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the-californicationist · 6 months ago

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Pas de Deux

For @glitterypirateduck's May 2024 Ghost challenge (item #100)!

I don't write Ghost, but I love Duck too much to pass it up. <3

You invited your brother, Kyle, to come and watch your performance as Odette in Swan Lake. He makes it to the theatre, but he brings his friends. That's when you fall head over heels for Simon Riley.

You’d begged your brother to come to your final performance. You needed him there, needed to feel him in the crowd, even if you couldn’t see him out there. Kyle promised he would be there, and as you went through your pre-show routine, you hoped he would be true to his word.

You knew it was difficult for him to get away from work. You’d left him with four tickets, asking him to invite his mates, if that would make it easier. You remember seeing his soft smile as he fanned out the bright gold tickets, inwardly laughing at you for not understanding the contrast between your world and his as he commented,

“These blokes aren’t really keen on ballets, Duck.”

He’d always called you by that stupid nickname. Well, the longer version had been his favorite as a teenage boy: the Ugly Duckling. But, it was fine. You’d called him Vile instead of Kyle most of his life, so you felt like it was an even score.

“It’s important to me,” you’d insisted.

“I know,” he nodded, conceding, “I’ll try.”

So, as the lights were warming up and you were applying your third layer of powder, praying for a smooth night, your heart stretched itself out, begging not to be broken, the whining strings of the cellos and violins in the pit below your feet made the sounds that your heartstrings were feeling — too quiet, too off-key.

“Hey, babe,” one of your fellow dancers hissed at you from behind the backstage door, “Why didn’t you tell us you had a hot brother with a bunch of hot friends?”

“What?” You asked, confused, shaken out of your mental focus.

Then, over her shoulder, you saw Kyle’s face. He beamed at you, giving you a little wave. You leapt up from the floor where you were stretching, not yet in full costume, wrapping yourself in a warm wool sweater, rushing to greet him.

“You came!” You smiled up at him, wrapping him in a big hug. He hugged you back, full of his immense strength. You stood back to get a better look at him. He was all dressed up, and you couldn’t believe it. Someone behind him cleared their throat, getting your attention.

“Oh, right. Duck, these are my mates,” he pointed them out one by one, “Johnny MacTavish, John Price, and Simon Riley.”

When he pointed to the last one, you felt your breath catch in your throat. It felt as if he was the one who caught it. He was a tower of a man, and his broad, muscular shoulders dwarfed his big friends, making the dancers who were rushing by him back and forth to the stage seem so small. Unlike the other two, his face didn’t light up in a warm smile. His bright eyes simply took you in, drinking you like a long draught, swallowing every piece of you. He studied your makeup, your neck and your shoulders, all the way down your legs, scanning you like he would be given an exam.

“Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming, seriously. I’ve been trying to get Kyle to show up for months.”

The stocky man with the beard smiled back at you warmly,

“We love a good ballet, don’t we, lads?”

You didn’t miss the way his elbow jutted out to stab Simon in the ribs, prompting him to speak.

When he did, his voice was quiet, and although he had a thick Manc accent, his tone was controlled, measured, even,

“Aye. Big fans.”

“Oh, well,” you couldn’t stop staring at Simon, so you pinned your eyes to the floor instead, “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Drinks after, yeah?” Kyle said, rubbing your arm supportively.

You nodded, watching them head back to the main auditorium.

A few friends, dancers and stagehands alike, rushed up to you as they left, gushing about how attractive they all were.

“Who was that bloody blond giant? Dressed in all black. He was lookin’ at you like he was hungry.”

“I want the Scot with the mohawk. I’m not takin’ no for an answer, girlie. Oh, my God. Did you see his kilt?”

“Your brother is so damn fit! What the fuck, babes?”

“I liked the scruffy one the best. Bet that beard feels good between —”

“Okay! It’s almost showtime. Let’s circle up,” you escaped from the prop room, scurrying back onto the main stage, trying to get your head back in the game.

You went through your warmups with your dancers, and you let your costumers fit you into your opening dress. You needed to think about your work, but you couldn’t get Simon’s sharp gaze out of your mind. He did, in fact, look hungry, and the way his eyes raked over you made you feel every bit like a hot meal.

As the music began, your mind went blank, blissfully quiet and clear. Your muscle memory took over, and you powered through the motions, enjoying the feeling of your blood rushing through your veins. You trusted yourself to get you through the first act, hitting all of your marks and expecting nothing less than perfection.

It wasn’t until you put on the black mask for Odile’s dance with the prince that you began to lose your concentration. There was a wildness that took over you when you played the black swan, a ferocity that your studio director gushed about to the press and to anyone else who cared to listen.

“She’s like an animal! It’s to die for. You must come and see her on stage. It will change this ballet forever!”

You weren’t sure you appreciated being referred to as an animal, but you had to admit that there was something beastial about your transformation. The mask made you feel like you were a new person. It gave you the ability to become someone else, something else. You were sexual and aggressive, dominant and fearsome. It was just what Odile needed, and you delivered.

Except, when you put the mask on tonight, you caught a glimpse of him from backstage. He was sitting in the box that you had bought for your brother, and one of the spotlights’ films had lit his cheek. It was a soft light, but it was enough. As you took your first steps on stage, you couldn’t help but look up towards him, and the flash of hunger in his eyes was still there. So, you decided to give him your animalistic side.

You’d never danced the way you danced that night. The crowd was roaring, and your costar whispered to you,

“Go off, queen. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, lying through your teeth.

