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ficandkaboodle · 25 days ago

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Vaginismus: Terzo x Fem!Reader

A/N: Stg if I ever see this purple fucking freak darken the doorway of my mind, I'm going for his kneecaps. He will never be able to slut about on the floor again, and then what will he do? Thanks, y'all, for being so patient as I almost daily had a meltdown over the structure of this. And HUGE thanks once again to @angellayercake for being my ever-patient beta with amazing input and ideas!! I hope I did our bastard boy some kind of service.

Word Count: 8.8K. Sorry, this bad boy is a hydra: For every sentence I deleted, more words would come in its place

CW: Reader has a vagina, hurtful comments from past relationships, reader's mental state is kinda fucked at a few points, hints at extremely uncomfortable interactions to "make the relationship work". Sooo...Vaginismus and its delightful conditions, I suppose. Oh, and a hint of Google Translate Italian. I'm sorry, I tried referencing @/foxybouquet's ever so helpful guide the best I could but alas, I am still a moron. MDNI

Papa III was a notorious flirt, even by the standards of the sexually liberated Church of Satan.

Everybody knew this, from the Clergy to Sister Imperator to the ghouls to his many, many lovers. And yet, when his sights finally fell upon you, everyone knew: Something in him had changed. At the very least, his methods sure had.

Secondo raised a brow when he first saw his brother lightly jogging up to you in the hallways, panting for you to wait up. Primo sported a knowing smirk when he watched the normally suave man sheepishly inquire about the meaning behind certain flower arrangements. Quite the departure from his usual bouquet of red and white roses, the older man couldn't help but note.

A startled Copia quickly became suspicious when the brother that tended to tease him the most came to his office one day, armed with top-shelf juice boxes and nutty chocolate bars – just the starting price for whatever info he was willing to give his dear old fratello about his new favorite Sorella.

The ghouls had a field day whenever they came upon the old man either sulking or even swooning over how a recent interaction had gone. One even swore they had scrounged through his wastepaper basket (don't ask, it’s not worth it) and found crumpled up drafts of sonnets. Sonnets!

It was the Siblings, however, who seemed to take the most notice of his antics. And, unfortunately, the most offense.

Certainly, plenty of the congregation had received a bouquet or two from their beloved Papa Terzo. Many had been wined and dined, and some were even whisked away for a night of passion and excitement in a glamorous metropolitan hub. Terzo had gotten around, and he would probably continue to get around until he either died mid-orgy or until his dick fell off. (And even if the latter did happen, it probably wouldn’t slow him down. Not until his fingers and tongue followed suit, anyway.)

It was cyclical: You would be an interest for a week or two before your time would be up, and you would part ways as he turned his attention to another, leaving you with memories of a whirlwind dalliance to reminisce about for years to come.

This was simply something that was understood and accepted without much of any animosity amongst Siblings. This was just how things were. Or at least up until now.

They must have noticed there was something about the way Terzo pursued you. For starters, nobody could ever recall a time when the man actually needed to really pursue anyone, let alone to the extent and care he currently displayed.

They could tell when a peer was actively trying to heighten the tension, turning their back to him but still glancing over their shoulder to shoot a heated stare. An invitation for him to keep it coming. Really putting the “play” in “playing hard to get”. But generally speaking, most of what Terzo needed to do was snap his fingers and whichever Sibling or ghoul he had his eye on would eagerly crawl into his lap and then into his bed.

Maybe they saw a shine in his eyes that wasn't there when they had him. Or maybe they thought he leaned just the slightest fraction of an inch closer to you than he ever did with anyone else. Or maybe they swore his voice sounded different when he spoke with you. Lighter, but not out of an upturn in pitch to sound friendlier. It was more like it carried less weight. Almost as though he felt less burdened by some unspoken thing. Some thing he never cared to share with them.

Granted, you didn't help matters by actually enjoying the odd conversation or two (or over a dozen) with Terzo. (And by "odd", this meant the animated discussions that borderlined two-person seminars on subjects like the Hays Code, or how viewing certain films through a gendered or queer lens could enhance the suggestion of the story.)

And anyone who spotted you alone on the quad sharing a snack would've been convinced you were on an impromptu picnic, rather than the fact Terzo had found you and offered you pickings from his secret snack pocket.

Sure, it was just a sandwich baggy of cheese doodles, but the point still stood: You had Terzo's full attention, his intrigue, his consideration, his snacks, and you hadn't done a damn thing to deserve them! Any interaction between the both of you, every awkward joke, every instance of eye contact, every exchange of a genuine honest to Satan smile, had the Siblings of the abbey biting and clawing at the walls in envy.

You did your best to appear unaffected by it, preferring to keep your head down and say as little as possible when around them. Nothing to suggest you felt superior to them (not that you did anyhow). Regardless, you were fairly certain that, if it were up to them, they would bring back human sacrifice for the sole purpose of getting you out of the picture.

Thank Satanas, then, that none were present to witness the latest event.

There Terzo stood, his normally focused and powerful gaze fighting hard to be maintained. It was abundantly clear that he wanted to look anywhere but at you. Still, he resolved to keep that nervous on his face. His gorgeous, paintless face.

It was startling to say the least. Actually, no, scratch that: To truly say the least would be to just stand there, gaping like a goldfish as you failed to find the right words – any words – that truly encapsulated even a fraction of what you felt. Which, for better or for worse, was exactly what you found yourself doing.

After all, almost nobody outside of his own family had seen Terzo without his papal paints. They may as well have been tattooed on him the moment he’d perfected the design all those years ago! Not even the paramours he’d collected since then had gotten a glimpse of his bare face, despite the many opportunities they’d had from the nights spent in his quarters. The mystery as to why this was left plenty of room for speculation and imagination, creating a juicy mystique that Siblings and ghouls loved to salivate and chew on.

Admittedly, you yourself occasionally wondered what his deal was, but you ultimately chose not to ponder on it. If Terzo liked how he looked in makeup more than he did without, then that was his business. Honestly, it never even really occurred to you to ask him about it even as the two of you grew closer.

But as you took in the visage before you, you felt you had a good theory going: If Terzo went about the Ministry like this, he’d never know a moment’s peace again!

"Is . . . Is it . . . okay?" he asked quietly. Okay? Okay!? Satan’s taint, if it weren’t for the very apparent tension, you might’ve thought the man was teasing you! The man looked like an old movie star, all debonair and dashing!

The fight to respond in a timely (and coherent) manner was difficult, but you managed to stammer out, “More than okay.” You gulped down some shakiness. “Y-you’re very . . .handsome.”

Internally, you cringed at how wobbly you’d come across but thankfully that seemed to be enough. The warmth in your cheeks intensified as the nerves in his smile carefully evaporated, along with a slight tension in his shoulders.

Unfortunately, the consciousness did not remain, and almost immediately you found yourself delegating focus to other things. Like the beauty mark that lay just beneath the right corner of his pleasantly pink lips. Lips that were saying, “— if you would be interested, of course.”

You blinked. Were you interested? Wait . . . Interested in what, exactly?!

“Y-yeah, sure. I’m down,” you chirped before you could stop yourself.

While you tried your damndest not to look mortified or embarrassed, Terzo looked delighted. Possibly even elated.

“Oh, eccellente!” he clapped his palms together before offering you a mix of a nod and bow. That sharp characteristic of his eyes returned once more, pinning your form as he purred, “I look forward to it.”

Oh, fuck. “Can’t wait!” you replied. Of course, now the concept of urgency settled in.

As you walked back to your room for the night, you knew three things to be certain: The first was that that face of Terzo’s would likely be making many appearances in your dreams tonight. The second thing, branching off this, him showing you his face was a sign you’d let things get far too far.

And the third thing? You had to put an end to your exchanges ASAP.

Sure, you’d peppered this into your thoughts many times before, but after this? This moment of extreme vulnerability on Terzo’s part? No more peppering: It was time to actually pile in everything you had and outright reject Terzo’s advances. No room for stuttering or bending or swaying or swooning and second-guessing!

You repeated this like a mantra over and over, praying that the resolution would still be there in the morning. And it was – but only after you took an icy shower. You’d been spot on when you anticipated that gorgeous, gorgeous face invading your dreams. What you hadn’t counted on, though, was the nature of what all went on:

Snowflakes catching on his lashes as you ice skated on a pond (the power of dreams erasing his waking world clumsiness); his lips smiling around a forkful of the pasta you’d just cooked together; his broad nose nuzzling lovingly into your hair during a quiet night in; those entrancing eyes focused on the movie playing before you as his arm settled warmly around you. It gave you further comfort as you pressed into his side, so perfectly slotted that it was as though you only ever belonged there, right next to him.

You regretted disregarding the alarm bells that blared at the start of this whole nonsense, and now look where that got you: You needed a cold cleanse just because you saw a man’s unpainted face! You were worse than a pent-up Victorian! Did you really want to prolong things until you’d start to "feel" those smirking lips pressed against the column of your neck, or “feel” those large hands skirt along your form, leaving a deliciously pleasant fire in their wake?

Certainly, that might’ve made for a good night’s sleep in theory. But in reality? It was a nightmare in the making!

It was bad enough just wanting to do all those dreamy things and more with the equally dreamy Papa. But that, of course, meant the "more" part would eventually come around. After all, your waking life already wasn't too terribly far off from the things that went on in the dream.

Your days weren't filled with skating on the pond or chatting over romantic dinners but at this rate, they very well could be a possibility. In an ideal world, the wait for these things to happen would be filled with anticipation. But the sad, shower-cold reality was that this wait was weighed down by dread and predictions of what was to come. After all, for all Terzo's patience and kindness, even he had limits. Sometime soon, his patience with your inexactness would run out and he would come to collect. Experience told you that was just how it was.

You may not have had a pursuer as passionate as Terzo, but you’d had enough instances that ran about the same: There was that high, that thrill in an almost honeymoon period-like chase. Then there came the actual vulnerability where you’d tell them of the conditions that came with a relationship – the conditions that came with you. And yeah, they’d start off insisting that nothing about that changed how they felt about you . . . But then they’d realize your condition would outlast their gimmick.

You felt your face twist with displeasure as sentences of the past began slipping through the cracks and into the forefront of your mind.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Calm down already.”

“Just relax already.”

Then came the pain (both kinds); the giving up; and then you were right back where you started: Alone together, with a body that hated you that you hated right back. The only real difference would be how much your weariness increased, making you more and more reluctant to play along with the idea of any potential romance. Meanwhile, to them, it was a game: You were just playing hard to get, that was all. But you’d surely stop when they and they alone were able to conquer you, to cure you.

Did you really want to wait around and see Terzo become like that?

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

No. Absolutely not. You weren’t sure your heart could bear it, much less your body. Besides, if word got out that he’d shown you his face, then it’d be all over for you. You’d rather incur the wrath of rejecting what many would kill for than face what might happen if they learned how far you’d gotten by doing nothing at all. At least with the former, there was a chance the Siblings let you keep your bones intact.

You had a plan as you prepared yourself to step out and face the day: Keep calm and function as normal until the chance to say those simple words hit you: “Terzo, I am not interested in you in any way, shape, or form. While you are attractive, I am not attracted to you. Please leave me alone from now on.”

A devastating lie, perhaps, but a necessary one. One you would need to deliver by tonight.

But hey, the day was still quite young. There was plenty of time for you to find the courage, right?

. . . Well, you didn’t find it in the hallway when you heard that oh-so familiar, cheerful call of, "Buongiorno, Mia Sorellina !", prompting you to pick up speed and disappear down a different corridor. Nor was it there when you caught sight of a black flutter of robe. It could’ve been a wandering Cardinal’s cassock but you weren’t prepared to stick around and find out.

And even though you spent nearly the entirety of afternoon mass, head bowed, praying for the Dark One to simply grab the strength and shove it into you, you didn’t feel any more emboldened. Apparently, your body meant it when it didn’t allow for anything to enter it – intangible things included, it seemed.

You groaned inwardly from both disappointment and discomfort as you lifted yourself off the kneeler and back into the pew. There was also the added stressor of feeling sets of multiple eyes on you: From Siblings stewing in envy; from ghouls who wanted to take a gander at the Sister who had flirty Papa III wrapped around her finger; and, worst of all, from Terzo himself.

The one time you dared to look up at his seated form on the altar, you caught a hint of a small smile directed at you.

You tried to return it, at least enough to suggest to him you were fine and happy to see him despite your earlier actions, but the sorry attempt lost any pretense of pleasantness when your eyes got caught on something: Even in the sea of his dark robes, you could make out the dull shine of leather gloves poised in his lap. Helping them to stand out more, however, was how each fingertip was adorned with a golden nail.

Correction: A golden claw. The fine barbs would fit right in on the hand of a ghoul or perhaps some other dæmonic creature.

Normally you were fascinated by the accessories but in your increasingly unwell state, these gloves intimidated you. It was like you had been reduced to a fearful prey animal and all you saw was a threat.

A thought, sharp as those gilded talons, slashed beyond your imagination and into the walls of your most sensitive place. They pierced and drilled into the intimate area just long enough for you to know they were there – both in your mind and your body – shanking their way into a place nothing was meant to enter, let alone something so dangerous.

Although a primal need to defend yourself shot through your nervous system, you were too incapacitated to do much more than body-jolting inhale. Your only defense, you had long-since learned, was to freeze. Your brain buzzed in an unpleasant manner as you started to come down from the imaginary fingering.

“You’re overreacting,” scoffed the voice of a past partner. “It’s just a finger.” You hadn’t spoken to them in years, but the disregard in their voice remained fresh, further embittering you to the fact that that was what managed to creep into you rather than the bravery you so desperately needed.

You had to pray once more that Terzo hadn’t noticed anything. A change in your already shifty demeanor, the way your legs twitched inward but not out of lust (not when Primo’s sermon was focused more on wrath today), or how your body’s momentary lurch. Much like your prayer for strength, though, you suspected this plea went ignored. You didn’t need to look up and see Terzo’s smile falter to think that.

The moment Papa Primo dismissed the congregation, you made quick work of the camouflage offered by the uniforms of habits and lace.

When a quick glance back allowed you to catch sight of a confused-looking Papa Terzo, you forced yourself to swallow the pathetic truth: You were never going to find the courage to even say sorry, let alone that you no longer wanted to see him.

What you did find – or rather, what found you – was an overwhelming torrent of grief and frustration as you flung yourself into your room and back into the bed where your day had started with a massive hitch. You shoved your face into your flattening pillow and hoped there was just enough down still left in it to muffle up your screams. And tears. Belial, you told yourself you wouldn’t cry over this sort of thing anymore. Over anyone. You should’ve been used to this type of thing by now, so what was the use in wasting energy like this?

