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LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech

LAST MIDNIGHT. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining)

Third time's the charm is how the saying goes. If you last through the first and second tries, there is sure to be good fortune on the other side. All you have to do is see it through until you reach the metaphorical pot of gold at the end. However, by all accounts, the third time is not the charm for you.

The deal is that you only get three nights. Nights full of ecstasy and delight, void of any punishments. Nights where you could live in the shoes of everyone else, nameless and chesired, void of your identity.

Your fairy godmother had raised up her spindly index, middle, and ring fingers. Skin peeling away to reveal jagged bone, she dropped each from right to left as she narrated how your temporary reprieve was secured for three blissful times until the last midnight passed. At the third break of dawn, you would depart from the prince you sought for company or she would collect your soul as punishment for a broken deal.

The first two nights were wondrous!

There are so many experiences that were virgin to you, that he opened up the gates to. The world previously known seems like a drop of rain in an ocean now. With the prince, you feel like you are on another planet entirely; he alters your gravity and messes with your perception in irrefutable ways. His presence is as life-changing as the diagnosis of a deadly disease or the birth of a newborn.

When you are on your deathbed and memories start to fade, sunken and molting into the mattress like fungus, you know that you will be able to perfectly and thoroughly recall these moments with him in your mind.

Watching Floyd now, your hippocampus stores everything like a camcorder, passive and open.

He is barefoot, hair askew, a damp white button-up clinging to his back. He is going around the shoreline of the beach to collect stones, expressing unrestrained displeasure or joy at the ones he picks up, cradling them in his palms like a squirrel trying to stuff as much food as possible in his mouth. He is the type of muse that would not be limited to one art medium; there would be sculptures, poems, paintings, and music in memoriam of him.

You can only record him in memory, like a souvenir shelved in your brain. It is impossible to banish the light smile off your features at the mere sight of him.

“Shrimpy,” he calls, though your attention is already on him. You do not move until he starts to wave. Liking to physical evidence he wants your company. “Come here!” His gesturing causes a few stones to slip out his grasp.

No sand miraculously stains the expensive silk of your outfit. It must be a touch of fairy magic, allowing you to make your way over to the prince without having to worry about any annoying sediment ending up where it shouldn’t be. Just as you come shoulder to shoulder with him, grainy rocks are being guided into your hand.

“Ya ever learn to skip stones?”

“I cannot say I have.”

“After tonight, ya can say it,” Floyd grins.

Here it is — you observe and take a picture of the three stones in your hand, flat and smooth; they remind you of full moons — yet another experience he has the keys to. Before, you knew little of what was beyond the walls of your imprisonment. There is a younger version of you that could never fathom getting to see or smell the ocean.

The prince nudges your shoulder, wetting the area. Seaweed hair is flopping over his eyes, dripping pins of water over his nose and stretching dimples. Earlier in his hunt, he dove into the briny waves to retrieve some of these stones, submerging and sliding yards away from shore before he emerged victorious, rock raised in the air, shouting his glee as you laughed on the edge of grass and sand at his ridiculousness.

Skipping stones in hand, you laugh again, “I’ll be positively bragging about it tomorrow!” You have to keep this affair a secret, magic rules and all that, but you can still appease his ego.

“It’ll only be worth braggin’ about if you can beat me,” he challenges just as his left arm comes up in one snapping pitch. Your heart follows along with each bounce it does across the water. It finally sinks into the ocean at a grand twenty-eight. “Though, I don’t kn-ooo-w, I think I got ya beat, Shrimpy.”

Floyd’s fingers enclose around your dominant hand before you can respond. The touch is welcomed easily — after all, for the past two nights you have danced, played instruments together, and walked hand in hand to secret places — thus, you take the backseat, pupils like lens, to watch him maneuver two stones out of your hand so only one remains.

He instructs you by starting with the position of “Ya thumb goes … here, and ya wanna put your index on the edge like this” and then, hands on your waist guide to move “Then, you wanna stand like this. And, start pullin’ your arm back to prepare to pitch it.” as he guides you into a demonstration of the throw, he adds pressure on your hand to ensure that “when ya let go, snap your wrist forward like that.”