By the time you left the stage, daring to look back over your shoulder, Simon hadn’t taken his eyes off of you for one moment, and his nostrils flared, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself from your display.

Before you knew it, the curtains closed, and you were bowing, dodging thrown roses and teddy bears, elegantly taking your leave. Your body was dripping sweat, and you rushed over to your bag, scarfing down some power gels and cracking open a nutrition bar, hurrying to bring your body back to normal after its ordeal. You’d be expected to pose for some VIP photos in just a few minutes, so you touched up your makeup, but there was only so much you could do.

“My star!” Your director burst through the back door, “Beautiful! You were incredible tonight. Bring your masks. I have some people who want to meet you.”

You nodded, scooping up your masks and giving your bag to one of the other dancers to take back to the barre room.

You schmoozed for a bit, but something itched at the back of your mind. You felt like you were being watched. Then, just while you were taking a photo with someone’s eager six-year-old, you spotted him. Simon stood behind Kyle, staring at you without shame while the other men laughed and joked with a gaggle of dancers. They had swarmed them, fluttering about, insisting to be invited for drinks, and Kyle was eating it up. You didn’t care, though. There was only one thing you wanted — aside from a hot bath and your comfy bed — and that was to enjoy those things with Simon Riley, if he agreed.

“Excuse me, Madame Savoie. I’m exhausted, and my brother is in town. May I take my leave for the night?”

“Of course!” Your director beamed at you, “After that performance, you can take whatever you want.”

She laughed. Her rich friends laughed. You didn’t, but you managed a smile.

You made your way through the crowd over to Kyle and broke the news,

“Kyle, I’m not going to make it to the pub. I’m beat. I think I’ll just walk home.”

“You can’t walk home by yourself, Duckie. You live in bloody Soho.”

“I’ll be alright. I’ll just —”

“I’ll take her,” that Manc accent oozed its way through the din, and almost everyone turned to look at Simon as he offered his services.

Kyle made a face at you, his arms wrapped around two dancers, one on each side, and he shrugged,

“Alright, Duck. Tomorrow for breakfast, though. No excuses.”

You watched as your brother untangled his right arm from one of your swans, and stuck out his hand for Simon to shake. You saw Simon pause, making clear eye contact with your brother, and extending his wide, pale hand.

You weren’t exactly sure what weird sort of ritual you were witnessing, but it seemed like the two men had an entire conversation in just that short span. Then, Simon’s attention was turned fully back to you.

“C’mon, then. I just need to get my bag.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did hold the door for you, and his huge stature did help part the crowd like some sort of biblical sea, making sure you had easy access to the exits.

The barre room was a bright, white open space, and the wooden floors popped and creaked as you walked across them.

Your impromptu bodyguard followed close behind, but he paused near the door when he was presented with the huge room.

“I’d hate to meet that ballerina,” he chuckled.

You turned around, confused by his comment,

“Which one?”

“The one who hit her head on the ceiling to make them build it this bloody high.”

You looked up to where he was pointing, laughing at his odd joke,

“It’s for the piano,” you explained.

“That’s even scarier,” he grimaced, staring up at the high ceiling as if pianos would start falling from it.

You laughed harder, then, imagining a flying baby grand.

“No! No,” you caught your breath, “The sound. It helps us hear the music.”

“Ahh,” he nodded knowingly, conceding to you, “I see. That makes me feel safer.”

You knelt down and started to pack your back, changing your shoes and slipping out of your outer costume, laying the pieces out like you had been trained to do.

“So, which one do you like better?”

“Hm?” You looked up at him, and he bent his knees to squat down in front of you, plucking your white swan mask out of your bag and touching the fine silk bow with his thumb.

“Which swan?” He asked, his eyes staring at you carefully. You got the sense that your answer really mattered to him.

“Well,” you said carefully, “Every girl wants to be Odette. She’s the star. It’s her story. And she gets to fall in love with a prince. But… once you play Odile, I think you realize that there’s… well, there’s something to be said for falling in love with yourself, too.”

You smiled, grabbing your black mask by the nose and holding it up to your eyes, glaring at him to make your point.

“Same person on the inside, though,” he commented, looking down at the white mask in his hand.

You stood up, and you grabbed his hand to help him up,

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“You’re not going to find a tutu that fits me, love.”

“No tutus for you, I promise. Just… stand here. Like that. Put your hand out like this. Good.”

Once he was in position, you grabbed the white mask from him and tied it around your face, willing your sore body back into position.

“This is Odette,” you said, making your hands and feet flutter to life. You spun into his hand, letting him feel the weightlessness of your body as you moved against him, the soft silken rustle of your leotard against his huge, callused hand. Eventually, you came to rest facing away from him, your thigh brushing his hip in a long, extended arabesque. His hand never moved from your waist, and you leaned into it, letting him balance you, his palm warm against your belly through the thin fabric.

“And this…” you replaced the white mask with the black one, changing yourself for him, metamorphosing right before his eyes, “...is Odile.”

This time, you challenged him, making him feel your muscles and bones with each spin, pushing against him like a threat. You could feel his uncertainty, but he naturally steeled himself, grabbing you with more power, trying to harness your energy. But, you knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know what do to. All he could do was stand there and feel you as you moved against him, aggressive and virulent.

As Odile, your final arabesque pressed into him lustfully, translating that fiery rage, your thigh slammed flush with his body, your hips forcing his hand to grip you to keep you from pushing him backwards.

Then, you stepped away, removing the mask and doing a little bow for effect.