What was the point in dwelling on how nice it all was, how nice Terzo made you feel, or how you secretly looked forward to your conversations, no matter how bizarre or intellectual? You gained nothing but the label of immature whenever you indulged in the schoolgirlish feeling of letting Terzo accompany you in the halls. Indulgence might have been encouraged by the Church, but not when it hurt or disrupted the paths of others’ own pursuits.

There was absolutely no way what you had done wasn’t going to inevitably end in pain of some kind, be it physical on your part or mental and emotional on Terzo’s.

But then again, maybe . . . Maybe you didn’t have to do this after all? Maybe you could make peace with where things were headed. You wouldn’t be able to let him inside of you in the traditional sense, no, but surely that just meant that you would just have to . . . adjust things? Yeah . . . Yeah, maybe that could work . . .

Maybe I could earn his love in other ways? Prove that I’m not ungrateful and won’t waste his feelings? Intrusive visions of you “earning” that love projected onto the walls of your mind. Under more pleasant, more normal circumstances, some of the ideas would’ve been a delight for you in some way. Par for the course of a healthy relationship.

But the possibility that these might be the only ways to grant you worthiness, to allow you to deserve Terzo’s attention and love, to deserve Terzo . . . It felt tainted. It felt like an even worse lie to perform. It burned like a poison through your mind and heart before becoming incorporated with all the other pains rising to the surface.

The knock at your door was a welcome distraction, but only long enough for you to forget the possibility of it being Terzo on the other side.

You contemplated pretending that nobody was home before a muffled voice said, “I can smell you through the door, y’know.” Ah. A ghoul. Better in that it wasn’t Terzo, but worse in that you couldn’t avoid them. To your chagrin, the trek from your bed to the door wasn’t nearly long enough to look presentable or like you hadn’t been crying.

You could practically feel their eyes through the mask, studying your tear-stained ones as they smelled the salt that had settled on your cheeks. Nonetheless, they continued ever professionally with, “Papa III has sent me to come retrieve you.” From the way they barely contained their tail’s amused wagging, it was clear that they were getting a rise out of the insinuations of the invitation.

You may as well have been off to the gallows (or worse, Sister’s office) with how dour your disposition was. Being a part of the Emeritus line, Terzo’s chambers were further away from your humble digs in the Siblings’ quarters. Still, it felt as though there wasn’t nearly enough time from your door to his for you to concoct whatever it was you could say or do. Which, to be fair, wasn’t really much to begin with anyway. You were screwed, your fate sealed the moment the ghoul knocked on one of a pair of the large, wooden doors.

“Entrare,” the room’s occupant answered. Your heart beat icy pumps as you and your escort obliged.

You’d never been inside Terzo’s quarters before, not that you hadn’t been invited. Granted, the first few times had been in the very beginning, before he’d realized that his usual tricks weren’t going to work on an unusual suspect. He never brought it back up again, even as the two of you appeared to grow more comfortable with one another.

It was a shame, then, that you were too possessed with anxiety to properly take it all in: In another, more pleasant mental space, you would have adored the large, framed vintage posters that decorated the rich purple walls, or giggled at just how much purple and gold this guy actually used in one admittedly spacious but still single space.

You couldn’t properly see it, being in what appeared to be more of a lounging area (really, how big was the average Emeritus’s room compared to the lowly Siblings’ quarters?), but you could just make out what appeared to be a bedroom down a small coridor. From what little you could see, there was a bed made of rich, dark wood with a velvety canopy.

Dramatic, but fitting for someone like Terzo, you mused in a split second of clarity before the gravity of the situation returned with ten times the weight as before. After all, here you were, standing in the boudoir of the man whom you’d been avoiding all day. Avoiding because you’d failed to do your due diligence and warn him against pursuing you. And there was his damn bed right freaking there – !!!

That prey animal instinct from mass began to skitter back as you instinctively began to look for ways out of this. Maybe you could leap out that Satanic Tiffany glass window? You’d be killing two birds with one stone if you did: You could get out of a confrontation, and the action would surely unnerve Terzo enough for him to draw back, right?

However, the make-believe agility and will to do so quickly dissolved out of you the moment you heard the voice you’d been avoiding all day once more. “Grazie, Wisp,” he addressed the ghoul. From the sounds of it, he must’ve been in a room off to the side, away from view. Despite Terzo not being visible to them, the ghoul still offered a bow in respect before taking their leave (though not without their nosiness prompting them to sneak one last look into the room).

You winced in sync with the door clicking shut, the soft padding of footsteps on the plush carpeting thundered in your ears as Terzo made his appearance. Even though he made sure to keep some space between the both of you, you still felt increasingly like a trapped animal.

As much as you wanted to cast your eyes down and pretend to be intrigued by the fact that the flooring was black instead of some shade of purple, acting as though nothing was amiss was your best course of action. Even if you felt your breathing hitch both with uneasiness and infatuation over the fact that, yet again, the man’s face was bare of his usual paints. It did, however, carry a small look of concern. While you felt guilty, perhaps him being worried would be easier to work with than him being outright upset?

You tried to predict the sort of things a concerned Terzo might say and what responses would be appropriate when you noticed something else about him: His clothing. You didn’t expect Terzo to be lounging in his own living space in his robes but even then, he tended to favor going about in his suit. This was the first time you’d seen him in anything that could be considered casual and not relating to his position as a Papa. The first time you’d seen him in pants that were actually tailored, actually! It was questionable if a men’s blouse made from what might’ve been silk could qualify as “informal”, but your brain was currently unable to drum up that inquiry.

Instead, it was too busy focusing on how the top was being worn: With only the top two buttons undone, the edge of what was more likely than not an absolute thicket of black chest hairs was visible. (If you were a stronger person – a better, more functioning one – you would’ve absolutely braved that thicket like a safari explorer.)

You gulped, realizing that maintaining eye contact was going to be harder than usual. If you were quicker about keeping your wits, you might’ve tried to speak up first. Maybe with a “Hi, Papa. How ‘bout that afternoon mass, amirite?” But Terzo beat you to it.

“. . . How are you?” he inquired. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his tone. “Are you doing alright today?”

I’m anxious to the point of sickness and contemplating vandalism with your window, you wanted to say.

“’M alright. Just tired, I guess,” you shrugged. Judging by the way Terzo’s lips pressed into a thin line, he probably didn’t believe you. However, if there was anything you’d learned in your time together, it was that Terzo wasn’t exactly the type to prod. It was easy to assume from the flamboyant persona that he was far nosier than he really was. But the unfortunate and lovely reality was that Terzo trusted you. Worse was that he trusted you enough to both see his true face, and to tell him how you felt when you were comfortable. Your stomach dropped when you remembered the fact you’d been crying before this. Were your eyes still reddened and puffy? Did he notice?

“Vedo,” he replied before slowly crossing his arms. "Well, if that is the case, then perhaps we must do a bit of a raincheck for the evening, yes?”

Your brows lightly twitched in a nonplussed fashion. It was then that you finally noticed the full scope of the room you were in. It was more like a den than an actual lounging area, complete with a TV on a DVD loading screen and a couch sat before it.

You forgot to blink as it hit you. This was what Terzo had been referring to during his face reveal yesterday: He was asking you to watch a movie with him! And you, in your lovesick stupor, had agreed wholeheartedly to it!

Logic (and a sense of cowardice self-preservation) would have dictated that you leap at the opportunity to leave. You needed time to regroup. Maybe make a sacrifice to Satanas in the hopes that that might win you some courage to do what needed to be done.

But before you could commit to it, you reminded yourself: You needed to act unbothered. You’d already aroused suspicion in Terzo as it was. If Terzo thought you really wanted to watch a movie with him, as you had outright stated, then you needed to watch a movie with him. All you had to do was sit down at a reasonable distance and appear completely invested. Too invested to possibly think about how you wanted to tangle your fingers into his chest hair. Or how you absolutely shouldn’t want to do that at all.

“N-no, I’m good!” you insisted a little too eagerly. “I can stay up, I’m not that tired.”

He quirked a brow but questioned no further. “If you insist. Come: I have a small setup.”

The setup being an oddly-shaped popcorn bucket (why . . . did it look kind of like a pope hat?) filled with cheese doodles and a bottle of red wine to be shared between two glasses. You took only the smallest handful of doodles to be courteous but turned down the wine under the claim that you were trying to cut back. The reality was you couldn’t risk letting alcohol lubricate you into either melting down or melting into his lap as you both settled in.

The Man Who Laughs, read the title card. A name just vague enough to sound familiar though you didn’t really know a thing about it. When Terzo briefly explained that its main character, Gwynplaine, had been the visual inspiration for The Joker from Batman, you expected some early horror flick. Perhaps being treated to an hour or two’s worth of a spiteful man seeking revenge and wreaking havoc on the innocent. Odd choice in what you could only describe as a movie date, but you were already in too deep and far too high-strung to comment.

But as the film progressed, you found yourself surprised. Not only because the plot was far from what you’d predicted, but also because you also hadn’t been expecting a sense of solidarity. Sure, you’d never been a stage performer whose disfigurement made him a laughingstock to the pauper and nobleman alike. But nonetheless, Gwynplaine’s plight resonated with you. Something about being an introverted, soft-hearted person who feared their worthiness of love was thwarted by something they had no control over.

When you’d settled on the couch that evening, your goal had been to merely pretend to take the movie in. But the tenderness exhibited by the film’s two main love interests made that all but impossible for you. You now existed in a strange and uncomfortable middle ground: Too invested to keep your wits, but too aware of how uncomfortable the relation was. If this were some vintage horror flick, there might’ve arguably been a chance to hide any visible anxieties as suspense-born fear.

But between the “smiling” man swooning into the beautiful Dea’s touch, to him hiding into himself when his insecurities got the better of him, you just kept being reminded of your own circumstances, and how Terzo had given you his full face when you couldn’t even give him the truth.

A wave of self-directed disgust began to boil in you, causing you to briefly tic. Otherwise, though, you remained stiff. It was a fair film, after all, and it was a shame that you were corrupting yet one more thing that was dear to Terzo by equating it with your own problems.

But inside you were the beginnings of a nor’easter of biblical proportions: Deluges depicted you forcing yourself through your fears in a pathetic effort to prove to him he could still love you; the voices of failed relationships past split through your mind like thunderclaps; even the howling winds sounded like your whimpers whenever you trapped yourself in the bathroom, determined but failing to conquer Q-tips and dilators and even your own pinky finger. The flood they all created sloshed and battered about your insides and squeezed at your lungs, brutalizing your mind.

Just relax already, they said.

You’re just being difficult! they had accused.

Quit holding out! they demanded.

The film became less and less visible to you as you tried to steady your breathing and cling to something inside. Please, Dark Lord, great Old One, you prayed once more. Did you want silence? Freedom? For the moment to end, or for everything to pause? You couldn’t tell with all this noise. Please –

Forget it.

Despite being born from the storm, it hung over it, breaking through everything and silencing all. Even your prayer felt muted compared to how deafening the command sounded in your head. The voice did not belong to the Dark One, however. It didn’t even belong to the other Big Guy. You knew this voice, actually. It had been years since you’d last seen or heard from its owner, but you still heard it nearly every day since. And they always said the same thing every time:

No one is going to put up with this if you can't fix it!

You fought to contain any reaction from reaching the surface, but you failed: You shuddered. Violently so. You had to quickly cover it up with an overcorrection of tensing, but you thought you’d managed.

You didn’t even have time to make up an excuse when you caught Terzo moving from the corner of your eye. He was getting closer – no: His arm was getting closer. Angling to wrap around you.

There shouldn’t have been anything intimidating about the idea of Terzo, coming at you with 30% of his hairy chest out, possibly aiming to get some over-the-shoulder action. Unfortunately for you, at this point, you were beyond intimidated. This was made clear with your reaction of jerking away, emitting a gaspy, yelpy whimper you never knew you could even make.

And for a moment, everything but the film froze.

It was an odd juxtaposition, the swelling orchestral music playing as you both just stared at one another without a single hint of romance. You truly were like Gwynplaine now, hands covering your mouth as your eyes stared wide. Terzo’s own eyes being wide was rather commonplace, but the way he stared at you now made you feel uneasy. It was almost as though those big eyes of his were suddenly seeing everything in high definition, able to see now see every crack in the structure that was you.

The soundtrack could’ve played on for an eternity before his low voice quietly spoke above it.

“Mia cara. . .? Are you okay?” He sounded even more uncertain than he did yesterday when he asked you about his face. When you failed to respond, he tried much softer: “(Y/N).”

Your breath hitched, icy and cold in your burning throat. You could count the times he’d used your actual name on one hand. Nearly all of them had been during the very beginning of your interactions. Back when he was trying to prove the extent of his interest. Otherwise, it was always a term of endearment: “Mia sorellina” or “Tesoro mio” or “Piccina mia” and so on.

Always “mio/a”. Always his, even when you had no right to be. But now, as he stared at you, having to resort to using your actual name, he must’ve been starting to realize that . . .

Even though it had done you no favors this entire evening, you let panic guide you to spring into action. You stammered and struggled for words as you tried to make yourself untense.

“I-I’m – I’m sorry, I was just so enthralled –” Did that word even fit here? “I was really into the movie, the sudden movement startled me and –” But it wasn’t so sudden, was it? “I’m really sorry, I just –”

But you just what? You did not know, and it was extremely apparent the more you talked.

“I thought you were cold,” Terzo gently reasoned once your words tapered off. At this, the arm you’d feared was coming to corner you shook gently. In his hand was the edge of a throw blanket you’d been leaning against. “I was going to offer you some cover. I thought you’d been stiff this entire while, and then you shuddered, so I . . .”

His movements were notably slower now. Felt the need to be more careful, even if all he was doing was reaching for the remote to finally pause the ongoing show.

His eyes were less wide as well, but what they left in their wake was a firm yet troubled stare. It wasn’t meant to make you feel so afraid, but the feeling was there regardless.

“(Y/N),” he stated carefully. “If you are not comfortable, then I need you to tell me. I am a big boy, I can understand boundaries. If I’ve been moving too fast or made you uncomfortable in any way, I –”

“The problem isn’t you, it’s me,” you interrupted. God. Satan. Whomever had stuck around to witness this travesty. Being the truth didn’t make it seem any less lame. And judging by how Terzo’s demeanor shifted into being unimpressed, he clearly thought so as well.