“Like this?” You keep the stone in your hand, only miming your future throwing posture.

“Like that, Shrimpy,” the prince affirms, beaming with pride.

Straightening up, you tighten your hold on your stone even though you are supposed to have a loose hold or risk messing up the shot. You do not want to disappoint him by being a terrible stone-skipper. Why does even the miniscule seem so important in his presence?

It’s probably because he’s staring at you.

His eyes are incredibly soft. He is giving you the kind of look that could translate to I’m happy to share this moment with ya. Though you told yourself you were going to absorb everything tonight, document it in your hippocampus down to the last color, you find it hard to raise your gaze and meet his burning stare.

So, you release the stone. It skips twice before drowning on the third. Plu-nk!

“Damn, I thought I could,” you mumble off, jaded. You were expecting a better outcome.

“Hey, you skipped it,” the prince cheers with enthusiasm, smothering out your negativity. “I didn’t skip mine on my first try.”

“Really?” You find that hard to believe; he seems like a natural at everything he’s shown you, talent in his bone marrow.

“Really. Threw ‘em too hard each time. Got really frustrated and didn’t pick the habit back up ‘till I felt like it.”

Before you were temporarily released from your imprisonment, you had heard about the twin brothers. Heard about the left-handed prince with the attitude like a cloud, causing storms one minute or simply harmless fluff the next. He is volatile. Likely to change for the worse if circumstances bore or vex him.

“Do you get bored easily?”

You imagine he does, traveling through life on whims, never content.

“Nah,” he disagrees blatantly with your assumption. He skips one of his own stones, left hand as confident as ever. “I just get bored when I get bored.”

With each jump across the waves, your heart beats rapidly.

It isn’t such a sentimental sentence. Hell, he is outright disagreeing with you. But his words still plant a seed of appreciation for the time you two have spent tonight. No ties of obligation keep him with you; no sudden kinks have caused him to deviate from your side. It causes your eyes to slide to the sand, face burning with no sun to blame it on.

You have to calm your skipping heart.

Later in the night, you are climbing back up to the edge where sand and grass intersect to head back to the castle with the souvenir conch shell Floyd has given you when he pipes up next to you, “Will I see you again tomorrow night?”

Neck snapping up, you look at him in muted surprise. Eyes wide and shiny. Smile slow to emerge but certainly emerging.

You really are so captivating. It’s why he’s been staring all night. Focused on you like an artist mapping out his still life sketch.

He’s been thinking about getting commissions from those court painters to capture your likeness. Apprehensive at the possibility that you might just vanish into the dawn one of these nights, he’s been debating it seriously. Scared at the notion of never getting to get to see your face again. He can barely sit through the things – always shuffling his feet, biting different areas in his inner mouth, jittery all over – as they put paint to canvas.

On a sympathetic level, he doesn’t want to put you through that. On a selfish level, he wants a museum, wall to wall, of portraits depicting you, the stranger he’s been lucky enough to see three nights in a row.

Third time’s the charm, right?

Time has slipped between Floyd’s fingers like sand. He has been simply having too much time and forgot to mention earlier how he wants to return the exchange, to enter your world.

The palace is s-ooo-o boring! But, it has been altered by your presence. Floyd has been a soaked match, unable to burn, until you came along. He is positive that your world, beyond his imprisonment, is just as captivating as you are. You are the key to his gates.

God, you really are so beautiful.

But when you smile?

It could rival even the rising sun.

Floyd watches with a smile on his face —- awaiting your answer, as orange bleeds out onto the water and dawn starts to rise over the horizon — the light in your eyes dim before you collapse in a heap.

MAKING MOVES, MOVING IN. floyd leech

requested by: @clowning-constant / cake details: marble cake (NRC) with buttercream frosting (mutual pining) and sprinkles (specific to requester)

“Hey Sealie,” Floyd says, tone light but not entirely friendly.