“I see,” he murmured, seemingly unphased. But, even though he tried to hide it, his slight adjustment in his black dress pants did not slip by you. He stalked closer to you, closing the space that you had opened. His thumb came up to rub your cheek, right at the edge of the black mask, “Does the mask help?”

You dropped your volume to match his, still catching your breath a bit from the turns,

“Yeah, it reminds me that I can be someone I’m not.”

“Or maybe you can finally be someone you are,” his thumb traced your smooth skin down to your mouth where your lipstick stains and cracked powder were surely a right mess. But, he didn’t care. He pressed the pad of his finger to your bottom lip anyway, moving so carefully and deliberately you felt like you were under his spell.

“Maybe.”

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, backing away from you, releasing you from his invisible hold.

You finished packing, and you made your way into the dark night with him, walking quickly to get out of the spitting rain. He kept his arm around you, wrapping you in his warmth, shielding you from passersby.

Your mind was racing. You had taken this stranger home with you, no questions asked. It was a risk that you just didn’t take. When was the last time you even had a bloke in your flat, much less one that you desperately wanted to snog? At least you had cleaned yesterday. It was too small of a place not to pick up at least a little bit each day. There was no room for you to be messy.

“This is me,” you jingled your keys and pointed up to the tall, modern apartment building, gleaming in glass and steel amidst the historical Soho houses and businesses.

Every floor was the same. It was all modern and white, almost sterile. You felt like you lived in a museum.

“Mm, posh,” he commented, a little disgruntled.

“Free,” you rolled your eyes, “The ballet company houses all of us here.”

“Why can’t my free accommodations ever look this good?”

You cracked open the door to your flat and let him inside. Your cat, Mustard, immediately began her figure-eight dance between his legs, her favorite hello to every person who dared enter her domain.

“What do your accommodations usually look like, then?” You asked, pouring out some kibble for the cat and hanging your bag on its hook.

“Usually a tent, sometimes a cave. They even gave us a house once, no windows in it, but hey. You win some, you lose some.”

“I worry about Kyle, you know. You lads don’t have an easy job.”

“He’ll be alright. He’s a good one.”

“I know,” you smiled softly, staring up into Simon’s eyes, then you remembered your manners, “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m alright,” he smiled back, turning his head to look around your flat.

You gave him the short tour,

“Bathroom’s in there, and here’s my bedroom slash office slash den… Only enough room for the bed, really. I’m not here very much.”

“And…” He spoke slowly, carefully, no joviality in his tone this time, “Is it alright that I’m here, love?”

He eyed you cautiously, moving toward you, towering over your small frame, his hulking shoulders curling in on you, casting dark shadows across your vision, keeping you from the light.

You peered up at him, ignoring his question,

“Do you want to shower with me? I’d fucking murder someone for a hot shower.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, bending forward so that he could press his soft lips to your mouth, kissing you as gently as you’d ever been kissed. But, you could tell, just by the way he moved his jaw, letting his tongue lazily trace your bottom lip, there was so much more fervor under his skin, waiting to be unleashed. Right now, he was Odette, on his best behavior.

But, you wanted to see his Black Swan. Where was the beast that you knew must lurk within?

He pulled away from you, smiling a bit, and you giggled softly, dragging him along by his wrist, ducking into your spacious bathroom. It was the one thing you loved about this place. There was no living room to speak of, but damn if the bathroom wasn’t perfect. The huge glass shower was enough for a party of four, and the dual shower heads made you feel like some sort of royalty. You couldn’t wait to let your muscles soak under the cascade. Maybe tall, blond and handsome could put those strong hands of his to work and rub you down.

You stood in the mirror together, looking at each other, and you started to undress. He twisted a finger under the collar of your sweater until he could feel your skin. Then, he slipped it off of your shoulder. You dropped your arm, letting it slide to the floor. Then, as slowly as he could, you watched as he writhed his finger under your leotard’s strap, pulling it down your arm. When it got to be too taut, you helped him, removing your arms and rolling the soft nylon down your aching body.

Your wig was still on, but you weren’t about to wear it to bed, so you took it off in front of him, running your fingers through your short curls, letting your close-cut fingernails scratch your scalp.

Now, as you stood in the low light of your bathroom mirror, you were naked in front of him, standing with your back to him, covering your breasts in the mirror. Simon bent his head down so he could kiss your neck, and you felt him wrap a big hand around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. His kisses felt hot, and they were deeper than before, more hungry, pressing into you with more power.

You sighed, enjoying his mouth as it worked on you, but well-aware of just how caked on the sweat and the makeup were after a show, making excuses for yourself,

“I’m sweaty,” you whispered.

“I know,” he smiled, sticking out his fat, pink tongue and licking his way up to your ear, just to make his point.

He wrapped his arms around you, retreating for a moment, looking at you in the mirror. Then, when he saw you covering yourself, he gently pushed your arms away, making you reveal your bare breasts to him.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he praised you, kissing your scalp chastely.

You turned your back to the looking glass to face him, and you tangled your fingers between the buttons of his dress shirt. You weren’t in any hurry to peel him apart, but as you did, you saw more and more evidence of his hard life. His enormous muscles were inked with old tattoos, war scenes etched into his creamy flesh in black and gray. But, carved across his skin were tens of deep, jagged scars, standing as proof of the cruelty he’d endured.

You let your mouth fall to his chest, kissing him indiscriminately, licking when you wanted to, nibbling when you wanted to, giving in to your hedonism fully.

He untucked his shirt for you, peeling it off of his shoulders, and you watched as his muscles rippled and bent around his bones, stretching under his will. You worked on his belt, and he watched you take him apart, both of your heads craned down, staring at your hands as you freed him from his trousers. The zipper fell smoothly, and all that was left were his boxer briefs, underneath which hung a very girthy cock.