“To be brutally frank, Sorella, I was hoping for a bit more . . . honesty.” The delivery of that last word faltered somewhat, but it was more than enough to provide a healthy punch to your gut. Actually hearing Terzo express disappointment towards you was far more devastating than anything your mind could have concocted. He’d already implied on multiple occasions how he’d often found himself on the shorter end of a seemingly mutual trust. Now you were just another person who’d failed to uphold their end.

While true, something in you felt the need to still fight back.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hoarsely insisted against the tightening of your throat. Your fingers immediately set to biting into your arms as they crossed.

“Then help me to!” he finally demanded. “You’ve been acting strange ever since yesterday, so what? Is it me after all? My face? What?!” The frenzy, while warranted, made everything inside you curl inward. Everything suddenly felt too big, too loud for the decreasing space inside you. Your lungs couldn’t expand enough, and you could practically feel the hurricane inside you banging at your eyes to be let out. Your teeth sank into your lips just as your nails sank even more into your arms. Anything to bite back and fight back what was quickly becoming inevitable.

He must have realized what he’d done, or perhaps he just used his eyes to see you practically shrinking. His expression uncrumpled into something more tender and apologetic, but creases of quiet frustration remained.

“Cara. (Y/N),” he corrected, his more patient voice from before returning. “I apologize for my outburst. Really. I do. But . . . Please: What is going on?”

If you opened your mouth, you were fucked.

“I cannot fix things if you don’t tell me what needs to be fixed.”

Soft like dynamite. The dam splintered, it cracked, and then it collapsed entirely. Your body was never one to take things in or hold them, after all.

“You can’t fix me . . .” It was quiet and light and it weighed down on your insides like no other.

Terzo’s brows gathered. “. . . Perdono?”

“I said you can’t fix me, okay?!” you repeated, your sentence made jagged and uneven by its sobbing delivery. The sudden explosion left the normally calm Papa taken aback. His lips parted, surely about to question what you could possibly mean, but the flood was unrelenting as it poured from your eyes and lips.

“I’m sorry! I lied! I lied, I lied, I lied, okay!? My body doesn’t work, okay, it’s fucking broken, and I knew it all along but I couldn’t tell you because I’m a f-fucking coward a-and I’m s-s-elfish – And – !” But this point, though, your throat far too tight and painful to even try continuing. Besides, you’d said all of what mattered, right? That you’d lied to him by omission, that you were broken, and that you were a goddamn selfish coward for pretending otherwise.

The truth hurt but you deserved this pain, having only yourself to blame that you were experiencing this on this man’s couch instead of in the privacy of your room. Everything in you screamed to get up and run back there, in fact, but you lacked the will to do anything other than stay put in a near-blinding fit of crying, probably fucking up the sofa with all the tears you were leaking onto it. You might’ve stayed that way even longer if it weren’t for a sudden nudging at your knee.

Apparently at some point during your pity party, Terzo had taken the opportunity to get up and . . . retrieve a box of tissues? Not leave? Or call for a ghoul to come and get you? Actually, that made a bit of sense: He was too much of a gentleman to kick somebody out while they were crying, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

As much as the punishing part of you wanted to reject it, the suffocation of your snotty nose was intolerable. You accepted the tissue box and dug in until your face stung with how much you had to wipe at it.

Terzo meanwhile resumed his seat, making sure to allow you space as you let out whatever nonverbal emotion you needed to let out. He didn’t force you to talk – not that you could, remaining a coughing, hiccupping mess even as the emotional tempest began to recede.

In fact, he himself didn’t say a word until you’d managed to work yourself down to pathetic, wet sniffles and tremors.

“. . . You know you’re not broken, right?” he asked. You almost didn’t hear it about you

You sniffled, perplexed. Terzo watched patiently as he continued, “Look: I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But what I do know is that you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like talking with you. I just. Like you. So clearly, something about you must work, si?”

You shook your head. No. No, that’s what they all said. Maybe not like that, but they all said one of two things:

Either they claimed this didn’t bother them and that they could work with your condition, only to later realize they couldn’t keep up the lie; or they would ask to go your separate ways. He hadn’t done the latter yet, but after everything you’d put him through, he at least deserved specification to make that decision.

“No, I mean,” you took in a deep, shaky inhale. Mostly to calm the discomfort. “I mean. My body – It literally doesn’t – I have a condition, Terzo.” You paused just enough to let the words sink in – for the both of you. It never got easier to say no matter how many times you said it. “I can’t have sex. Not in a normal way, anyway. So, like. No penetrating or whatever. Not even, like, a tongue. Shit hurts so I don’t – I can’t bother with it. And like.” You twisted your fingers. “That feels kind of antithetical to the whole ‘living deliciously’ vibe or whatever you’re supposed to be promoting. So . . .”

So there. That was it. In a sick sort of way, you did feel somewhat of a weight lifted. The heavy, gross feeling of rejection still sat within you, but you had a familiarity with it. In time, it, too, would fizzle back into the recesses of your mind. You could . . . live with it there . . .

“. . . So what?” Terzo practically huffed, barely fighting back a smirk, one you couldn’t tell if it was from his own words, or in response to the stunned expression you now wore. “First off – and forgive me for missing any point – but you do realize that the whole of that whole ‘living deliciously’ shit comes from making choices, right? If sex is what you’re talking about, I don’t necessarily need sex. Is nice, yes, but. It’s not my whole fucking life, you know.”

. . . Well, no, but . . . To be fair, that rockstar persona certainly made that easy to not consider. Before you could argue this, he continued.

“Second off,” Terzo held up two fingers. “You do realize sex is more than just insert-dick-in-pussy, yes? Your Papa is . . . Well, he knows he is no blushing virgin, we shall say. No offense.” (At this, your expression blanked. Bemusement was superior to distress, though, you supposed.) “But do you really think that I think there is only one way to make sex count? Cara, per favore: Sex is sex! So long as everyone is having fun – and consenting! – then what is there to worry about?”

“E in terzo luogo,” he added a third finger before giving all three a wiggle, “do you really think that I would do all this if all I wanted was a quick fuck? I mean, think about it, piccina. Give me more credit.”

Well, when he put it like that . . . Your cheeks and ears burned less from humiliation, but from a much softer breed of embarrassment.

“Well . . . no . . .” you admitted. “B-but going back to the choice thing – I thought the idea was to make choices that don’t hurt anybody.”

He nodded with agreement. “Questo è vero. But here we are. And no one got hurt, si?”

You bit your lip, “But . . . I lied to you. I wasted your time, and – ” At this, Terzo’s hand rose, signaling for you to shut your yap.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dolcezza,” he spoke, his features tame but stern. “You did not waste my time. Okay? I gave you my time. And I wouldn’t ask for a moment of it back. And do you know why?” He didn’t even allow you enough time to make a snarky response: “Because I chose to spend it with you. Even if I’d known, I’d choose you. And why would I not? Sei una bellisima compagnia, and I already love what we do together, even if it’s not fucking. Now, have I thought about us fucking? Yes! Often!” (You felt your blush deepening at his rather blunt confession.)

“But I have also thought about things we have talked about; things I would like for us to talk about; things I would like for us to do – besides each other, I mean. But it here’s a fourth thing.”

No fourth finger this time. Just him offering you his hand. You felt every particle in your abdomen squish and flip over the simple gesture, but curiosity made you pushed through to accept it. Even as his other hand came over on top of yours, any trapped feeling you might’ve had mere moments before never came forward. If anything, you felt . . . here? And for as buzzy as “here” felt, you didn’t want to run from it.

Terzo gave your hand a grounding squeeze as his eyes remained locked with your own. “I’m never gonna do something that hurts you. Alright?” he swore. “And if I do? Then I need you, I beg of you to tell me. Because if you don’t want to do anything, then we don’t do anything. We do nothing but enjoy one another’s company. That is plenty enough for me, dolcezza, I can promise you this. Do you understand?”

You gulped. You didn’t even realize your eyes had widened until you found yourself needing to blink back a fresh, much smaller batch of warm tears. You could practically feel your mind scrambling, trying to reference past experiences that could help you work off of this. Maybe proof he was lying, an argument you could present – something to make this all make sense!

But it found nothing of the sort. No one, in all those times, had ever offered a third thing, let alone one where you felt like you had an actual say in how things went.

Should . . . Should you nod? Could you be trusted to make the right decision here? You nodded. It was uneasy and uncertain, but the smile it gave Terzo seemed to be the proper answer.

“Good girl,” he affirmed. Oh. Yep. That was the right answer, you decided with a jittery exhale.

“Now!” Terzo exclaimed before giving the back of your hand a gentle pat and releasing it. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to finish our movie. Call me a firm nerd but I’ve waited all night to hear your thoughts on this, no joking.”

The change in atmosphere was dizzying as Terzo readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as though you hadn’t just bared your soul and literal intimacies to him and had him respond in the most genuine and affirming way possible. Not as though it were nothing, but more like it was just not nearly as distressing as what you’d prepared yourself to face. With the storm settling and the fog of anxiety clearing, it became increasingly apparent just how discolored your thoughts had become by your past experiences. Of course Terzo wouldn’t be so rigid about sex: It went against everything he stood for, everything he was!

Of course, complete acceptance on your end wouldn’t be immediate. But you could work with this. Though, there was admittedly one last concern you had before movie night resumed.

“B-but.” You stopped short as Terzo turned his attention back to you. You had to remind yourself that the nerves you felt now were nothing compared to before. You could do this. “But . . . What if I . . . do want to do something?”

A bushy brow at the insinuation.

“N-not now! Not immediately,” you clarified. Suddenly the fringe of the throw blanket required your attention as you began fidgeting with it. “I just . . . You know.” You gave an awkward shrug and glanced up at him, a look of pleading twinkling in your eyes as you hoped he understood what you meant. Not any time soon, perhaps, but . . . Some day? You watched as the right corner of his mouth, the one where that darling beauty mark lay, rose up into a smile.

“Then, cuore mio, we talk about it,” he answered simply. “And, if you still want to ‘do something’ after?” He leaned in, the warmth of his smile heating into a devilish smirk.

“We do it. Whatever that may look like for us.”

You nearly blacked out when the bastard had the audacity to wink at you.

He then clicked play, shifting back into place as Gwynplaine and Dea came back to life. By the time you’d managed to regain your composure and refocus on the movie, Dea was cradling Gwynplaine’s tearful face in her hands. Assuming you hadn’t missed anything, this was the first time the poor soul had actually ever let her touch his face in all its deformed glory. And judging by her jubilant reaction, Dea couldn’t have been happier.

Good for him, you quietly delighted. It was absolutely what he deserved after all that time spent torturing himself over nothing. As you resituated yourself back into the cushions, you briefly noted how the voices from before, while still there, were much quieter. They lacked the power provided by the storm, and any time one of them seemed to try and get louder, you’d hear Terzo’s voice smother it out.

I’d choose you, he affirmed.

Good girl, he praised.

You know you’re not broken, right? he reminded.

It gave you goosebumps, though not the kind that the throw blanket could pat out. But you had a theory.

It seemed that the Old One had finally chosen now to put some courage in you. Better late than never, you supposed as you began to inch closer and closer along the couch until you could feel the heat radiating off Terzo’s body. The proximity in itself was thrilling enough, but the boldness didn’t stop there.

You tested the waters, leaning a little further into him, only for his arm to calmly come around you. Whatever space that remained was quickly closed as you felt yourself being tugged and cushioned into his side. You had only a nanosecond to catch the barely-contained smile on his face before you practically melted into place. Terzo’s touch, his scent, his warmth, his everything flooded into you, filling you with a simultaneous calmness and a vigor you hadn’t felt in years.

Your dream from before had been right after all: You belonged here, right next to your Papa.

#the band ghost #ghost band x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus x reader #papa terzo x reader #cw vaginismus #terzo x reader #papa emeritus iii x fem!reader #terzo x fem!reader #papa terzo #papa emeritus x fem!reader #stg if Copia gives me any hassle even vaguely similar to what i had to go through with this asshole #i'm getting my goddamn gwimbly ghoul gun #fun fact: i could not for the life of me recall Terzo's speech patterns when i needed them most so i took to youtube #and instead kept having to pause because i kept blushing at the stupidest shit he'd say #it's the Voice man #anyway go watch The Man Who Laughs if only to see a dog named Homo #and to see Conrad Veidt be an absolute babyboy who is disgustingly smitten with Dea #i would've picked a sluttier movie but honestly that movie made my heart so slutty

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elliespassagerprincess · 1 year ago

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Headcannons: Milf!abby anderson x reader (part 3)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

☆ Milf Abby who’s literally the sweetest girlfriend ever. A little old school, but she’s still cute.

☆ Milf Abby who buys you weekly flowers, and who packs you lunch.

☆ Milf Abby who helps you plan lessons and sometimes comes and helps you teach.

☆ Milf Abby who gets baby fever if she sees you with kids.

☆ Milf Abby who said I love you after 3 days of dating.

☆ Milf Abby who has you as her lock screen.

☆ Milf Abby who plans family dates for you and her daughter.

☆ Milf Abby whose heart clenches when she sees how much Aubrey talks about you.

☆ Milf Abby who feels like a teenager because of you.

☆ Milf Abby that’s confused when you text her slang

Abby: ill come pick you up later?

you: yeah baby, I have to go now ttyl

Abby: what is that

☆ Milf Abby who finds pop culture drama interesting because she’s never really took interest in it till you appeared.

☆ Milf Abby who discovers so much and she feels old, but you never judge or make fun of her for it.

☆ Milf Abby who knows you’re the one.

☆ Milf Abby bought you an engagement ring after 2 weeks of dating. It was a simple ring because she knew you didn’t like big and extravagant things (unless it’s her dick-)

☆ Milf Abby who wants to propose to you at a family BBQ

☆ Milf Abby who takes you to meet her family after 4 months of dating, and she knew that this was the weekend she was going to propose.

☆ Milf Abby who held your hand the entire time, when you were being introduced.

☆ Milf Abby who tried staying by your side, but then you snatched away by Aubrey and her cousins.

☆ Milf Abby who stared at you with a smile as you were playing with the kids because you were just that pretty.

☆ Milf Abby who gets cocky when her family tells her she made the right choice.

“You got yourself a pretty girl abs”

“I know”

☆ Milf Abby who was having a good night till her ex-wife showed up.

“What are you doing here?” Abby asked through gritted teeth.

“it’s a family event, can I not be here?”

“you aren’t family”

“Abby she barley sees her mother:

“did you forget we have a child together?”

☆ Milf Abby who wanted to leave but you convinced her to stay for the sake of Aubrey.

“but she’s a bitch”

Aubrey grabbed onto your hand and she ran to her mother. You watched the women’s face drop at the sight of you

“Abby please”

☆ Milf Abby who wanted to slap her ex-wife every time she gave you a dirty look.