He’s not exactly thrilled to see the little fur ball, but it’s not too bad to see him either. His presence implies the fact that you could be nearby. That knocks him just a little bit out of his funk.

The basketball ricochets off the backboard, not even close to the hoop.

Hm, not enough to knock him out of his funk completely.

“What’s up with ya,” he prompts, reaching out sideways to scoop back up his ball. The little dire beast is an interloper on Floyd’s Alone Time after he skipped out on his afternoon classes, so it better be worth his time.

Grim has been searching for the eel-mer for the whole day. Sevens, it shouldn't be so difficult to find someone so tall! Hunger pangs are gnawing on his stomach — he just ate maybe an hour ago — so excuse him if his next words,

“My Henchman wants ya to come live at Ramshackle with us!”,

don’t come out so elegant.

The basketball thuds against the backboard so hard that it looks and sounds like the plexiglass is going to break just down the center. It is also another shot missed.

“Na-aaa-ah.”

Any other time, Floyd would be tickled pink and about to burst into sea foam.

He’s a bit too rough around the edges, all thuggish and gangster-esque, but he metaphorically kicks his feet like a schoolgirl at the mere mention of you. A grin wide enough to split his face would be emerging at the idea, him hosted up in Ramshackle with his Shrimpy; even if Grim’s words aren’t true, he would tease you to an early grave with the notion.

Instead, he reaches out his leftie, scoops up his bouncing basketball one handed, and dribbles it in front of him.

“Thanks for the offer, though.”

Bang! Everything but net.

“Wha!”

It’s not what Grim is expecting at all.

Because, Floyd is always hanging around Ramshackle. Where it once started out as Malleus Draconia’s hole in the wall, the second years becoming third years and the graduation of the third years led to this natural transition of loitering and, quite honestly, trespassing to transpire!

Grim starts listing his very persuasive reasoning:

“Ya already have a toothbrush there!” Not that special, so do Deuce and Ace.

“And, you’re over for dinner every other night.” Only because someone eats without limits unless there’s a big eel-mer blocking the fridge door.

“It would make everything so much easier if ya just moved your stuff into a spare room.” It would also lessen up the chores on Grim’s end. “Then, finally, my Henchman would stop talking about you so much!”

The shot that Floyd was lining up suddenly, hands held out, moving the basketball left and right to find the correct flight path, is suddenly realigned; all his attention arrows down to Grim.

“Shrimpy talks ‘bout me?”

Inside Floyd, a switch has been flicked. Grim can tell, animal instincts prickling his skin. It is especially evident with the way Floyd’s eyes shift, pupils dilating and the rings of yellow and olive shining like plugged in Christmas lights.

Grim is scrabbling to backpedal, weighing who’s going to fry his tail more — you or the immediate threat. “Well, they, um, they just talk. They talk about Ace and Deuce all the time. They complain about the Headmage. They name drop. They talk in general, so! Eek!”

The hard maple floor of the court ripples with the effect of Floyd’s bounce, deliberately aimed at Grim’s feet. With his height, it’s like an earthquake to the dire beast.

It resets him though, stops his yammering, s-ooo-o.

“What kinda things,” Floyd drawls, all peachy-keen now. That glowing yellow eye is like a sun flare.

“Well, just, uuum, just,” Grim’s stuck between keeping his Henchman’s secrets and keeping his head.

“If ya tell me, I’ll pack my stuff tonight.”

Which equals no more chores for Grim.

“They like how sweaty you get after basketball.”

Not exactly the most charming thing to be taken away from lengthy, lengthy talks but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

Floyd pauses like a buffering DVD, ball still in his hands. Not perturbed by the information in the slightest; he likes when you’re sweaty too, always playing tug-of-war with animal pleasure and human decency to not take a giant, sweeping lick from your clavicle, across your neck, and end at your ear. You doing P.E. is just as charming as you doing anything else.