You touched him through the fabric, and he let out a shuddering sigh of relief.

“You’re a big man, Mr. Riley,” you teased, playing with his head through the thin fabric, meeting his gaze and finding him fully unraveled. His eyes were hooded and lustful, and it made you wonder how he liked to be touched so you could keep him like this, under your spell.

He tucked his thumbs in his pants and pulled them down, bare with you, and he held your body flush to his in a warm hug. You could feel his cock trapped between you, wet and warm on your belly, and his big hands came down to grab two handfuls of your ass, prying you apart so that the cold air of the room would hit your pussy and tell you how wet you were, enjoying the feel of your meat between his fingers.

“Good thing you’ve got a bloody big shower, love. Might actually be able to stand under the tap, me. Can’t believe it.”

You watched him step into the large glass box and turn on the stream, the heat making him sigh. You joined him, jealous of the feeling, and let your own shower head beat your muscles into submission.

You hissed in pain and he heard it, snapping his attention to you like a dog with a bone.

“What is it?”

“Sore. End of the week is hard.”

He poured some of your soap into his hand, way too much, but you didn’t correct him, and he commented as he bathed you,

“I read about it before we came, you know. Read about the story. About what you have to do to be the star. Hard work, that.”

“There are harder things,” You said in a low voice, tracing a particularly suspicious-looking wound in the shape of a bullet on his right hip.

“Not many. Turn around,” he commanded. You were pleasantly surprised how much you liked it when he took control.

Here, in the warm nest of the shower, you gave him your weakness and let him take care of you. He massaged your shoulders and your back unprompted, rubbing slick suds all over your skin, and he washed your hair. You moisturized on your own, letting him smell all of your tonics and potions, washing your face as he fondled your ass again, enjoying you fully.

You felt like time had stopped.

You washed him, letting your hands roam, caring for him as he had cared for you, and when you were both clean, you couldn’t help but linger on each other a bit. He reached between your legs and explored you for a moment, swiping his huge finger through your curls. When he found your warmth, so different from the steam of the shower, and a different wetness, too, he sighed.

“Is it alright if I stay the night?” He asked.

It surprised you. You assumed that getting naked and showering in front of a man who would be immediately boxed up and shipped back to Khandor on the next flight out would have stayed without asking. He would have assumed that his presence was his invitation.

You nodded,

“Please stay, Simon.”

He touched your breast, plucking at your nipple softly, seeming like he was uncertain despite your answer. You pried,

“Are you worried about Kyle? Did he say something —”

“No,” Simon smiled, “He knows you’re a big girl. It’s just been awhile… for me.”

“If you want to go…” You let your hands spread wide across his chest, purposely avoiding his cock, not wanting to sway him in a covinous way.

He shook his head,

“No. I just want you to be sure. I can’t… We leave again, and I can’t make promises.”

“No promises. I know what you do. I know who you are because I know who Kyle is. You aren’t misleading me here, Simon. But, if you don’t take me to bed, I might lose my bloody mind.”

The smile that spread across his face then was a true one. It couldn’t hide. It squeezed his cheeks up into his eyes and wrinkled their edges like a paper fan. His full lips pulled tight across those white teeth, his incisors long like fangs and just as sharp. And he blushed, that pale skin giving away his feelings to you.

He kissed your forehead and turned off the taps, retrieving two towels and bundling you in one, on your way back to bed, you snatched your lotion and started to put it on in a half-assed way, hurrying for his benefit.

“Hey, stealin’ my duties?”

Simon plucked the lotion out of your head and nodded to the bed. You lay down for him, waiting for what he had in store. He pumped the lotion into his hand, less this time, you noticed, and began at your thighs. His wide palms rubbed and massaged you until he had covered you, paying attention to your hands and feet, before commanding you again:

“Flip over, love.”

You gladly did, sighing and moaning shamelessly as he rubbed lotion all over your back and legs. When he got to your round, plump ass, he took more of his time.

“Watchin’ you move up there on that stage, tryin’ to seduce the bloody prince, fuck… it made me feel like you were dancing for me. The way you move… your body… I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”

“I was,” you confessed.

“What?” He stopped massaging you, putting the lotion on your table and crawling into the bed with you.

You waited until you were under the covers with your head firmly planted on his chest before admitting it to him,

“I was dancing for you tonight. When I saw you with my brother… you were all I could think about. I could see you in the box, when I was Odile, and I wanted you to look at me.”

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

You weren’t sure who kissed who, but you were now trapped within each other, sucking at each others’ mouths, moaning and writhing in each others’ arms. Snogging like you were dying.

His cock was already hard, but you felt its smooth, silky body pressing and throbbing against your belly as he held you close, hungry for your wet hole, eager to be the one to fill it.

You let your hand fall between you, jerking him off, rubbing slick circles around his head until he had to break your kiss to cry out for you. You raised your leg over his hip and moved to put him inside you, but he shook his head and started chanting in short, breathless whispers,

“Wait, wait, wait…”

Then, he disappeared, leaving you at the top of the duvet alone, licking and sucking his way down your body until he reached your pussy. As he began to eat you, he also spread you apart. You’d never felt so exposed before, but he wanted to lick your petals, slurping them into his mouth like the lobes of a sweet orange, one by one devouring you in your sensitive state.

Your hands scratched at his scalp, which he seemed to enjoy. You watched his eyes flutter with pleasure after a particularly vigorous passthrough.

“Taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that come, baby,” he growled, gently circling your entrance with two thick fingers before fitting them into you with a wet, slick sound.

“Oh!” You called out, staring down at him as he planted his mouth over your clit, suckling at its swollen body, razing your nerves to ashes.

It didn’t take long before he had you coming for him, and when he felt you tense up beneath his hands, that true smile was back. He sat up on his knees and helped you come back down, slowing his movements just enough to calm your breathing, but keeping you precariously balanced on the edge where he wanted you.

“Turn over on your belly, love.”

For some reason, it made you feel incredibly vulnerable to have him behind you, and your body shivered from the tension. He noticed, and he lay himself over you, soothing you, whispering right into your ear,

“I’ve got you, love. You wanna stop, we’ll stop. No problem. That clear?”

You nodded your head, and he met your eyes, making damn sure. Then, satisfied, you heard him digging around in his discarded dress pants, the crinkle of the foil condom, and then the slick roll of the barrier slipping over his head.

“Thank fuck for condoms,” he laughed, “Might give me a chance to last more than a few minutes in this pretty fuckin’ cunt.”

You laughed with him, shrugging,

“You come, we try again. I’m not bothered.”

“Mm,” he nuzzled your ear, laying his body over yours and letting you feel his weight. His cockhead was tickling your entrance, but he didn’t go any further, saying, “This must be my white swan I have beneath me. Sweet on me, huh?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded, reeling from the sensation of his tip rolling around your hole’s entrance, desperately grinding for more.

“What would the black swan say to me, huh?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, meeting his eyes, and just like you had in the barre room, you showed him your other side. When he saw the flash in your eyes of your wildness, he knew he’d gotten his wish. You shoved your hips down, spearing yourself onto him before he was ready for you, making him gasp as your pussy slaked over the first few inches of his cock.

“Give me your cock, Simon.”

He recovered, biting his lip and thrusting into you, stuffing himself inside of you deeper and deeper,

“There she is. My girl…”

The power that he used to fuck you was beyond anything that any other man had dared give you. You didn’t know this was a possibility. Your whole body was trapped beneath him, being kissed and crushed and fucked into a wet, submissive mess. His arms were planted beside you, pinning you in, and honestly, you had never felt so safe.

You could smell your coconut body wash on him, mixing with whatever it was that made him a man, musky and dark, a hint of his Camel Blues. You wanted to bathe in him, just as he had washed you with his hands. Instead of soap, you wanted it to be him, smearing himself all over you, caking you in his essence.

“Fuck, you are so tight. Squeezin’ me. Fuck…”

He was off of you in a flash, and before you knew it, he’d flipped you over. He spread open your legs and played with you for a moment, trying to stop himself from coming. His cock was in his other hand like a vice, and you watched him struggle with no small sense of pride.

You decided it was your turn to lead this dance, and you sat up, kissing him full on the mouth, letting your tongue loll against his, sensuous and warm. Then, you wrapped your knees around him and shoved him back toward the foot of the bed, riding him down. When you caught your balance, you reached behind you to feed him into your pussy again, pressing into him with your weight.

“Wait! Oh, fuckin’ hell.”

Simon’s hands went to your hips and then immediately to cover his mouth, stopping himself from gasping from the sensation. You ignored him, bucking against his huge cock, discovering you could take him even deeper. As you began to grind against him, you let your hands play in your folds, vibrating your clit and driving yourself wild. Your other hand went to his balls, rolling them gently in your hands behind your back.

“Ungh… You are gonna make me come, love.”

As soon as you heard his confession, you released him from your hand and paused at the top of your thrust, hovering on his tip in midair, teasing him ruthlessly.

“Oh… you —” Simon never finished his sentence because he grabbed you around your hips and dropped you back to the bed, prowling over you and huffing like a stuck bull. You were laughing in gasping breaths from the shock of his strength, and you almost missed the moment when he began to press his swollen rod back inside of you, spearing you mercilessly.

You whimpered, wrapping your hands around his neck like a lifeline.

“Mmm,” he purred proudly, “She needs me, now. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, letting him kiss you languidly with soft, pliant lips.

“Needs me like this, huh? Tell me.”

“I need you, Si—”

“Tell. Me.”

“I need you so bad! Please, please… fuck me like this. Fuck —”

He covered your mouth with his own and chased down your orgasm like a thief, watching as your eyes got wide, pulling away so he could hear you keen.

“Yes, yes, yes…” He chanted in your face, not moving away for a second, unwilling to miss even one moment of it.

“Simon…” You whined, feeling the shock of your release and the afterburn of your pleasure as it flooded through your core, messy and salacious.

“Feel so good, baby,” he was barely speaking above a whisper, sounding like he was drunk, struggling to keep his rhythm.

“You gonna come in me?”

Hope and bliss flashed across his face, and he kissed you again, pressing his nose right beside your nose and muttering into your mouth,

“Fuck yes, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

As he came, he held his breath, locked, frozen in time, his eyes wrenched shut and his mouth wide open in a silent scream. You held his head in your arms, keeping him close to you, keeping him safe like he had kept you.

When he finally took a breath, it was ragged and gravelly. He panted like a tired hound, sucking in air and leaning against you to recover. For a while, you just lay together, his big body draped over yours, healing in you, using your wet come as a salve.

Then, he slipped away, leaving you bereft at the loss.

He pulled you into his arms, making sure you were covered and warm in your bed, finding your eyes and kissing your cheek, wordlessly thanking you for what he had done to you.

“Do you want me to go?” He whispered, his eyes closed as if he couldn’t face the answer.