“mom this mommy’s girlfriend! isn’t she pretty?!”

The women stared at you with hatred in her eyes. She extended her hand out to grab your other hand in a tight handshake “I’m Kimberly” then you told her your name. The two of you fell into a awkward conversation, until she brought up Abby.

“how long have you been together?” she asked

“4 months” you replied with a smile.

“isn’t it too early to be meeting the family?” she asked, and you rolled your eyes before you responding: “isn’t it too bitchy to judge what I do in my relationship?”

Kimberly stared at you with wide eyes.

☆ Milf Abby who was listening to the whole interaction and she had the biggest smile on her face. That her girl.

☆ Milf Abby who was glued by your side the entire night, but you somehow got lost.

☆ Milf Abby who saw Kimberly walk up to her and she knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“What do you want?” Abby groaned.

“Look I need to say something”

“then talk”

The women took a deep breath before she started spewing nonsense: “I think she’s too young for you! She’s childish”

“that’s your opinion, you know nothing about her”

“well I don’t like her” Kimberly went on.

“that’s ok, but she’s my girlfriend so I don’t know why its bothering you”

“I don’t want her around Aubrey”

that was Abby’s final straw.

“Listen here, you’re barley present in our daughters life. She’s been a better mother to her that you, ever were! You know shit about Aubrey”

“I do” she tried arguing.

“if you did you would’ve know she doesn’t like the nutty chocolate you brought for her”

Kimberly went quiet. Abby continued on to talk.

“You are a shit person. You were a shitty wife, and a shitty mother. My daughter doesn’t deserve that. She needs someone like her. She’s my everything and I would fucking kill for her, so I suggest you stay out of my family’s life”

“but she’s still my daughter”

“she might be but I have full custody” Abby chuckled. “And besides not everyone was made to be a mother, especially you” Kimberly stood there quietly, and she left the party soon after.

☆ Milf Abby who was relieved that she was finally gone.

☆ Milf Abby whose family knew about the proposal and they were helping her plan it.

As the party continued to go on you stood at the table, helping Abby’s aunts with making salads. It was odd, everything became more and more quiet.

You felt arms wrap around you and you knew it was her.

“Hi” you giggled

“hi” she replied. You could practically hear her smile.

“You having fun baby?” Abby asked.

“yeah”

You noticed her sudden silence before you asked: “are you ok?”

Abby took a deep breath. She was nervous. You could tell.

“Yeah, I’m just thinking”

“about?”

“I want this”

“Salad?”

“no” she chuckled.

“A life with you”

Your heartrate increased.

“I want us to grow old together and throw family BBQ’s. I want us to have a big house, so Aubrey can bring her kids over one day. I want to spend forever waking up next to you, and I want to grow our family….”

During her speech you didn’t notice that she let go of you. You were too busy processing her words at that moment.

“Baby look at me” Abby spoke. You slowly turned around to see Abby’s family surrounding the two of you and her on her one knee, with a delicate ring in her hand.

“Will you marry me?” She asked unsure.

You looked at her with wide eyes, no words were coming out out.

“Say yes! please I can’t wait any longer” Aubrey yelled from the sidelines. You saw Abby chuckle.

You fell down onto your knees before you grabbed her face for a kiss.

“I guess that’s a yes” Abby chuckled when she pulled away.

“fuck yes”

She slipped the ring onto your finger before she got up and yelled “she said yes!” The crowd erupted in screams and cries.

☆ Milf Abby who kissed you passionately as tears flowed from both your eyes.

This was true love.

my pookie: (the tag list): @elliens4

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nsharks · 2 years ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part three —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: let's build some relationships :)

From behind a tree, your eyes narrow with concentration as you draw the string of your bow. The feel of it in your hands offers satisfaction; you used to love new makeup, blushes and creams, or sweet custards from the market. Now, you love a good weapon.

Is there anything Ghost doesn’t know how to do? And you thought Paul had skillful hands.

You’re not sure exactly where Ghost and Blue have gone, because after leading you out the gate of their camp, Blue showing you the exact maze of steps needed to avoid their booby traps, they went their own way. Again, they disappeared among the white trees. You were left to pick a direction and stick with it. So you ended up here, the opposite way of the pond, with your eyes finally catching sight of a small deer. A fawn.

It’s young but perfect.

The blood that courses through its limbs switches on the predator part of your brain. It will be enough to keep you fed for at least a week, perhaps more, and promote the healing of the wound that aches with each shift of your waist. You inhale, exhale. The arrow is ready to release.

A single gunshot rings out.

Straight through the fawn’s eye.

It doesn’t even have time to cry out as it falls over, a small thud filling the quiet air. Your heart skips a beat and your eyes flicker in the direction of the gunshot, but you already know who has stolen this kill from you. In the distance, you see his bulky form, the lowering of his rifle, and then you see the girl bounce down from a tree and whirl towards the dead animal.

Are you kidding me?

You want to snarl and sneer. Instead, you flare your nostrils while lowering your bow. Meters away, Blue kneels down by the deer and you see her gently mouth words to its corpse. Perhaps, a childish parting that helps her feel better about its death. Ghost arrives and bends down to Blue’s level, and you can’t see his mouth with the mask on, but you know he is speaking to her by how he gestures his gloved hand around.

You’ll have to find another animal.

Squirrels aren’t your favorite meal. They’re not much compared to the taste of venison. But if you char squirrel meat just enough, it can get a nutty flavor that, with your eyes closed, you can pretend is a juicy slab of chicken home-roasted by your mother.

There is no room to be picky.

There is no room for wants anymore, only needs, and from behind the tree, you move your gaze to spot a grey squirrel that will be enough for the day’s needs. You take aim again. You’d put your washed hair in two French braids to keep the strands from interfering, but without ties, they are starting to come undone at the ends. There was a time when you cared about the fashion of your hair. Now, styling is a tactical choice.

Squirrels are trickier. They are small and require greater marksmanship than you are confident you have. Archery was never something you did until the world bled grey and demanded it of you.

The animal flicks its bushy tail, prancing about over thick tree roots. You wait for the moment it stills.

“How’s it going?” someone says, and you jump back in a step, fingers nearly slipping and releasing the arrow off at the ground.

Blue. You whirl around to see that she’s snuck up in a tree behind you, nimble and light on her feet, with curiosity filling her eyes as she sits perched on a branch, one that would be too high for you to ever climb. Her brown hair is hidden under her hood, the tip of her nose flushed pink from the air, and she rubs her hands together to brush off the crumbs of tree bark. Her movements remind you of the squirrel.

It takes a moment for your muscles to soften. You glance back at the squirrel and it’s already scampered off.

“Going great,” you tell her flatly, sighing through your nose. You can be patient with her. She’s nice, young. She’d snuck you extra food. “Shouldn’t you be with Ghost?”

“I’m just stopping by to tell you that we’re leaving. And—“ she squints her eyes in the distance for a moment, “That there’s a couple of those fucks due south.”

Those fucks.

Lovely. You glance around at the unfamiliar trees. From down here, you don’t see anything, but from her vantage point, her scope of sight is better for scouting threats.

“They’re pretty far off. Just be careful, okay?”

“Thanks. I will,” you nod.

Her bright stare then flickers to your braids. “You did your hair... What are those called again?”

She frowns, searching for the word somewhere in a corner of her young brain. You’re surprised that a ten-year-old girl doesn’t know what French braids are; they’d been all you wore as a kid. But then you realize her normal life came to an end at age five. Perhaps many of the memories have faded, replaced with more useful knowledge that her father has had to stuff in there.

You swallow. “Braids?”

“Braids,” she repeats, tasting the foreign word with a click of her tongue. “Right. They look really cool on you.”

“These ones are pretty shitty because I don’t have anything to keep them in.”

Blue starts to say, "Maybe you could—"

But a gruff call cuts through the trees, beckoning her head to turn.

"Blue. Let's go."

Your own eyes follow the voice and land on Ghost some odd paces away. He is already staring at you through lidded eyes, a palpable energy rolling off his body in waves that you can feel even from this distance. Over his shoulders, he carries the fawn with ease. Large palms clasping the knobby ankles. A steady drip of its blood creates a red stain in the snow beside his boot.

He looks horrific. A smear of crimson on the skull. Dressed in all black, carrying a dead animal as if it is nothing. You recall how he'd pushed you to the ground like you were nothing, too. You swallow the thought.

Before you can even look back at Blue, she's already gone. Whirling down from the branch and running over, following in his footsteps as they head back.

It takes another agonizing hour but you manage to kill a squirrel. The Greys don’t find you, luckily. You stuff your coat pockets with some pine needles and decide to call it a meal, knowing that you will have to hunt again tomorrow.

This area of the forest is still new. In your brain, you’ve already etched some markers to find your way back: the pond where they found you, a circle of pine trees to the right of their camp with a big stump in the center, a small creek past the hill. But the way you return back today leads to you approaching the camp from the backside, and you notice something.

Behind the cabin is something covered in a big black tarp. The tarp is peppered with fallen twigs and snow, but still, you think you make out the shape of a vehicle underneath.

They have a car—?

Irritation finds you. How did Ghost manage such things? A goddamn cabin, a deep trench that you assume he dug all by himself. And now a car. Did he also have petrol stored somewhere? By the looks of it, the tarp hasn’t been moved in a while. What is the car for? Is this what he uses to get medicine from the cities?

You almost scoff as your boots crunch the snow.

You won’t have any of our medicine.

There hasn’t even been a chance to consider how you might fend for some yourself.

For now, you will just focus on food.

Ghost has tied the deer upside down on a branch by the time you are back. You carefully recall the way through their traps. Blue has to unlock the bolted gate for you, but then she runs back to Ghost, who hands a thick blade to her.

“Go on, then, kid.”

“I hate this part,” she mumbles, but he lifts her up so she can reach the knife to the animal’s hind legs, beginning to skin the hide top-down. She wears a concentrated expression as she does so, nose scrunched, and you can tell that skinning deer is a skill her small hands have practiced before.

Ghost is the one to butcher it.

You skin your squirrel.

They use the fireplace for cooking, and of course, their dinner is prepared first. While you wait, you undo your braids and snack on the pine needles. Blue is surprisingly quiet, helping her dad cook a little and playing with Grim on the floor, but also flickering her gaze to you every minute or so.

“Your hair is curly now,” she comments softly during dinner. “From the braids?”

“That happens when you take them out,” you say after swallowing a piece of meat. There’s nothing to wipe your hands on, so you use your trousers as a napkin. Your mother would’ve had a fit.

“Do you…” you clear your throat, glancing at Ghost and then back to the girl. “Do you want me to braid your hair after dinner?”

She nods sheepishly, but Ghost huffs out a low breath. “I could do that for you, Blue.”

“Ghost,” she sighs. “You don’t know how.”

“How hard can it be?”

But Blue licks her lips and shakes her head, mumbling, “I want her to do it. She’s good at it.”

The way Ghost looks at you is rarely anything but uncomfortable. However, when you sit down on the rug with Blue, your hands finding purchase in her hair, his eyes seem to burn holes through your body deeper than any time before. It is as if letting someone touch his daughter physically sickens him, and causes his breathing to turn weighted and deep. He begrudgingly allows it but supervises, sitting on the couch as you begin braiding her hair.

Grim sits in her lap. She strokes his fur.

“You have pretty hair,” you tell her.

Blue softly wonders, “How can hair be pretty?”

“I… I don’t know,” you say. “The color, the length. It’s just pretty, I think.”

“Ghost cuts it for me,” she says, turning to look at him.

“Wait, don’t move. It’ll mess me up.”

“Oh, sorry,” she turns back but continues. “He gets it wet and has me lay my head on the tree stump so it’s all flat. Then, he chops it off with his knife. Right, Ghost?”

His response is a low hum. It’s stiff, pushing through a tense jaw.

You finish the two French braids, running your fingers over them.

"I don't have anything to tie them, but they look really nice on you."

It is then that Ghost stands up and disappears for a minute. When he returns, he has a roll of black thread that you believe he used for your stitches.

With the knife from his belt, he cuts two pieces, bends down, and silently offers them to your palm. Blue lights up. You tie off the braids and she stands, toying with them happily, and asking her dad what he thinks. Finally, you notice his shoulders soften.

"Beautiful," he murmurs quietly, just for her. He strokes the braided hair and then gives a gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek. "Always look beautiful, Baby Blue."

"Don't—" her cheeks flush and she briefly flashes her eyes to you, "Don't call me that."

"Used to call you it all the time,” he grumbles. “Gettin' too old for it, are you?"

What you learn Blue isn't too old for is curling up with him on the couch. This is the first night you stay in the cabin after dinner rather than retreating to your shed, simply because they've left some embers in the fireplace for warmth. You sit on the floor beside it. Blue sits with Ghost and he pulls out a book to read quietly to her.

You try not to look.

It touches you in a way you didn't think it would. It seems so normal. For a moment, you imagine a world where things could be different. A world where Blue wore braids to school every day. A world where Ghost could pick a new book out, rather than read the same ones over and over. A world where, maybe, you could have a family of your own, rather than be an uncomfortable witness to theirs.

But your family is nothing now. You never even knew what happened to your parents. The end arrived when you were away from them. No wifi. No service. Whether they died or turned Grey, you could never be certain. A pit in your gut told you their end happened years ago.

You’re brought out of your daze when Ghost stands from the couch. Blue has fallen asleep. He carries the girl to her room, and you take it as a sign to leave for your place outside.

But before you can open the door, his voice stops you, dropping down to an even lower octave.

“Hold on.”

You turn. “What?”

“We need to talk.”

Despite the warmth from the fireplace, your blood goes icy rigid. You stand there and press your lips. “If this is about the braids, then I won’t do it again. I was just trying to be nice.”

“No. Not that,” and he holds your stare, unwavering, “It’s about your old camp. The other day, you said there were… hoards of ‘em.”

The words roll off his tongue thoughtfully as if this is something that has been mulling over in that brain of his for a while. Thoughts belonging to a skull. A ghost. A father.

Ghost continues gruffly, “Where were you?”

“West of here,” you say. “Jesus, I think, at least. I couldn’t really tell where I was going.”

“How far?”

“Far, but not that far.” Your eyes drift to the floor. “By the forest’s edge.”

“We don’t see that many of them here,” Ghost mutters. This might be the most he’s spoken to you in five days. “Only ever a few at a time. Ten at the most.”

“That’s how it was for us. But more came, and then,” you exhale, “And then there were too many.”

