill space, each lascivious kiss pressed to his skin and chest making him shudder under it until his own words are just extensions of the moans it draws from him. "you aren't the bashful sort like i am." he'd have laughed if he weren't so clouded in ecstasy, he's sure, but as it stands, he finds himself unconsciously following its own demands. his hands fall 'way from his face, find their place once more tangled in its hair as it moves down his body. its hold on his hips makes him squeeze his thighs around it, whimpering, but that is no comparison to how egregiously he forgets how to breathe as it switches attention to his nipples.

"i—irons—!" he gasps its name like its startled him, entire body rigid as he arches against it, pulling at its hair and digging his knees into its sides where it has traveled far down enough to do so. he's shaking, a veritable wreck against the tease of its tongue and teeth — and it speaks to his own self control, how desperately he has to hold himself back from covering his mouth against the rush of erotic groans and pants as he remembers to breathe that it elicits from him. the heat that settles along his body intensifies, until his dick aches from how hard it is : clothes, quickly, are becoming a burden. its own ministrations do not help, his lips pressed together in pathetic attempt to stop his whimpering the lower its mouth travels. so proper is he, now, to suddenly forgo cursing, but it is difficult to, when he catches glimpse of its head between his thighs and its mouth teasing at his erection. he does cry out for it then, in every way it has asked him too, a mix of quiet pleas and broken moans. his fingers still tangle in its handle, pull harshly at the mussed strands as he just barely manages not to wrap his thighs around its head outright. had he not still been wearing slacks, he thinks he may have.

all that rivals him then, are the whines of want that get caught when it stops. he knows it has to, regardless of how they proceed ... but it doesn't matter, not when he's a flustered, breathless, horny mess under it. what can he do, but relent. "f—fine, yes, i," he concedes, voice hoarse. "i won't hide. i..." he can't manage to speak so much as gasp out occasional words, and all for the best, it gives him time to get lost in his haze as it at last tugs at both their clothes. not quite all of them, but enough to satisfy for the moment, to leave him compliant and obedient in how he lift his hips for it to pull his pants from his waist. he almost wishes he could wax poetic about how beautiful he thinks they two of them probably looked together in that moment, but his mind swims, and his chest is fluttering. if he is embarrassed with how it pulls itself on top of him, then, he shockingly does not show it, all breathless giggles and lighthearted touches.

perhaps unexpected, his hands trail along rather gently from its jaw, along its chest, down to its waist, where he rests his palms 'long its hips in a soft hold. unfitting for the moment, seemingly, but he looks up at it expectantly, with narrowed eyes, expression outright amorous. though seemingly composed as it takes its position, he still lets out a shaky breath when it finds its place straddling him proper. its weight, as well as its length, press down on his own hard cock, and before it has even started to rock its hips against him, he is choking back moans for it. the slow friction of its movement is enough for him to understand what it's wanting from him : it does not have to give him direction, not this time, where his grip on its waist tighten enough that his nails begin to dig into its skin. holding it steady on top of him, he thrusts his hips up against its own time with its grinding, shifting only enough that he is able to keep himself steady whilst doing so — in the process, unintentionally pushing it harder down against his dick.

his moaning quickly ends up uninhibited — true to his words, once he can't hold it down anymore, he doesn't try. it is a miracle he is able to catch its voice at all through his own dizzying haze. "i can ... but i'm still going to feel shy." its lips feel soft on his own, where he still sounds so sweet even against the lust that settles over them. there's such a lighthearted romance, hidden 'neath the groans that break up his words. "—i promise." where it is slow, either for sake of being kind or for cruelty, he is not. he keeps up the unexpected dominance of his own actions whilst wilting 'neath it, forcing its movements to quicken in time with his own as he grinds harder into it : and it does not go without notice, then, the wetness he is almost certain he can feel too through what very little layering still separates them. his heart must be fluttering against the palm of its hand on his chest. he really is embarrassed. and yet, still, he gives it what it wants. obedient in parts, hopeless in others : only one hand leaves its waist in favor of cupping its jaw, pulling it into a kiss proper as he rocks his hips into it again.

#suggestive /#` ♱ suggestive. ┊ scandal is increasing! ╯#i dont like this reply at all ugh #thats not true i like two paragraphs if u can guess which ill be shocked SDFGFD IM JUST AAAAAA #ITS SO....ITS SO ......... :UNDERSTANDME:#` ♱ in character. ╯#` ♱ mr irons. ┊ to have a heart so cold wet and cold it starts rusting‚ you build empty empires. ╯#` ♥ irons + elysium. ┊listen to the sound awakening my clockwork heart‚ it feels like home‚ when our hearts beat slow together. ╯#sunlessea

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three-heart-trio · 1 year ago

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Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Quackity and Schlatt have a bowling night

top tier bowling (1077 words) read on ao3

This is such a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea.

Quackity is pacing around Schlatt's grave, mind running a million miles per hour, filled with all the horrible, terrible things that could happen if he goes through with this shit.

What-fucking-ever. It's not like this is the first bad idea he's executed, and it sure as hell won't be the last.

Which brings him to his next problem: How does one summon a ghost?

Maybe he should've asked somebody, but he would rather take his final life than seek assistance. Call him dramatic, but relying on anyone hasn't gotten him anywhere.