“Please, stay. Don’t leave me, Simon. Not yet.”

“C’mere,” he sighed, curling his body around yours, securing you in his arms, breathing with you until you both tumbled into a deep, dark sleep.

AO3 Link

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #call of duty #gpdrecs #gpd #gpdrecs writing challenge #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghostchallenge

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perksofbeingpoet · 7 months ago

Text

a small thing that is promised to calm todd down when everything gets too overwhelming is playing with or brushing his hair.

which, unfortunately, is way too intimate a thing to ask his friends for- they help as good as they can already, trying to be quieter when todd gets that very intense look, passing him food that isn't too spicy or salty, talking loudly when a teacher is looking for people to get up front to the board, so that they'll gleefully pick the loudmouth.

but this is different; involves a kind of gentleness, of vulnerability that todd can't ask for. it means baring the parts of him that are most sensitive, revealing he's a baby bird in thunderstorms, asking for whispers and warmth in a place that doesn't offer these things.

neil still finds out.

which shouldn't come as a surprise to todd - neil has a way of catching him where he's most vulnerable, closing his palms around him as if he was a ladybug in a child's hand. careful now, don't hurt it. i'll keep it safe. i'll carry it off the pavement, put it where the grass sprouts in may-coloured strands.

so neil finds out, when they're laying on todd's bed (better sun in the evening), neil reading the script of his newest play, todd just breathing, trying to match the tides of neil's heartbeat below him, trying to slow down his own. and neil isn't sure what happens, because to his mind, nothing's changed, but suddenly todd's eyes have that frozen panic in them.

neil thinks he can feel the way todd's drowning in his own thoughts, and todd's thoughts tend to be quicksand in these moments. it's desparation, in the end, that gets neil to bury his left hand in todd's hair, carefully weaving his fingers through the sandy strands. he knows it's silly, but the urge to physically wipe the thoughts off todd's head is what makes him lightly trace his nails across the other's scalp, gentle, always so gentle.

and todd melts.

his breathing slows, and suddenly he's back, and neil's heart flutters like a dragonfly drying off its wings. he can help. not much, not always, but he can try.

he soon discovers that it helps after showers, too - todd is embarrassed enough to snap at him the first time, the first time neil's heard him rashly angry, but it only takes todd a week to come back and apologise, to say neil was right, but could he not make a big deal out of it. (and neil perry, king of theatrics, doesn't)

because showers can be overwhelming in these times, when todd's mind is a bridge wobbling on brittle foundations- standing there all wet, knowing he'll need to get out the stall, and dry off, and get his clothes and put them on and they'll still stick to him a bit and his toes will stay wet because the floor is cold, and- it's too much.

but neil can brush his hair, still wet and darker than usual, and the scratch of it along his scalp grounds him, puts his thoughts on a leash. neil will hum a song, and todd will ache with the sweet cruelty of love, the stinging tenderness of vulnerability.

and when todd gets into bed in exam season, and the sheets are fluffy and full of fresh air, smelling of spring and melancholy, he breathes in deeply through his nose. and neil walks over to him for a second before going to his own bed, three extra steps that make todd close his eyes and bury his face in the pillow.

and he runs a hand through todd's hair, and it feels like warm notes on a cello. like autumn sun falling through tall tree trunks, like a mug of cocoa, like a childhood kitchen table. his fingers trace lines across todd's scalp, reminiscent of the contrails of the plane that divides the sky three years later, like neil is already dreaming of it.

todd breathes and smiles.

good night, little poet <3

(i put this on ao3 even though it's ridiculously short, so you guys know what that means- the time of poet writing dps fanfiction has started, and the next ones are gonna be way longer)

#dead poets society #dps fandom #dead poets headcanons #dps fanfiction #dead poets fanfic #dead poets society fandom #neil perry #todd anderson #anderperry #neil and todd

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bobbin-buckley · 10 months ago

Text

Wednesday Addams Headcanons

Wednesday Addams x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Fluff and Smut (aged up!!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SFW

-When you both met Wednesday hated you she only disliked you because you were better than her at lots of things

-She didn’t actually really hate you she was just mad because she actually loved you

-All she would do is ignore you when she discovered these feelings. Enid told her that she should put on her big girl pants and ask you out

-Wednesday was always blaming you for this feeling, it wasn’t partially your fault I mean you’re so goddamn pretty

-She finally accepted this feeling and asked you out on a coffee date at WeatherVane. It went nicer than Wednesday expected, you exchanged numbers (you had to help her), gave her a kiss on the cheek and planned another date

-Sooner or later you asked Wednesday to be your girlfriend and how you really liked her

“The feeling’s mutual” she’d say

-After not even a few months of dating Wednesday was pretty protective of you

-If a guy were to flirt with you she’d give them a death glare causing them to flee

-You didn’t mind the Over-Protective-Wednesday-Addams it was honestly sweet that she cared for you so much, even if she wouldn’t show it physically

-Wednesday wasn’t much for physical touch, she was rather more for words. Eventually she adjusted to some touching like pinky holding, hugs, kisses on your knuckles, a kiss on her cheek or forehead

-some physical touch is always behind doors, Wednesday hates pda. The closes thing to pda you’ll get is her pinky holding under a table. It’s quite cute infact

-Wednesday was never for pet names but she’ll call you “Cara Mia” “Mi Amor” “Mon Tresor” “mea vita” in Spanish, French or Latin

-Enid tended to tease Wednesday about you, how she was so head over heels for you without even realizing it