Your eyes close, recalling the frantic manner in which you escaped. The last glimpse of your old life had been the mangled arm of your sister, thick bites cutting down to white bone. In a way, you were glad there were enough of them to kill her.

Your eyes reopen. “We should’ve had an escape plan, something for emergencies. We got too complacent after making it for so long.”

All Ghost says is, “Yeah. You should have.”

And then he is dismissing you with a lazy wave of his hand, turning to give you his back. You scowl, roll your eyes as he is not looking, and leave the cabin. Your spine already aches before you even lay down on the floorboards for the night.

You wonder if Ghost has his own emergency plans; what would have to happen for him to abandon this perfect setup? How would he do it? The memory of the car out back finds you as you drift off. But your sleep that night is haunted by terrible, grey dreams.

It usually is.

Hunting on your own is different than hunting with Paul. There's some learning to do. You have to study the tracks on your own and observe the marks of antlers against the trees. For the first week, you don't get a single deer. Only squirrels. One skinny hare. Ghost and Blue don't go with you; the fawn, rabbits, and stored cans and jars hold them over.

Most evenings are spent braiding Blue's hair. I like the way it feels, she claims. Ghost gets used to it. He still watches from the couch but rather than stiffly staring, he lays down and relaxes, placing a hand over his chest.

The next time they go hunting, Blue's hair is still woven in the French braids when you catch an interesting sight through the cabin's window. She stands on the dining chair to reach Ghost's mask, peeling it off. You can only see the back of his head: brown hair, chopped short.

So there is a human under that thing?

She sets the mask on the table and picks up a clean one. A different one.

When they come out, Ghost with his guns and Blue with her knives, he appears more like a father than a character from a horror film. There is no plastic skull. Instead, a cutout in the fabric reveals the tops of his temples and the strong bridge of his nose. You would never say it, but you prefer this one.

Blue must catch your staring because she tells you, "The other one was starting to smell. I made him change."

"Good call," you quip under your breath.

Again, you go your separate ways. You head for the pond. You think you can hear them somewhere nearby, but ignore it, focusing on the deer prints in the snow. It's hard to tell if they're fresh. It hasn't snowed in two days.

Your footsteps quiet to a halt when you hear light crunching sounds. Another living thing is close by. You take position behind a thick pine, eyes scanning the wooded area and the pond to the right of you. But you know the sound of deer, and you're starting to learn the sound of Blue.

She's scampering towards the pond, just her. You can't see Ghost. As protective as he can be, he allows the girl some length to her leash. Offers bite-sized moments of independence. She's allowed to play in the tree just outside their camp before sundown, but only if he is watching. So you imagine he has let her run off ahead only because he is somewhere nearby.

From the distance, you watch her lurch for a squirrel.

She is quick about it.

Grabs the neck, and holds it up. A quick slice to the jugular. Blood seeps. She frowns, closing her eyes and murmuring something that, in the quietness, you think is along the lines of: I'm sorry. Tried to make it quick for you.

And then she begins to skin it, right then and there.

Young, nimble hands taught to survive.

As she does so, you decide you've seen enough. You have your own food to find.

But as you move from the tree, your eyes drift to find another watcher. A form takes shape behind a distant oak, near the pond. Your heart spikes; a Grey? But no— a Grey would already be running towards her scent. This shape belongs to a human, a withered man with hair that juts out in grey clumps, and crazed eyes pointed right at her.

More so, a revolver pointed.

taglist: @cool-0-n @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost #cod #zombie apocolypse au #zombies #call of duty

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venerawrites · 2 months ago

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HEY HEY! bro I can't believe ur back and holy hell ur SOOO fun to read I wish I had friends like u to brainstorm with im so serious rn 🙏🏻 but in ANYHOW

Can I please please get your thoughts on how the Uchiha brothers, Neji, Sai and/or Gaara I don't know how many u accept but if it's too much then just do whoever u feel like🤝 act when drunk?! it's cool if u wanna add already in a relationship/existing feelings with the reader too

thaaaaank uuuuuu!!!!!!

author's note: I usually accept only 4 characters per request, so I excluded Gaara this time, hope that's okay <3 Also I've read a while ago that there are apparently 4 types of drunks, so it worked out perfectly! I hope you enjoy and thank you so much for requesting! x

➤ Itachi - "The Nutty Professor"

Every time Itachi drinks, it's like a completely another person emerge on the surface.

While he is usually pretty quiet and reserved when sober, he would be way more confident and loud when drunk.

He would totally be dominating every conversation in the table and set the tone of the 'party'.

I see him as someone who is very likely to get philosophical when drunk - he needs only a few drinks in order to start discussing the human nature and its connection to inflicting violence, the society structure and how 'good' and 'evil' are perceived.

Often this comes out in the form of a long monologue, which only half of the people are actively listening.

If with his s/o, he would be way more affectionate than usual. He would have his hand around their shoulders or caressing their thigh, and openly admitting how much they appreciate their presence in his life.

I don't imagine him as the type to get blackout drunk though. Despite being more relaxed and energetic, he would still have enough consciousness to be able to pay attention to everyone on the table and make sure that everyone is okay.

(must be that big brother energy, idk)

➤ Sasuke - "Mr. Hyde"

I wasn't sure in the beginning if Sasuke is proper 'Mr.Hyde' type of drunk, but from all the types I think this one suits him best.

Sasuke, in my opinion, doesn't like drinking. Like at all. Yet if everyone else does it when they are out, he does it too (no matter how many times he promise he won't drink anymore).

Becomes more moody and irritable than usual. If he is quite alright with holding back his annoyance when sober, all restrictions would be forgotten after 2 or 3 drinks.

Likely to pick up verbal fights, especially with someone like Naruto or Kiba. An inappropriate joke or a comment, especially if it is toward his s/o, is more than enough to set him on.

May get a bit snarky and deliberately trying to provoke people around him. I think he will definitely take jabs at people that somehow wronged him in the past when drunk.

If his s/o is with him, they would need to be his 'carer' - watch how much he is drinking and try to diffuse any uncomfortable situation that arises.

If they are not with him, this is usually done by either Sakura or Naruto (how well Sasuke takes that, however, really depends on what and how much he drank).

Wakes up the next morning remembering everything and with a deep regret for his behaviour.

➤ Neji - "The Hemingway"

Surprising (and maybe unpopular?) opinion of mine is that Neji actually can hold his alcohol really well.

Most of the times he has tried alcohol before were in family settings, so he knew well to behave and to draw the line once he feels it's too much.

I also don't see him drinking that much?

So even when he does, there is no dramatic change from how he usually is. He may engage in conversation a little bit more than usual, but other than that he is the same reserved and serious Neji we all know.

He also feel the responsibility to look after his friends/his s/o when they are out together, so this is another reason for him to maintain the majority of his consciousness.

It is unlikely for him to become overly sentimental or emotional, but if he has already consumed more than 3 drinks and he is in the company of his s/o, he may become a bit more relaxed and sometimes even... flirty?

Like not too much (we are still talking about Neji after all), but occasionally he will lean close to his s/o and whisper to them how beautiful they are, how much he loves them etc. (which he never usually does in public!).

Definitely the guy in charge of getting everyone else home safely!

➤ Sai - "The Mary Poppins"

Okay, maybe not a real "Mary Poppins" type, but still the 'best type' of drunk in the whole company!

While he is not particularly shy when sober, once he has a few drinks he is definitely more cheerful and friendlier (at least as much as Sai can be).

One thing that remains is his bluntness - if he has no filter in general, once drunk he would say ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING that is on his mind (no matter how good or bad).

The type of guy that would raise a toast every ten minutes - for good friendships; for true love; for peaceful times; for ninja's life etc.

This would be the only time he feels comfortable enough to tell all the jokes he has learned recently as well. The delivery would probably be 1/10, but the effort - 10/10.

If out with his s/o and they drink too much, he would be the one looking out for them - he would hold their hair in the toilet while rubbing small circles on their back; he would bring them glasses of water between drinks etc.

His mind would still be sharp as ever, so he is likely to engage in friendly debates or long discussions about history/politics.

Would get sick if he drinks more than 5/6 drinks.

cc artwork: "Stray" Concept Art

#naruto headcanons #naruto imagines #sasuke headcanons #itachi headcanons #neji headcanons #sai headcanons #naruto requests

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idontknowreallywhy · 3 months ago

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WIP Wednesday

This is another of those “I’m sure I posted this before but have been through entire blog and cannot locate it so… maybe I imagined?” - but apologies if you have seen a version of it before as I’m sure I remember comments…

It was actually prompted by Nutty’s fabfebfive list and the word was necklace… anyway it is part of the jumble of things I have related to a big fic that might never make it off the ground…

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

Ashmore McKellar’s new wingman was a lunatic and was going to get them both killed.

And that wasn’t even the worst thing about him.

He sat at a quiet corner table nursing a single malt and impassively observed the cocky idiot cackling away with the rest of their unit, none of whom seemed to realise how annoying he was. Everything from the ludicrously immovable hair to the stupid blue sneakers via the childish necklace of wooden beads he seemed to never be without and… ugh and that incredibly irritating dimpled grin. Everything about the man set his teeth on edge.

He wasn’t glaring though - his poker face was always on point. The fact he was fantasising about burning a hole in the side of Tracy’s head should be externally invisible and so it was a shock that, when the man in question glanced up and caught his eye, the happy expression faltered slightly and a crinkle of uncertainty marred his perfect brow.

Oops.

Well it would probably do him good to know not everyone thought the sun shone out of his...

He shook himself slightly and dropped his gaze to the melting ice in his glass. This was not normal: laidback Ash was friends with everyone, to the extent it was sometimes bordering on a character flaw. People just didn’t tend to wind him up.

Ok, time to critically examine the unusually intense reaction… why was he being like this? Was he… jealous? Tracy was undeniably a hotshot, although with a reckless approach that was definitely going to cause trouble. He wasn’t the first of those, however and wouldn’t be the last. Ashmore had never been the best and that didn’t bother him. The skills that seemed to have come naturally to the others he had earned with hard work and constant repetition. He built up to things until he could do what was required. He calculated the parameters to the nth degree and approached every flight manoeuvre with scientific precision. His piloting was efficient and reliable and he got the job done with no melodrama. But this was undeniably rare in his profession and certainly this particular unit was chock full of showboating flyboys and flygirls with whom he got on just fine. So the fact Tracy was no different shouldn’t affect him.

Nor was it even the ridiculous antics that were definitely going to get them both killed… if someone didn’t throttle the guy first. No. It wasn’t that. He could deal with that.

He suppressed a sigh and downed the rest of his drink. It numbed his sore throat and the burn brought a temporary relief to the pressure in his sinuses. Maybe this was really just bad temperedness because he was coming down with something.

Perhaps the whisky brought clarity because suddenly he realised what his sub-conscious had already figured out - that this working relationship was going to be deeply uncomfortable.

Earlier, a headache-ridden and slightly feverish Ashmore McKellar had told everyone he was absolutely Fine. And, as always, everyone had believed him… because they always did. His poker face was, as ever, on point.

Everyone except Scott Tracy, who had seen right through him with those freakishly blue eyes and had palmed him two paracetamol with a pointed eyebrow raise and not let him out of his sight all afternoon.

Damn him.

Nobody got past Ash’s “Fine”.

Nobody.

If Tracy could… then what else was he going to see?

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #ashmore mckellar #WIP: Ash Universe #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #wip wednesday #WIP: Let it Burn #idkry wip

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melonsharks · 1 year ago

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Tell us everything about the parent trap au immediately please please please

to give u an insanely quick rundown with a wip art i have:

aziraphale as elizabeth. wedding dress designer under his pen name A.Z. Fell. (hes an artist as confirmed in s2 and the whole "drawing on napkins" thing elizabeth would do appeals to me immensely)

crowley as nick. owns a vineyard. I NEED HIM TO OWN A VINEYARD SO BAD. shoutout to Old Vines on ao3 for changing me in a fundamental way. he makes wines and he tends to the vines and he is so passionate about it to an abusurdist degree. he yells at his vines when they arent growing right. you already knowwww.

when they meet for the first time, they don’t meet on a boat like in the movie, they actually meet at a wedding party :J crowley was a wine collector, just starting out. he loved offering aziraphale samplings of his most vintage collection out of impulse. (he likes seeing the way aziraphale savors them) (he’s besotted) Wants to own his own vineyard one day. aziraphale, on the other hand, has dreams of becoming a fashion designer of sorts, always drawing ideas on any scraps of paper he can find. his designs are very old fashioned, but thats like… part of the appeal. his work very much reflects who he is, and the people who flock to it understand that.

they enter this kind of… whirlwind relationship, they get married, and then eventually adopt two golden haired blue eyed baby boys. twins. :J warlock and adam.

they break things off because aziraphale leaves... alluding to their recent breakup in season two, the reason he left was because "we both clearly had very different ideas on where our lives were going. so. i packed up and left." (parallel s2 divorce 😋 they don’t know how to talk to each other) (aziraphale throws a book at his head after this argument, like the hairdryer in the movie LOL. it was pride and prejudice. crowley still has it.)

aziraphale leaves with adam. warlock is left with crowley. crowley eventually leaves London because he finds he cant stand being anywhere near Aziraphale (hes just irresistible in that way), and he goes to California where he finally fulfills his dream of owning a vineyard. a nice one on Napa, Northern California.

Aziraphale’s wedding dresses become more and more well known, Adam grows well-adjusted. Same kid you know from the show and book, natural born leader, a good head on his shoulders. (Aziraphale has no idea why Adam is like that, but he is so proud)

Crowley’s vineyard (The Garden Of Eden) grows and grows… Warlock is spoiled rotten, but he does love actually working at the vineyard with Crowley to and he and Crowley have a really good relationship…

Eventually the kids go to a summer camp together in London (i dont know if they . do this in the UK, but suspend your disbelief if you will) Adam meets The Them there, then meets Warlock after a nutty fencing thing, they kind of hate each other at first and the rest is history :J

side characters UM. LOL. idk……. i mean i kind of know but not really? theres just so many possibilities that make the rounds in my head. chessy could be anathema OR nina (ive had people suggest eric too?) and martin could be newt OR maggie (ive also had people suggest muriel????) gestures vaguely.

as for meredith…….erm…………🤷‍♂️ ive had everything under the sun suggested to me and i still……have no idea. LOL. gabriel, lucifer, shaX, FURFUR, THE WIFE FROM THE NON-SPOILER SPOILERS. I DONT KNOW. IT ALL FEELS WRONG. its hard to come up with this role in particular when these gay bitches literally only have eyes for each other. always. forever. u know. i think lucy is like. the classic answer. but idfk.

ask me about . more things if u want. this is consuming my every thought.

anyways the cover im working on for. for something:

#good omens #good omens 2 #gomens #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #adam young #warlock dowling #parent trap au #asks #paradox-progressing #i said insanwly quick but this is so fucking long. im sorry

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emblemxeno · 11 days ago

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Sorry king gotta rant. Why does Bernie having trauma mean you can't dislike her? Where's this energy for Rhea, who lost her people and mother? Catherine has good reason to support Rhea since she saved her fucking life but she doesn't get that pass. Dimitri is mentally ill as hell but I don't see Bernie stans defending him? Oh because Bernie didn't hurt anyone else? Okay, what about cyril? The 14 year old boy who was saved from SLAVERY brings up his surrogate mom a lot. Who did he hurt? Why is Bernie's annoying "funny footsteps" ass where the line is drawn? Everyone in 3h has trauma! People can hate whomever they want don't get me wrong but don't act like your favorite traumatized waifu is above criticism while characters like Rhea get dragged through the fucking mud. I guess trauma is only valid if you support the emperor.