So Quackity, not thinking anything through, takes a deep breath, and shouts, "Schlatt- or Glatt, whatever the hell you go by now, Quackity from Las Nevadas wants to have a fucking talk. I wanna fucking talk."

Quackity doesn't know what he was expecting. He probably thought Schlatt was going to descend down from the heavens, if that's even a thing; or maybe up from hell (where he deserves to fucking rot). Maybe Schlatt was going to just fade in in front of him.

He sure as hell wasn't expecting the guy to just wake up behind the grave, eyes blinking awake, a hand wrapped tightly around an empty glass bottle.

Quackity doesn't even need to think to know what was in that bottle.

Schlatt stretches, bones cracking from neglect of god knows how many weeks, before registering Quackity's presence.

"Ay! Quackity, what'dya wake me up for? I was having a damn good nap, asshole!" He yawns, extending his limbs, "Better be a damn good reason."

Quackity plasters on a smile, clearly pleased to be annoying him, "Wanna go bowling?"

Schlatt blinks. "Excuse me?'

"You. Me. Las Nevadas. Just recently opened up a bowling alley," Quackity says, like that explains anything, "Wanna go bowling?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? This is what you fucking woke me up for-"

Quackity pinches his nose and sighs, putting all his cards on the table, "There'll be drinks."

Schlatt looks unfazed, before his mouth spreads into a wide, toothy grin, "Well, why didn't you say so sooner? Lead the way, my friend!" He throws his free hand around Quackity's shoulders, which gets shrugged off immediately.

===

Las Nevadas is a lot bigger than Schlatt remembers.

There's a lot more lights as well, he notes as he looks around the bustling city. The night is young, so the billboards and signs aren't in full effect yet. He wonders what it'll be like in the dark.

He really needs to wake up more.

Quackity leads them into a stubby building around the corner, appropriately named the "Las Nevadas Bowling Alley", down a few flights of stairs. It opens up to a massive space, lined with bowling lanes, lavish sofas, and those flashy rip-off stores that provide the bowling shoes and overpriced food.

Schlatt is guided to sit on a sofa, as Quackity goes to, presumably, get the alcohol. With a place like this, Schlatt can't imagine the quality of liquor he'll be receiving.

With two bottles in one hand, laced inbetween his fingers, and a stack of cups in the other, Quackity returns and places all the items on the glass cocktail table in the center of the seats, before going to configure the game on the screen.

"Usual settings?" Without turning from the screen, Quackity asks, before snickering, "You don't need the bumpers, do you?

Schlatt scoffs, "No! I don't need the fucking handrails."

Quackity rolls his eyes and laugh, clearly unconvinced, but hey, it'll be entertaining either way.

He clicks a few more buttons that Schlatt just, does not understandm and will not question, and the pins are lined up, the bowling balls rolling and thunking onto the rack neatly, all the reds and blacks and golds of Las Nevadas.

The host waves a hand for Schlatt, signalling for him to go first, "Guests first."

"Too pussy to go first, huh?" Schlatt sneers as he slots his fingers into the bowling ball, "Yeah, watch the master at work."

Schlatt rolls his ball straight into the gutter, much to the pleasure of Quackity and his shit-eating smile.

He glares at the man on the couch, before going a second time. It hits one pin.

Quackity lets out a guffaw. "The 'master at work', huh? Fucking hell, that was sad!" He says, as he pours out the drinks, nearly spilling it from laughing.

Schlatt sits on the sofa angrily, grabbing a cup, "Yeah? The only sad thing is you being on your final fucking life, asshole," He takes a sip of the alcohol, eyes sparkling as he tastes the liquid, "Oh shit, this is good! You are loaded ," tongue rolling at the 'L'.

"First of all, not taking comments about my life from a goddamn ghost; Secondly, yeah this shit is good! Gotta live up to the name, y'know," Quackity stands up and grabs a bowling ball, "Now, watch this ."

Quackity throws the ball into the air, landing with a bang on the lane before rolling into the gutter.

Clearly, neither of them know how bowling works.

Quackity laughs nervously, "Second time- Second time's the charm! That was a warmup-" He rolls the ball softly, going about a meter before slowly rolling into the gutter.

"You have weak ass arms, my fucking god!" Schlatt gets up to survey the area where the bowling ball landed the first time, "This is a strong floor, by the way, how did it even survive that throw?"

That comment is met with a glare. The screen above flashes "Turn 2" in bright letters.

Schlatt take a ball, holding up to eye level (That's what the professionals do, right?) before sliding the ball towards the pins. It hits 4 of them.

"Yeah! Look at that, bitch!" Schlatt exclaims, as Quackity rolls his eyes and groans in annoyance.

"It's fucking- beginner's luck, asshat." Quackity goes, as Schlatt scores a 1 on his second turn.

Schlatt cackles, "Beat that ! Bet your weak-ass arms can't."

Quackity laughs, full-chest and holding nothing back. "I am going to bash your head in with this god damn bowling ball." He rolls, scoring a total of 6. Quackity's lips stretches into wide beam of pride as Schlatt splutters in bewilderment, mouth agape.

"Fucking did beat you."

Quackity's chest feels a lot lighter as he laughs at both of their terrible behavior, the night passing like wind. Maybe it was worth going along with stupid ideas.

#[📷]#cw implied alcohol abuse #cw alcohol #cw swearing #jschlatt #quackity #pumpkin duo #dream smp #dsmp #dsmpblr #sixteenthdayevent

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