-You guys eventually get a room if your own together

-Fencing matches, watching/listening to her play cello, hearing her type on her type writer, going to the raven with her, investigating together, she offers to grave dig with you and you actually enjoy it

-You’ll give her ideas for her writing and sometimes she’ll write them in

NSFW (Everyone is Aged up)

-More dom for sure, if you’d fight her over it she wouldn’t be slow thats for sure

-Honestly most times you guys have sex she prefers it vanilla, unless she’s feeling kinky and mad then roughness will come in

-Sex at night, never usually during the day because she’s worried Thornhill or Enid will walk in

-She’s moderately quiet there’ll be groans and whimpers from her, while as you…she wants to hear you scream but in the environment you’re in it won’t work out

-Enid almost walking in on you guys

-She’d definitely do knife play and pain play, she won’t be crazy about it like actually stab you. She doesn’t wanna hurt you too much. (So she’s still soft even during intimate)

-probably owns a strap, a black strap ina box under her bed (uses it once in a while)

-Will throw thing out of the room and will lock him in a drawer if he ever attempts to spy

-She really tries to pleasure you, she’s never done nor thought about having sex with someone (obviously this is aged up)

-She loves pleasuring you, even if she likes to make you hold your orgasm or pulls away before you cum but other than that she likes to please you well

-I’d say she is the type to do queening (face sitting) she loves having you sit on her face, like actually sit she likes the thrill of not being able to breath while tongue fucking you

-She is soft during sex, making sure your okay if she does something different or if she accidentally hurts you

“This okay?”

“Okay…I’m going to put it in Amor”

“Shit, are you alright?” “Wednesday Addams apologizing? No way” “shut up…but seriously”

-Whenever you’re top (rare) she wants you to be rough with her she loves pain. You are always unsure about it but she claims she’s fine

-Aftercare is a meh for her. She’ll make you a bath but you’re kinda on your own from there (depending on how you feel) like if she went rough and you’re super tired and can’t walk she’ll help you to the bathroom but otherwise ur good

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where are my little gays at?

Sorry for a late upload I’ve been going through something and I broke up with my gf so it’s been hard for me to find motivation but I’m alive! I think?

Anyways, I’m starting something for Tara rn I think you guys will like it cause I love it

But have a good day/night! 😃

#wednesday addams #wednesday addams x reader #enid sinclair #wednesday x enid #wednesday series #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega

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crguang · 8 months ago

Text

somethin’ bout those tears of yours… how does it feel to be adored?

Shrieks or symphony? They’re all the same to her. However, your cries will always sound better than any orchestra.

warnings: smut, finger fucking, kafka eating pussy like i know she can, afab!reader, dom!kafka (duh), dacryphilia (thats the whole point of this if im honest)

wc: 3,2K

A/N: wow guys um. this didn’t go as planned but im not really complaining, i never write smut so i dont know whats going on but enjoy nonetheless

As eloquent as Kafka is, she can’t seem to be able to put into words why the sight of your shiny eyes and pouty lips moves her so.

It’s not so much a feeling of pity they rouse as a sort of pleasure that courses through her like rain seeping into clothes. It’s a soft delight, the kind she recognizes as when she closes her eyes and lets the high notes of a violin fill her senses. Emotion twisting your features is like a carefully building crescendo— first come the furrowed brows, then the scrunch of your pretty nose and the tremble in your lips, and finally, big, fat glassy tears running along your full cheeks. The melody reaches its climax as your eyes meet hers, the dulcet tones of your poorly contained cries bringing forth something Kafka’s never found in another person. It’s a sadistic sort of pleasure to experience, perhaps, not that she’d ever care about the gaps in her morality.

She particularly enjoys the gloss in your gaze when she’s between your slick thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Kafka sometimes rolls her eyes at how easily you are taken by emotion—she’s almost certain it’s a facade, it has to be— and thinks you’re working in the wrong business, but she can’t complain when you’re such a pretty crier. Like a loyal dog, she makes your wants happen regardless of whether you find the courage to utter them. Your jaw clenches in anger after a rude interaction with a stranger, and Kafka threatens him in an alley. Her finger’s always been loose on the trigger. Your hand trails down her bicep in that purposeful way that lets her know you want her, and Kafka buries her nose in your cunt until tears cloud your vision and you’re firmly pulling her mouth away with a hand in her hair. She takes in a breath, lips parted and coated in arousal, as she revels in the way your chest stutters and your wet eyelashes flutter. You’re at your prettiest like this; bare, sweaty, pliable under her steady hands. What a sight it makes.

Kafka sighs lustfully, a palm against her cheek as she lets the thoughts dissipate. You haven’t noticed her stare yet, too preoccupied by your argument with Silver Wolf to spare her a glance. She doesn’t care to listen in and instead waits until the heated debate inevitably has you stomping towards her with an irritated pout. Your arms cross over your chest and the crease between your brows deepens when you plant yourself in front of her.

“This girl will argue over anything.”

Kafka’s usual smile doesn’t faze you, nor does the way her fingertips linger on your skin when she pushes strands of hair out of your face. She only hums in acknowledgment. Your nose bridge is crinkled in frustration, as is the corner of your eyes, and it’s almost enough to hear the familiar symphony that sounds between her ears. If Kafka were to psychoanalyze her every thought, she’d have wondered if witnessing strong emotional responses fascinates her because she doesn’t have any. People attract what they lack, do they not? It would explain the shiver that caresses her spine when she’s face to face with a pleading victim. Her pupils grow twice in size to take in as much of the scene as possible, and she lets violins and cellos reach their crescendo in her mind until death descends and everything stops. The following silence brings satisfaction, a fitting end to a beautiful symphony.