Valid feelings imo anon.

I have come and gone on how I feel about Bernadetta, because it's extremely apparent what she was written as: a character whose major gimmick is meant for surface level laughs and entertainment, with a backstory intended to endear her to the audience.

But therein lies many issues I have.

---One support conversation with Byleth, and she says she's fine around them, for no discernable reason according to her. Her entire support chain, including her Goddess Tower scene, is her all but saying "I can't and never could do anything without you professor!" That's a problem 3H has in general because it has no idea how to intentionally write an actual developed relationship. It's why the Lions' intense homoeroticism within its cast, along with Ferdinand and Hubert, are the most common ships outside of Byleth centered ones, as those effectively stumbled into gold.

Comparatively, most other romantic chains-where love/marriage/a relationship was blatantly intended-fall flat because they shove a lot of it into the A supports (sometimes the B rank ones too), which also has to complete the support chain's arc, making one/two conversations tackle two different and delicate topics at once.

I know people are critical of Awakening and especially Fates having romance being hamfisted in the S ranks, but at least you can complete a support chain's story in those games without the shoddy lovey dovey aspect being required reading alongside the conclusion. It's unavoidable in 3H, and also makes many characters look like shitty, emotionally immature people in a meta sense because they can have these near-confessions-of-love with different characters simultaneously due to it being in the A ranks. Not in a cute polyamorous way, either, no just ludicrous.

I digress though, because this affects Bernadetta for me specifically because it's such a rough backstory that it fails to get me to suspend my disbelief that she can suddenly become comfortable with a very speficic stranger to the point of falling for them. Compounding that with a military academy, events, and eventually a war? Yeah, no, it makes no fucking sense.

---Simiarly, as you say, the music that accompanies her supports makes the revelation of her backstory feel insincere and vacuous. Now, I praise similar kinds of writing in games like Engage with Alfred, for example, where learning a very important detail recontextualizes everything you know and have seen about the character. With Alfred, knowing about his illness and losing his father at a young age, it shifts the entire thought process about his supports, story scenes, Firene as a whole, etc.

The difference between him and Bernadetta though, is the sense of respect. Perhaps it's due to Alfred being plot important, but Alfred is written in a way that signals "I, the writer, respect my work, respect the character I'm putting time and effort into, and respect the audience who is consuming it." Alfred has funny music scenes too, but it's never at the cost of making a joke of his trauma. His muscle worship is funny to listen to, his fitness/health regimen is nutty, his overly enthusiastic personality is entertaining, but none of this is at the expense of his vulnerable points. There's hardly, if any, instances of him being forced into changing who he is, altering his beliefs and lifestyle, or being made into a perennial punchline.

Bernadetta, on the other hand, is almost always treated horribly by the support writing. Yelled at by Edelgard, forced out of her room by Ingrid, beat up by a rabbit in Petra's support, accosted by both Ferdinand and Hubert, carried against her will by Caspar, etc. The only supports where I can comfortably say she's treated all right is with Dorothea, Leonie, Raphael, Seteth and Alois, and even then, a couple of those are reliant on a character getting backstory/teachable moment in between her screaming.

It boils down to "Haha, look at this kooky situation that Bernadetta found herself in because of her shut-in personality, what will happen next? 🤪", meanwhile the whole reason why she's like that is because was violently abused by her father and a childhood friend of hers was nearly beaten to death. The backstory itself, doesn't even recontextualize everything the way Alfred's does either, because now all I think when Bernadetta's screaming is "wow, this is fucking gross and potentially triggering for people who also hate having boundaries crossed due to trauma."

And this is the same game that gave us Dimitri's story arc lol. Then again, most of the female characters in 3H have some garbage writing attached to them, soooo...

---This is personal, but I also just can't jibe with Bernadetta conceptually.

Her part one design is okay (aside from the "wow crazy face Bernadetta cuz she's scared haha! 🤪), but her part two design is kinda horrid.

I don't like her voice at all, though that's not an indictment of Erica Mendez at all (she's great as Deirdre and Lianna). It's the direction and character concept, I just hate high pitched squealing and screaming, no matter the voice type, it hits my ears in the worst way.

She's pretty cool as a unit, due to the vengeance builds and having a good spell list if you wanna go a magic route, but... that's about it.

I don't know if I hate Bernadetta herself, or even really dislike her, but I do vehemently hate the concepts behind her and how she's written.

Really, I think people should feel how they feel about whatever character. And I agree, I think it's kinda BS how certain characters are treated worse than others because their personalities are "more annoying/less endearing" despite also being in similar situations.

#fire emblem discourse #character hate #queue

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late-to-the-party-81 · 2 years ago

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Hi Jen! Congrats on the 1K ❤️ You deserve them all and so much more!

I’m sorry that I’m a little bit late with sending in a request but would it be possible to do “The grumpy one is soft for the sunshine one” with Mr. Bucky 🥺 All the love and hugs to you!

AN: Hanna, my love! I hope you enjoy this!

ANd this brings my celebration fics to a close. You still have plenty of time to write your own Challenge Fic for inclusion on my celebration masterlist.

Beta’d by @lfnr-blog-blog-blog. Dividers by @firefly-graphics, moodboard and banner by me

Main Master list | Challenge Master list

Summary: You’re perpetually chipper and happy. The steely-eyed brunet you run into outside your work is not.

Relationship: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

CW: Grumpy Bucky, Meet Cute, Fluff and flirting.

You’re always happy. Nothing ever seems to get you down. So much so, that even your friends call you ‘Sunny’. Que sera, sera was your motto. No use crying over spilt milk, etc. Life is what you make of it, so you choose to make it joyful. Your best friend thought that your receptionist job would eventually wear you down and turn you into a cynic, like her, but no. It was like being upbeat was your superpower.

It was therefore a normal morning as you walked down the sidewalk, humming along to the music pumping through your earbuds, on your way to work. The subway hadn’t been packed, the sun was shining out from behind the clouds and you knew it would be a wonderful day, especially once you’d picked up your hazelnut latte from old Frankie, the street coffee vendor half a block from your office. He always had your drink waiting for you and you always had just slightly more than the exact change, rushing away without taking the change, no matter how many times he’d tried to either catch up with you, or insist the next one was on the house. Thinking about that first sip of nutty-sweet milky java had you almost salivating. Unfortunately it also distracted you.

You registered the bump, followed by a curse that was loud enough to pierce through the music pulsating straight into your ears. You turned to see a man in a leather jacket, with short brown hair, swiping at the patch of wetness on his jeans with a gloved hand, while an empty paper coffee cup lay on its side on the ground. You pulled out your earbuds and then, without thinking, pulled a handful of paper napkins out of your purse. You dropped to a crouch in front of him and started to pat at the dampness.

“I’m so sorry! I was just distracted by the beauty of the day and the thought of my first coffee, and I just didn’t see you, and I hope you’re okay and…”

Your brain kicked in as two things happened. Firstly, you realised that you were patting very close to the stranger’s crotch. Secondly, the napkins were being pulled out your hand very firmly and you were being pulled to your feet.

Blue.

That’s what you noticed first.

Icy, steely blue.

His eyes were like diamonds and momentarily you couldn’t look away.

“...I said, do you always make a habit of accosting and groping strangers first thing in the morning?”

You snapped back to reality as you realised that ‘blue eyes’ was talking to you. Well, actually, it was more like growling at you. What a sourpuss. You flashed him one of your trademark smiles.

“Not everyday, I’ll admit - the police might have something to say about it.” The man ‘harumphed’ and continued glaring at you. Obviously not a fan of your brand of humour.

“...Anyway, let me get you another coffee, it’s the least I can do to apologise.”

You turned toward old Frankie and his cart, and bless his soul if he didn’t already have your drink, and what you could only assume was a duplicate of Grumpy’s order.

“The refill is on the house, Sunny. And no arguments. Accidents happen.”

You smiled at the old man and bent down to place a kiss on his cheek.

“That they do, Frankie. And, if you’ll excuse the blasphemy, it’s only coffee.”

He shook his head at you with a smile and waved you away so he could deal with his next customer. You turned back to the object of your unanticipated morning interaction, only to find that he’s gone. You turned in a circle, seeing if you could spot which way he’d gone, but nope, he’d completely disappeared. Well, his loss, and now you had a spare coffee. With a small shrug you continued on your way.

Ten am, and you were settled into your day. You loved your job as a receptionist at the VA. You got to help some of your nation’s greatest and bravest citizens transition back to civilian life, which you felt was the least you could do to show your appreciation. When you weren’t greeting those coming to use the various services offered at this centre, you were phoning veterans to organise appointments for physiotherapy, counselling and group support sessions.

“Hey, Sunny!” You looked up from your computer to see Joe, one of the support group leaders smiling at you as he leant on your counter.

“Morning, Joe! It’s a lovely day today, and made even better by you being here!”

“Sunny, you keep flirting like that, I’m gonna have to insist you come out for a drink with me.”

You chuckled. This was your regular banter with him.

“Joe, you know this ain’t flirting, this is just me. And you’re as old as my dad.”

He clutched his hand to his heart, theatrically. “You wound me, Sunny. I may just expire, as I’m apparently that old. Anyhow, you got me the expected attendance list for the meeting?”

You rifled through the papers in the folder on your desk.

“Sure thing. Here it is. I can see you gotta few new names on here, so hopefully it will be an interesting one.”

“You know that’s an old Chinese curse - ‘may you live in interesting times’?” He gave you a wink as he took the paper from your hand and walked off towards the room he used, with only a slight limp giving away the fact that his right leg was a prosthetic.

Half an hour later and the vets for the Joe’s group started to arrive, all of them being amputees of some description, some sporting prosthetics and others not. They all came together though, to talk about the trauma of losing a limb in combat, the long road to recovery and issues associated with having a prosthetic or a missing limb, both physically, mentally and socially.

The regulars came up and used the computer screen on their side of your desk to log their arrival and get a printed photo sticker-badge to wear. The newbies, however, had to go through you for their first time, which is why you always recommended they turn up 15 minutes before the start of the session so you could double check their identity, the information you held and then get them a computer profile set up for all return visits.

You’d just completed all the paperwork with one newcomer, and sent him off with an old-hand to the meeting room when the doors to the building slammed open. You looked up and couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face.

“It’s you! I’m afraid I drank your replacement coffee, cos you disappeared so quickly.”

Grumpy just glared at you. You noticed there was still a slight stain on his jeans. You tried a different tack.

“Can I help you with anything? Are you a vet, or looking to support a vet? We’ve got lots of programmes and support groups.”

Still without saying anything he tugged the glove off his left hand, revealing the metallic sheen of the most advanced prosthetic you’d ever seen. Understanding dawned.

“Ooo! Are you here for the amputee support group?” You looked down at your copy of the attendance list, noting that only one vet, one of the new guys hadn’t yet checked in. “Are you James Barnes?”

“Sergeant.”

A look of puzzlement marred your features.

“Pardon?”

“Sergeant Barnes.” You got it then. Some guys, especially if fresh out and still adjusting, preferred to be referred to by their military rank.

“Okay, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve just gotta get you set up here. What’s your date of birth?” You glanced up from your computer to find he was still staring at you.

“Seriously? You’re asking me that?”

You were confused by his tone; this wasn’t normally an issue.

“Absolutely. Gotta make sure I’ve got it all correct.”

“Like you don’t already know.”

Your almost permanent smile started to falter under his intense gaze.

“I really don’t. And I need it for the records.”

Barnes let out a resigned huff.

“Fine. Play your games. Seventeenth March, 1917.”

“1970? Gotta say, you don’t look like you’re over fifty. Good genes I suppose.”

“No, doll. 1917. One Nine One Seven.”

Now you were really confused.

“How is that possible? That would make you…” You paused while you did the maths in your head…. “One hundred and six. And like I just said, you don’t even look fifty.”

“Look, doll. Either you’re a really good actress, been hiding under a rock, or just dumb.”

Normally you could keep your cool, laugh and brush off negative comments, but something about the grumpy sergeant was rubbing you up the wrong way.

“That’s not very nice, Sergeant. Just because you don’t like the questions and don’t want to answer them properly, doesn’t mean you have to be mean to me.”

He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are you really telling me that you don’t know who I am? Even with having my name in front of you, seeing my arm and me telling you how old I am? Don’t you ever watch the news?”

“Not really. It’s too depressing and sad.”

Another sigh.

“Okay, okay. My full name is James Buchanen Barnes, 107th. Presumed KIA in February 1945, but in fact taken captive by Hydra. I survived traumatic, unintentional amputation of my left arm via snowy mountainside, and was given a replacement by them when they brain-washed me, turning me into an assassin, and was kept cryogenically frozen between missions, spanning over 70 years. I was known as the Winter Soldier. My conditioning started to break in 2014 when I was commanded to kill Captain America, but as Steve was my childhood best friend, my brain rebelled. I went on the run for two years until I was framed for the assassination of King T’Chaka of Wakanda and captured by Shield, then triggered into my Winter Soldier state by a disgruntled Sokovian Baron, wanting revenge on the Avengers for the death of his family during the Ultron incident. I then spent a further two years in Wakanda, having my programming broken, recovering mentally and physically, and given this new arm, before fighting Thanos and getting dusted with half of everyone else. Came back in the Blip, and now supporting Sam Wilson as the new Captain America. I was pardoned for my past crimes and have to attend court mandated therapy and it’s been suggested that attending a support group could be good for me. Know who I am now?”

It was your turn to stare, eyes wide and mouth open as you absorbed all the information from his monologue.