“Reall-y, what a weirdo,” but his dumb grin says otherwise, “they’re always so squirmy ‘bout it,” he’s been punched enough in the ribs to know to stop draping himself over you when a game or practice is finished but now?, “Got anythin’ else?”

“Myah, I don’t know!”

Grim’s ready to turn tail. If you find out about just that one sentence being said, he’ll be doing dishes for months until his paws wash right off.

Floyd smells the hesitation in the water.

“C’mon, don’t leave me high and dry. Ya want me to move in right? Gonna need some motivation to help me start putting all my shoes in a suitcase.”

Well, now Grim’s not so sure about the whole moving in part. Floyd can definitely reach high up places for dusting, but he’s also Floyd Leech.

“Ya know, I think we’re too crowded in Ramshackle. Plus, all the ghosts haven’t been told about this yet. Squatter’s rights, and ummm… I’ll go debrief with them then I’ll come back to- y-ouch!!”

Held between Floyd’s hand is Grim’s trident-shaped tail. Crouched down to his height, the brute rests the basketball under his knee so it doesn’t roll away. He smiles a smile that is too toothy.

“Don’t ice me out, Sealie, c’mon. I just wanna hear what Shrimpy's gotta say. How about this, for everything you tell me, I’ll buy ya a jar of tuna.”

Floyd doesn’t fish — a little too existential for his taste — but he knows when he’s got them hook-line-sinker.

Grim shuffles on his hind legs but it is already clear by his pursed lips that he’s gonna spill some more stuff.

Floyd listens, rapted, as both the double doors and Grim’s mouth open.

“My Henchman thinks you look real sexy when your cleavage is showing in your uniform!”

In such an empty gymnasium, the sound travels well.

“Grim!!”

“Shrimpy!” Floyd greets you jovially, letting go of your cat’s tail and standing up. He’s pleased as punch, ready for the entertainment of a lifetime.

His hand coming up to unbutton his third button is inconspicuous.

DEFLOWERED. floyd leech

requested by: anon / cake details: red velvet cake (royalty AU) with edible flowers (fluff) and citrus glaze (smut)

It all starts with him insulting your father.

A bizarre thing.

However, you cannot help that it has you biting down on your index, lungs quivering with concealed laughter as deeper and deeper, this fearless jester twists the knife of comedy into your father’s stomach. Insults about his latest failed crusade, jabs directed toward his growing weight, and well-timed criticism about his inability to rule a kingdom. One joke has you contorting in your seat, throwing an arm over your face and squeezing tight into your chair with bouncing shoulders and quivering legs. He leaves you gasping for mercy, stop! stop! hehe!, as your grin spreads ear to ear.

He is perhaps the only man in the world who can achieve such a feat. Gasping for mercy that is.

For your own pride, you would like to say you do not how this situation came to be. You would pledge to the court that your jester is a disguised fae, seducing you with witchcraft and making you do unholy things. Usually, there is more sense in your head; Floyd happens to suck it all up with a straw, a vicious butterfly on top of a delicate flower.

Sex in the botanical gardens? Surely, you should know better. There are only so many flowers to cover the scent, only so many plants to cover the sight, and nothing to cover the sound as you gasp wantonly.

“Fuh-Floyd! Ah – augh. Fuh-Fl–!” When you throw your head back, it bounces off the gazebo’s floor. Tears prick like thorns in your eyes. “Ehhh–Enough. I … eugggh.”

“One more. One more.” Floyd encourages, looming over your body. He kneels between your thighs, straddling around the right thigh while the other shakes and seizes over his left thigh. Relentlessly, without a shred of any mercy, he pumps himself into you.

You cannot see it given the ruffles of silk and taffeta that flow from your waist. Your tailor would be double-over from a heart attack if he knew you allowed his masterpiece, designed specifically for today's upcoming tea party, had been shoved aside by Floyd’s hands like those intricate laces were nothing more than lousy wrapping paper to get to the valuable present underneath.