“Soooo, what I’m getting is that you really are 106 years old and for some reason you have a pardon and court-mandated therapy for things you did while you were brain-washed. Seems hinky to me, but who am I to question it?”

A snort left Barnes’ nose, a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“That’s what you take from my story. No questions about Hydra, no histrionics about the fact that a famed assassin is standing in front of you?”

“Why would I? You’ve told me you’ve been ‘deprogrammed’, you’ve been referred to us for group support, and if you were that dangerous I’m sure I wouldn’t have survived the coffee incident this morning.”

His lips twitched, and his face transformed. The lines in his forehead disappeared and migrated to the corners of his eyes, eyes that were now less steel and more spring sky coloured.

“Nothing phases you, does it?”

“Nope. That’s why everyone calls me Sunny. And is that a smile I see, Sergeant? Don’t tell me that somehow I’ve broken through that stoic facade of yours?”

His smile grew wider.

“I’m sure you’re just imagining it. I’m still really annoyed.”

“Uh-huh?” You smiled back. No, you grinned back.

He leaned his crossed arms on the counter, his stance now far more relaxed.

“What other information do you need for that computer system of yours, Sunny? My telephone number perhaps?”

Oh, wow! He’d gone from grumpy to flirt in less than 60 seconds. Now he was fully smiling you had to admit he was kinda cute. Or rather hella hot. You resisted the urge to pull at the neckline of your top to let the steam out.

“I’ve already got a record of that here already, Sergeant.”

His arm reached over the countertop and he snagged your pen and notepad from next to you.

“Well, just in case you need it again for your records, or for any other purpose, I’ll write it down for you.”

If it was possible, your grin got wider.

“Why, Sergeant Barnes, that’s very… helpful of you.”

“Call me James, doll. Or Bucky, if you want.” The tip of his tongue peaked out from between his lips and you were mesmerised.

“Of course… James.”

You swore you saw him shiver as you said his name.

The clock above your head gave a ‘ding’ as it struck the hour, and you realised that his session was about to start. You gave a little cough and dragged your eyes away from Barnes’ James’ face and back to your computer.

“I’d best get this all finished off, so you can go join in the group. It’s really good - Joe is so lovely and supportive.”

You finished typing, directed him to stand in front of the camera (which he scowled at) and printed off his sticker ID.

“When you finish, just peel off the sticker, place it in the bin and note on the system that you’re leaving. That should be around midday.”

“And when do you get your lunch break, doll?”

Oh! How were you supposed to cope in the face of his megawatt charm? It had been a lot easier when he was grouchy, even though you’d wanted to tease him.

“Why, James, are you asking me out?”

“Well, you do owe me a coffee.”

Tag list: @jobean12-blog @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky @tuiccim @yarnforbrains @sidepartskinnyjeans @flordeamatista @krissy25 @bodeckersdiamonddoll @goldylions @luxeavenger @wheezy-stucky @doasyoudesireandlive @chemtrails-club @seitmai @talia-rumlow @peaches1958

#bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #jen's 1k follower celebration #jen's 1k challenge #Hanna 📔

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stationintern · 1 year ago

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Hello there!

July is a rainy month here in the mountains, but these fics felt like a ray of sunshine! I’m back with another favorites list, and very proud that I remembered to do this. Let’s go!

A Savior’s Guide to Manners and Decorum - E, 13k by @wolfpants

I think putting Draco Malfoy in any sort of teaching position is a recipe for perfection. So, that was a major factor in my enjoyment of this fic. Everything I’ve read from wolfpants has been incredible (I read Nightcall at least twice a month), and this did NOT disappoint. If you like a bumbling Harry with obscure hobbies, this is the fic for you.

Little Compton Street (One Rainy Night In Soho) - E, 65k by @writcraft and @celilasart for Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018

I saw this fic recommended left and right on the Drarry writers discord, and it’s been sitting in my marked for later forever. And, boy, do I wish I’d read it earlier. The art is BEAUTIFUL. I stared at it for about ten minutes. I’m a sucker for two lost souls finding their calm together in the eye of the storm, and I’ve been yearning for another fic that explores queer history as it pertains to the magical world. In conclusion, this was everything I needed. A rainy night for a rainy season.

Grounds For Divorce - E, 122k by @tepre

This is another one of those fics that I’ve seen recommended everywhere but just hadn’t gotten to yet. Fics that cover long periods of time hold a special place in my heart, and the journey I got to experience while reading this left me breathless by the time I was finished. I can’t wait to read it again.

Up The - E, 7k by @shiftylinguini

I’m not a big mpreg reader, not for any particular reason, but this fic was so sweet. The premise was hilarious and ridiculously fitting for these two. Love an established relationship, love a nutty plan to get pregnant. Loved it.

Faint Indirections - T, 29k by ignatiustrout

It’s so fun whenever I get to explore a new city with this pair. God, this was so fucking hilarious. Watching these two communicate in the least efficient way possible tickled me and I will be thinking about this fic for a very long time.

to be a bit of warmth (for you) - M, 9k by @softlystarstruck

This was just the sweetest thing I’ve read in a very long time. The intimacy, the characterization. How the author managed to pack so much beauty into 10k words is a mystery that I thank god for every day.

on open wounds - M, 16k by asofthaven

extremely loud growling noises (positive.) read this in my honda accord while eating a quesadilla and watching drunk rodeo goers mill about the town square and felt more emotions than i’ve ever felt before in my life. thank you. thank you thank you thank you.

Everybody Hates a Tourist - E, 51k by @wolfpants for @hd-wireless 2023

As I said before, I love getting to explore a city with these two, and watching Harry find himself with a Draco who has built a life for himself is something I will never get sick of. Especially when every bit of it is absolutely baffling for Harry. So excited to find out who wrote this. I enjoyed every second of it. (Should’ve known it was wolfpants! So, so good!)

Well, that’s all for now, folks! These fics helped with my July gloom, and I’m so thankful for all the wonderful writers in this community who gift us these beautiful stories.

See you next month with more recs!

xx, Moon.

#drarry #draco x harry #drarry fic rec #rec list

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her-satanic-wiles · 1 year ago

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October 20th

Foodplay, Aurora x Reader

Masterlist

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: Food play; hella sapphic (I was in a mood and decided to make it everyone else's problem lmao you're welcome); slow burn; chef!Reader; established relationship; blindfold; semi-public; marking; nipple play; biting; spit as lube; fingering; praise kink; cum eating; recommended listening: Opera.

Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost @zombiesnips-blog

This is another favourite of mine, please enjoy!

🔞 MDNI 🔞

The Ministry kitchens had been dimly lit by hundreds of long, black candles, flames flickering with the gentle breeze that flowed through the air conditioning vents and cooled the metal room. The gentle and sweet tones of classic opera were floating around the room to hush the electrical hum of the kitchen appliances and make the room feel just that bit more atmospheric.

Aurora had no idea you were planning this, but now she was back off tour and Papa had given her a significant chunk of time to just exist, it felt like the perfect moment to reconnect with her. Her helmet was off, her long hair tied back in a low ponytail and your hands covered her eyes as she walked tentatively into the room.

“It smells great.” She commented, though still a little nervous. She didn’t know where you were and that was what she didn’t like.

“I hope so, it took me ages to make it all. Okay.” You removed your hands from her eyes and took a step back. You couldn’t see her face, but her audible reaction was enough to elicit a beaming smile from you.

“You did all this?” She asked, clearly pleased by the surprise.

“Well, Papa helped decorate. I wouldn’t let him go near the food for obvious reasons.”

Her beautiful hands came up to cup your cheeks as she pulled you in for a gentle kiss. “Thank you so much! I love it!”

“You’re welcome.” You wrapped your arms around her waist. “Welcome home.” You gave her another kiss before you let her go. “Right, tonight we’re playing a game.”

“Oh?”

“I have been practicing how to make these dishes to absolute perfection. I want to blindfold you and see if you can tell which dishes they are.”

“How many are there?”

“Six.”

“Six!?”

“Three meals and three desserts.”

Aurora sat at the table in the centre of the kitchen and rubbed her hands together. She tried looking around in the darkness for some hints or clues to help her tell which dishes you’d cooked, but she couldn’t see anything from her position. So, she sighed. “I’m ready, let’s go!”

You gently tied the blindfold around her eyes and made sure she couldn’t see what was happening in front of her before you ran to grab the food. You lay each item out in front of you, giving yourself easy access to each dish.

“What happens if I don’t guess them correctly?”

“You don’t get to eat tonight.”

Aurora slapped you playfully. “Don’t you dare!” She paused. “What happens if I guess them correctly?” Her tone was a little suggestive in comparison to her last question.

You sat down on the bench next to her. “What do you want to happen?”

Aurora just smiled at you. “What’s the first dish, chef?”

The first dish was perhaps the easiest of the three but by no means the least delicious. Spaghetti carbonara; a delicious dish made with spaghetti, eggs, Pecorino Romano cheese, guanciale (or pancetta), and black pepper. The luxurious richness that envelops each strand of al dente spaghetti in a delicious embrace is the first flavour to meet your taste in a dish like this.

A tantalising role is played by the salty, savoury overtones from the crisped guanciale or pancetta, which gives the dish a delicious smokiness that lingers and creates a pleasing contrast with the creamy sauce.

The Pecorino Romano cheese, which generously coats each forkful with a robust and salty tang, greets you as your teeth sink into the pasta. It embraces you with its nutty, salty embrace. By adding depth of flavour, this cheese counteracts the dish’s richness with its distinctive sharpness.

The dish becomes more complex with its taste, and adds a zesty, mildly spicy kick thanks to the finely ground black pepper that has been cracked and sprinkled throughout. It offers a soft warmth, similar to a warm embrace on a chilly night.

You twirled a fork in the pasta and tried to gather as many of the ingredients as you could in a small enough bite so as not to make a mess and make Aurora embarrassed. “Open wide for me.” You told her, your voice low and soothing against the backdrop of Pavarotti and the Philharmonia Orchestra. Gently, you deposited the forkful of food into her mouth, and watched intently as she chewed politely, moving the dish from one side to the other and working hard to figure out what it was she was eating. Her brows furrowed cutely as she thought.

“Carbonara!” She said excitedly.

That was an easy one. “Correct!” You said.

“That was incredible, though, holy shit!” She was never one to mince her words when she liked something.

You ran to the freezer to grab one of the six coupes of raspberry sorbet, and explained to her what it was. “It’s to cleanse your palate between each meal so you don’t confuse the flavours.” You fed her the whole scoop of sorbet - it was only one, but it took a few cuts with the teaspoon to get it to disappear.

The second dish was osso buco; a savory and hearty Milanese specialty that features braised veal shanks simmered with white wine, broth, onions, carrots, celery, garlic, and tomatoes. It’s often garnished with gremolata, a zesty mixture of lemon zest, garlic, and parsley, which adds a burst of freshness to the rich, tender meat. This dish is known for its complex, comforting flavors and is often served with risotto or polenta. The veal shank, which has been expertly braised, yields easily to your fork and reveals its meltingly soft, succulent core, giving off an impression of unctuous tenderness.

To create a delicious harmony of flavours that dances on the palate, tomatoes add a luscious, fruity acidity. Combined with a rich, velvety sauce that coats the meat has earthy undertones from sautéed carrots and celery and a deep, mellow sweetness from caramelised onions.

Each bite is infused with a delicate, fragrant bouquet of rosemary, thyme, and garlic, which adds layers of complexity and a tinge of Mediterranean warmth. The dish is given a depth of savoury umami and a gentle, nuanced acidity by the white wine and broth, which have been simmered to perfection.

The gremolata garnish adds the finishing touch with a burst of vibrant freshness and zest. With each forkful, the combination of zesty lemon, pungent garlic, and vibrant parsley adds a fresh, energising contrast to the velvety rich sauce and tender veal.

Purposefully, you added risotto to the dish to throw her off, hoping she’d confuse it with another dish that was somewhat similar. Which she did. “Risotto alla Milanese?” She asked.

“Unfortunately, my love, that is incorrect. You think we have the money for saffron?”

“What is it?”

“Osso buco!”

She slapped her knee. “I would not have got that in a million years!”

“Really!”

“Yes! I only ever had risotto alla Milanese once when I went with Papa on a business trip up to Milan. He paid for it. It was expensive.”

You fed her a spoonful from a fresh coupe of raspberry sorbet. “That would be because it came from one of Papa’s fancy Milano restaurants that has the money for saffron.”

You noticed that a bit of the sorbet had pooled at the corner of her mouth without her noticing. You didn’t think, with your hands full you had no way to wipe it away, so you leaned forward and placed an open mouth kiss to the corner of her lips in an attempt to not make it obvious you were straight up licking her face.

At the crescendo of Un Bel di Vedremo from Act Two of Madama Butterfly, Aurora turned and locked her lips with yours, her hands moving up to your neck to pull you in for a surprise and passionate kiss. Her tongue darted into your mouth and you could taste the raspberry sorbet on her earning her a moan from your lips.

When you finally pulled away, she giggled. “What was that?” You asked.

“The music was getting intense, I just wanted to try it out and see something.”

You fed her another spoonful. “Okay, and…?”

“That felt incredible. My heart did a flutter and it felt like I was flying.”

You giggled a little at that, but understood what she meant. It was a very cinematic moment, for sure.

The final meal was lobster ravioli, a decadent pasta dish that combines plump, luscious lobster meat with delicate pasta pillows. It’s often served with a creamy tomato or seafood sauce and garnished with fresh herbs. The first bite reveals the lobster meat, which is tender, succulent, luxuriously rich, and delicately sweet, similar to the sea’s treasures. Every morsel tastes like the salty kiss of the sea.

The lobster filling is encased in soft, velvety pasta that offers a delicate counterpoint to the robustness of the seafood. It seems as though the pasta was created to cradle and highlight the lobster’s beauty.

The dish gets a layer of lusciousness from the creamy sauce, which frequently contains tomato or seafood broth. Every mouthful is infused with a velvety elegance that contrasts the lobster’s inherent sweetness. It is rich, decadent, and subtly tangy.

The dish is garnished with fresh herbs and a hint of lemon zest or parsley for a burst of freshness and vibrancy. These components improve the flavour as a whole, like a cool breeze on a summer evening by the sea.

The oceanic allure of lobster, the delicate pasta, the creamy sauce, and the vibrant accents of herbs and citrus work together to create a harmonious medley of flavours.

On your fork, you picked up one piece of ravioli and gently placed it in her mouth, waiting ardently for her answer. “This one’s tricky.” She announced between chewing. “Definitely seafood, but I can’t tell if it’s crab or shrimp.”