You had told Floyd, pulling the hair underneath his monk cowl like horse reins to get him to pay attention, to be careful but you think you heard a tear all the same. The absolute brute.

However, his brutish attributes are usually what calls you back to him. It is certainly brutish now. The girth of his cock oscillates back and forth like a wild pendulum, pulling himself back only to return with added vigor in each thrust. His pressure suffocates you like he is atmospheric. He is the air you need to breathe in a way.

To be drowned in him is an eudaimonia summit that you can only reach with his help.

As if reading your mind, Floyd bends down closer to you. Balls slapping hard against your leaking pussy, sending juices ricocheting into a messy puddle around your combined sex, he leans down to get a better look at your face.

With the way you two are positioned, there has mostly been constant eye-contact between the two of you. You love his face. This is the hardest part of being in love and needing him like oxygen. When his nose crunches as he laughs, when his eyes gleam as he looks, even the miniscule flop of his tongue as he talks and talks, it makes everyone else seem ugly.

His handsome face leans down to grin at you; you choke out a loud, bashless moan. On the gazebo floor, you press your check down hard, jaw hanging open involuntarily and eyes squeezed tight as his cock gives a particular hard punch to just the very gated edges of your cervix.

To be under his gold eye feels like being burnt by a sunbeam.

Floyd plants a tiny garden of kisses on your face, moving from forehead to cheek to ear to chin to nose to lip. Mouth already limp, he meets no resistance when he sticks his tongue into the embrace. You try to kiss back as well as you can with your soul being fucked from your body.

He is so greedy. Knowing exactly which way to slip past your defenses with a correctly timed joke, he managed to go from simply his knuckles up inside, from his tongue lapping up the first orgasm, to have you contorted beneath him, trying not to burn out from your third.

Hummingbird heart going wild in your chest, you lift your head up to engage deeper into that kiss. Sliding and mashing tongues together as your genitals do the same in a much more lubricant setting. Sevens, you feel like a swamp down there, drenched enough by bodily sweat all over but rivers soaked on your inner thighs.

Floyd adjusts your position, slowing down his thrusts, resting your spine on the gazebo and sliding back in missionary. Air breezes underneath the skirt of your dress. He leans up to his full height as he guides your legs around his waist.

He’s making these hisses with teeth between his grunts. His stomach clenches with each strained effort to keep in his noises. He’s usually so loud?

“Buh-Bite your index finger.”

You don’t even get to move your hands, the right one curled into your chest and the left one limp above your head, before he plows into you like a drill.

Phap, Phap, Phap, PhapPhapPhapPhapPhapPhap —!!!

Your legs literally shake like they’re trying to come off, rattling bones going crazy. Eyes saucer wide, you go noiseless, mouth open in an O. It’s a telltale that you’re going to start grunting like a pig, moans spilling out an involuntary volume as your orgasm hits the top and crests downward.

He falls into you in a millisecond, chest to chest, orgasm starting to arrive at the top, one white droplet leaking out before the flood, and kisses you as hard as he can.

It’s more like jamming his lips against your teeth and cracking his skull against your skull, but it is over-washed by the warmth of him spilling into you, deep and fast. Before you can start, Floyd bites your lips together quite unceremoniously and breathes hard through his nostrils. Euphoria hits you both, his cum squirting and your hole milking. Still, the both of you are silent beyond heavy, thunderous breaths.

His hips do phantom thrusts, weak ones that are lingering sensations, as you flutter around him like a suckling mouth. Fuuuck. You feel like buoyant jelly, limp and warm, both of your hips rolling lazily and slower into each other with passing moments.

“Did you hear that?”

“I think it came from this direction.”

“It better not have. We have to set up the chairs in the gazebo for the tea party.”

Whatever ease those three orgasms did, those voices undo them in an instance. Your head snaps towards Floyd, who pulled back on his elbows to rest his face in the lifted cleavage from your bodice. You feel his smile against the top of your breasts instead of seeing it, watching his rise and fall with each volcanic punch of your oxygen-deprived lungs.

To be his is a daily struggle.

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