“Ah, interesting.”

“Which means it’s neither.”

“What? Where did that come from?”

“Your reaction. If I was right you would have told me. It’s ravioli… but what’s the meat? Lobster? Lobster ravioli?”

“Correct.”

You went to grab another coupe of raspberry sorbet.

“Really? You can afford lobster but you can’t afford saffron?”

“Saffron is ten dollars per gram!” You sat down and began feeding her the sorbet. “Lobster is only twenty euros per kilo if you go to the right vendor. You get more bang for your buck with a lobster. Besides, one of the cardinals requested lobster for one of his own private meals this lunchtime, and I thought it was a great idea.”

“So this is cardinal leftovers?”

You sighed which triggered laughter from her. “Yes, my love, I went back upstairs after the cardinal’s dinner and I scraped all the little lobster bits off the plate and turned it into ravioli. Watch out for the extra chunks of vegetables and whatever else went into that dish. This is a real Frankenstein’s monster of a pasta dish.”

“Did you feed me this because I fuck you good and Italy doesn’t have a Red Lobster?”

You wanted to be mad at her and chastise her for ruining the moment, but your head tilted back and laughed instead at her poor joke. “There is actually a Red Lobster in Roma as far as I know.”

“And you’ve never taken me there?” She acted offended. “Do I not fuck you good enough, is that it?” She placed one of her hands on your chest over your heart.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

She placed her hands around your neck and pulled you in for another kiss. “I love you too. What’s for dessert?”

As was the same with the meals, there were three options for dessert. The first, cannoli. The delicate, shatteringly crisp exterior of the crispy shell gives way to a slightly chewy, tender interior in a symphony of textures. It resembles a golden, edible treasure chest that is filled with sweet riches.

The filling is a masterpiece of creaminess and is typically made of a velvety ricotta cheese mixture. It has a luxurious dairy richness that envelops your taste buds in a comforting embrace. It is smooth, luscious, and slightly tangy.

There is a lot of sweetness, but it’s never overbearing; rather, it’s perfectly balanced. Due to the inclusion of ingredients like tiny chocolate chips, candied fruit, or chopped nuts, the ricotta filling is frequently punctuated by flavorful explosions on a small scale. Each bite is a harmonious fusion of textures and tastes thanks to the addition of these delightful contrasts.

The cannoli is covered in powdered sugar, which adds an ethereal sweetness to go with the creamy filling. It adds sweetness in a subtle way without overpowering the overall experience.

These components work together to produce a dessert that is both indulgent and delicate, providing a sensory experience that is both texturally fascinating and flavorfully exquisite.

Aurora took a bite and was so surprised at the crunchiness, she made a sweet little noise. Her hand came up to catch as many of the crumbs as she could but quite a few had found their way to the floor.

“Cannoli!” She said immediately, her mouth still full of cannoli. “How would I not know your favourite dessert?”

“Honestly, I put this in just in case you didn’t know the rest of the dishes.”

She hit you. “Give me another bite of that, baby.”

You fed her another mouthful of cannoli, gulping at the sight of her. Her lips wrapped around it obscenely, in a way you only saw when she was on her knees taking your strap. She lifted her head to better reach the dessert you’d unintentionally held just out of reach, exposing her soft, beautiful neck in the process. You chastised yourself for perving on her while she was eating, but it had been so long since you last saw her you were almost experiencing withdrawal. And the little noises of delicious approval she gave you were going into your ears and shooting straight down to your cunt. You couldn’t help it. When she’d finished her dessert, she took your fingers into her mouth to lick off the remaining ricotta. She had to have known what she was doing, surely?

“What’s next?”

You shook your head and closed your mouth, pulling yourself out of the horny trance you were just in.

The penultimate dish, tiramisu: a beloved Italian dessert known for its luscious layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cheese. It’s delicately flavored with cocoa powder and sometimes a touch of liquor like rum or coffee liqueur. The mascarpone cheese layer offers a velvety, luscious embrace that is both delicate and indulgent, and the first spoonful is a revelation of rich, creamy decadence.

As they yield to your fork with a soft, sponge-like tenderness and release an espresso-infused essence that is both bold and mellow, like a warm, comforting hug, the coffee-soaked ladyfingers offer a satisfying contrast.

The dessert’s surface is flecked with cocoa powder, which adds a bittersweet, earthy flavour that harmonises beautifully with the mascarpone’s sweet creaminess and the coffee’s warmth.

An understated alcoholic kick, frequently from rum or coffee liqueur, adds a level of complexity and gives the dessert a chic, boozy undertone that dances on your palate.

The bitterness of the coffee and cocoa provides a well-balanced counterpoint that keeps the overall taste experience from becoming overly sweet. It is a dessert that achieves perfect harmony, much like a well-balanced symphony.

The noise she made when she took that bite was downright lewd in your overstimulated brain. It was a deep, gutteral moan akin to the noise she makes when your lips wrap around her for the first time that night. Her tongue escaped to mop up the leftover mascarpone and cocoa powder and you felt your breathing get heavier. Your mouth was open, almost drooling at the sight of her enjoying the food you cooked, your mind filling with completely sinful thoughts to the point you could barely think of anything else. Your hairs stood on end, goosebumps decorated your skin, and your eyes were watery where you’d not blinked in who knew how long. “Tiramisu.” She whispered. “My favourite.”

“Fuck, Aurora.”

“Last one. Quickly.”

The final dish: Panna Cotta. Meaning “cooked cream” in Italian, it’s a smooth and silky dessert made by simmering cream, sugar, and gelatin. The result is a delicate custard-like dessert with a subtly sweet, creamy flavor. Panna cotta is often served with a fruit coulis or caramel sauce on top for added flavor and elegance.

Each spoonful glides across the tongue with a velvety, melt-in-your-mouth sensation that is incredibly smooth and opulent, giving off an initial impression of silkiness.

The flavour is delicately sweet, like a delicate caress of sweetness, letting the cream shine in all of its pure splendour. It has a tinge of vanilla that adds a warm, fragrant embrace that improves the overall experience.

The texture is ethereal, as though a cloud had transformed into a sweet. With each delicate bite, it dissolves easily because it is tender but firm enough to hold its shape.

Her lips were stained with the red of the fruit coulis when she took her final bite and that was when the last thread of sanity inside of you snapped and exploded without your permission or desire to. You stood from your seat, throwing the cutlery down on the table and spread her legs so you could stand between them. Your hands cupped her cheek and rested on her arm as you leaned down and licked the coulis away from her top lip, the strawberry flavour tingling your tongue and earning you a moan. The hand that rested on her arm moved upwards to untie the blindfold as your tongue gained entrance to her mouth in a heated kiss, the taste of the panna cotta now registering on your tastebuds and making your girlfriend even more delicious than usual.

Being the tiny thing she was and weighing next to nothing, you picked her up off the stool and placed her on the table without breaking the kiss, your hands beginning to roam around her clothed body. The frustration you felt when you realised she was still wearing her Ghoul uniform was severe. You needed her naked. You needed her easily accessible. You just needed her.

Her waistcoat was the first to get removed and thrown somewhere into the darkness, followed by her black shirt that you all but ripped open. She squealed into the kiss, but didn’t protest, her own hands coming to remove your clothes as best as she could with you being feral in front of her. You unclasped her bra, uncaring which one she was wearing or even what the colour was and launched that across the kitchen too. Your hands worked at her jeans, ripping them from her body in desperation to get at her core. She was left only in her panties.

Your lips moved from hers, down her jaw and to that sweet spot at the crook of her neck, and revelled in the gasp she released when she felt your tongue licking and sucking a hickey into her skin. “Oh my… God!”

You kissed down to her nipple and sucked it into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the soft bud and alternating between sucking, licking and biting. Every time you bit her, her hips bucked upwards, her cunt searching for stimulation. Your newly spit-soaked fingers dipped into her panties, black lace - her bra must have been too, and began stroking her clit as soon as you reached it. Another gasp was taken from her, followed by a pornographic, “Yes!” Fingers dug into your biceps as she fought to keep herself grounded.

You released her nipple from your mouth and moved up to her lips, not kissing her, but so close you could feel her breath on your face. You delighted at the look of anguish on her face as your furiously and roughly rubbed at her most sensitive bundle of nerves, her eyebrows furrowed upwards and nostrils flared as she tried her hardest to breathe through the desperation she felt. Wanton moans tumbled from her open mouth, becoming more and more strangled the faster your fingers moved.

“You didn’t tell me what the final dish was.” You told her in a low voice, almost a growl. You felt her cunt flutter at the sound.

“What?”

“What was the last thing you ate, princess?”

“Fuck! I don’t know.”

“You have to tell me otherwise you don’t get to cum.”

“Fucking hell! ___, please!”

“What did you eat last?”

“Flan!”

“No, baby, that’s Spanish.” You inserted two fingers inside her and she released a scream when you tapped up. “Try again.”

“Fuck! I don’t know. Blancmange?”

This time you laughed at her; taunting her as you relentlessly hit her g-spot over and over again. “You know blancmange but you don’t know what you just ate?”

“Your fingers weren’t inside me when you fed me!”

Your free hand reached back over and picked up the spoon and small glass of panna cotta, shoving them both into her empty hands. “Have another taste now that my fingers are inside you.”

“Fuck!”

You backed your head up a little bit to watch her dip the spoon in the glass. Her tongue came out to steady the spoon as her hand was shaking from the pleasure until finally the spoonful of the dessert had disappeared down her waiting throat. She let out another whine at the taste then placed the glass down next to her. “Panna cotta!”

“Good girl!”

There was still a small amount of liquified and melted sorbet left in one of the coupes on the table, and so your brain did perhaps the most obvious thing once it comprehended what your eyes had announced. Your free hand wrapped around the stem and poured it onto her clavicle, wasting no time in licking it back up off of her, sucking until another hickey formed.

“Shit! I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!”

“Cum for me.”

You felt her tighten around your fingers and pulsate as her orgasm hit her, her mouth hung open in a silent scream and gasping for her lungs to start working again. As usual, you continued to provide stimulation until her orgasm had completely ended, and her brain had begun working again and she peppered your face in kisses. “That was incredible!” She said in between pecks. Her hands made their way to your trousers and fiddled with the button to free you as best as she could. “Your turn.”

You, in the desperate need to access your lover’s body, ended up mostly clothed. You were free of your own shirt and undergarments on the top half, but your bottom half had remained untouched the whole time. And so, as soon as your positions were switched and she was standing in front of you, she made light work of the offending garments that blocked her from her goal. As soon as you were completely bare to her, sat on the table and core fully out on display, she spread your legs, pulled up a chair and got herself situated. Rather aptly timed, the sweet tones of Duo des Fleurs began to play over the speakers which made both of you giggle. It seemed ridiculous to have sex with opera in the background as oftentimes the lyrics did not match the situation, but as soon as Aurora’s began her work, you understood it immediately.

She started by giving you faint, gentle pecks to your calves that were timed irregularly so you didn’t know when they would happen. Any exposed flesh she could touch was tenderly caressed by her fingertips, adding yet another layer of sensation to the already gentle touches. Then her lips advanced towards your pubic mound. Before she kissed you, you could feel her breath flowing between your folds, making you shiver in anticipation of her touch. Sweet and soft touches working in tandem with the music echoing throughout the room had you seeing stars without the pleasure even beginning.

You unintentionally screamed out at the first broad, rough lick. However, this was quickly followed by her lips encircling your clit and sucking with as much force as they could, giving you an intense pleasure that bordered on pain. The tip of her tongue continued to work your clit in a variety of directions with her mouth still closed, her movements seeming erratic. Her head moved in all directions as she sucked on your sensitive bud to keep your pleasure as vivacious as possible, your hand still tangled in her beautiful, long hair as she gave you the most delicious pleasure. She continued in this manner for what felt like an eternity. She remained face-first in your core, unyielding and unwilling to stop until you reached your peak, even when your hips bucked and you began using her face for your own pleasure.

All of this was heightened by your surroundings, the location - the fact that anyone could walk in and see you laid bare for your lover in the place you worked. The music that made your head spin in a heavenly manner. Aurora’s tongue and mouth working to make you feel as good as she possibly could, with her fingertips digging into your flesh and rubbing soothing circles. The smell of the desserts, especially with your eyes closed, filled and clouded your senses. You’d seen the pleasure on Aurora’s face when your fingers were deep inside her as she took another bite of panna cotta, and the curiosity got the better of you. You leaned back on the table slightly and reached over to the plate of cannoli, fingers wrapping around the hard shell and bringing it to your lips.

The crunch got Aurora’s attention, but she only smirked as you enjoyed the treat with her lips still attached to you. And the sensation was nothing like you’d experienced before.

Your mouth tingled at the tang of the ricotta, your tastebuds falling under the similar control from the food that Aurora had at your centre. It offered a sensory delight that was both texturally intriguing and flavorfully exquisite; delicate and indulgent. Undoubtedly among the most delicious creations to ever grace the palate, it was a tantalising explosion of flavours. A beautiful composition of crispy, creamy, and sweet components. The combination of the dessert and Aurora treating you like one, had you floating in ecstasy and was quite possibly the most heavenly experience ever created.

Your pleasured moans occasionally harmonised with the music; your eyes rolled back. “Please don’t stop!” You practically whispered as you got ever closer to that edge, her mouth working harder and faster as ever. She knew you’d lose that feeling if she stopped what she was doing, so she didn’t. Instead, she accelerated her movements and increased her fervour and, when you’d swallowed that last bite of cannoli, you allowed yourself to fall, crashing back down to Earth from the heavens as you reached orgasm, your fist tightening in her hair and your eyes squeezed tightly shut, climaxing all over her face. Your mouth opened wide as your back arched and a stream of profanities spilled out. Aurora didn’t stop until you pushed her away.

With her swollen pink lips stained with your cunt, she was unquestionably a sight to behold as she emerged from your wetness. She sat up to get closer to your lips with a knowing smile on her face and a giggle in her throat. You pulled her in for a passionate kiss, overwhelmed by the incredible orgasm you’d just had, her thumbs continue to caress your thighs. “That was amazing, wasn’t it?” She asked, a bright smile on her face.

“We need to do that more often, holy shit!” You agreed.

“You know, I thought those cannolis were exceptional. Didn’t realise they’d be orgasmic though.”

You kissed her again. “You fucking idiot.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.” You sighed. “The food’s gone cold.”

“We have a microwave.”

“Ugh, heathen! I’m starving.”

“What, that cannoli wasn’t filling enough?”

“I’m actually going to break up with you.”

She kissed you. “Come on, let’s get dressed and get some food.”

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day

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