Silver Wolf passes by the two of you with her eyes glued to her phone screen and mutters a mocking comment she intends for you to hear. You grit your teeth. The whole thing’s pretty childish and certainly unserious, but you both have strong opinions on what constitutes a good video game, apparently.

“She likes to rile you up,” Kafka grips your chin with three fingers and turns you back toward her. “Don’t mind her.”

“I’m not letting myself be bullied by a girl who can’t reach the highest cupboard without a chair,” you say the last part loud enough for Silver Wolf to give you the middle finger as she walks away.

With the source of your frustration gone, your muscles relax bit by bit until you’re sighing and running a hand down your face.

“I need some air.”

Kafka fetches your coat.

You’ve forgotten the entire ordeal when you and Kafka step outside of a clothing store, a spring in your step that appeared after the two of you spent half an hour looking at leather jackets. You ended up buying one for yourself after Kafka’s extensive comments and suggestions. The paper bag sways as you walk through the busy streets of an unfamiliar city. You’ve never been to this planet before, everything was a sight you wished you could stop and admire for more than a few minutes but being a Stellaron Hunter didn’t come with vacations. You were here on a job and would be leaving in two days, according to Elio’s script. The first part is done, the second takes place tomorrow, which allows you a moment of reprieve to simply wander around this strange city. Your sense of orientation and perception is excellent but you let Kafka lead you through bustling markets and tight alleys to get back to the base. She doesn’t say it but you know this wide detour is a way for you to take in as much of the city as you can, so you pretend not to see the man hurriedly making his way towards you and let him push you closer to her in order to grab her hand, effectively steadying you. Neither of you lets go the whole walk home.

The place is quiet when you make it back two hours later. Silver Wolf is probably curled up in a corner with a game and the others are nowhere to be seen. You waste no time in pulling out the jacket and discarding the bag once in the living area, taking off your current coat to shrug the new one on. Kafka takes a seat on a couch, one leg over the other, her chin in the palm of her hand as she watches you.

You carefully adjust the collar and tug on the jacket so it fits perfectly, then turn towards her.

“So? Does it look as good on me as you said it would?”

The corner of Kafka’s mouth lifts as she replies, “Hm… Swirl a little for me.”

You turn a few times, allowing her to see every angle. You zip it all the way up but decide you like the look better when the jacket is open. You even take some steps to and fro, delighting in the way Kafka’s usually blank gaze diligently follows your movements.

“Yes,” she finally says after a moment, “you definitely make it work.”

“Yeah? You’d pick me up from a bar?”

There’s a playful tilt to your voice when the question leaves your lips. Kafka’s smile widens. Her eyes lazily trail down your figure, then back up to your face. She leans back into the couch and tilts her head slightly to the side, fixing you with a level stare.

“I would.”

You hum in thought as you step close enough to settle on her lap, knees on each side of her hips. Kafka doesn’t move when your hands clasp around her neck. You see the amused twitch of her lips, though.

“Do you think I’d look super mysterious so you’d approach me to see what my deal is?”

“No. You’re too expressive to be mysterious.”

That answer makes your brows furrow and your nostrils flare.

“Just like that,” Kafka teases.

You roll your eyes. “So you’d only approach me for my looks? How romantic of you.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic. But,” a gloved hand sneaks under your shirt, fingers splayed out over the expanse of your back as they trace the bones of your spinal cord, “I could show you a very good time.”

“Oh, really?” You watch her peach lips when she speaks, absentmindedly leaning closer.

She hums in agreement. Her free hand comes to rest on your waist while the other leisurely wanders up and down your back. Her gloves are thin and the fabric feels expensive against your bare skin. You don’t notice how close you’ve gotten until you look up to see Kafka’s lidded eyes fixed on yours. A shiver runs through you when the pad of her fingers reaches your nape.

“You’d leave with me, wouldn’t you?” She asks with a low drawl to her words.

Kafka’s pleasure in asking questions she already knows the answers to is lost on you. She revels in making you admit things you’d otherwise keep to yourself in an attempt to fluster you, and loves watching you fight with yourself while thinking of a response. Surprising her is no easy feat but is always a treat.

“Maybe.” You say simply.

“Maybe? I’m offended.”

“You’ll live.”

“Hm. Perhaps I should be more convincing, then.”

Her chin tilts upwards and your eyes close to await a kiss that never comes. You feel Kafka’s steady breath on your lips for a moment before she leans back and raises an amused eyebrow at you. There’s a crease between your brows when you meet her teasing gaze.

“What? Were you expecting something?”

You decide to play her game and jut out your bottom lip in a petulant pout. Her lenses don’t hide the way her eyes catch the movement.

“Are you saying you’re not going to kiss me?” You whine a little, pulling her closer by the back of her neck.

The hand that was on your waist lifts to take hold of your chin. Kafka swipes her thumb over your bottom lip.

“Is that what you want?”

The cocky smile painting her face annoys you, but you know that she’ll give you what you want. She always gives you what you want. You nod, and as your lashes flutter you can tell the exact moment she realizes your submission is an act. A low chuckle leaves her, the hand on your back trails up to close around your nape in a forceful grip, and she harshly pulls you to her until your mouth crashes on hers. It’s a rough and hurried kiss; you feel her tongue push past your lips as you try to match her pace. Kafka keeps you where you are with only a hand and forces you to follow her lead, a clear reminder of who’s in charge between the two of you. Your guts tighten as she kisses you long enough that you have to exhale sharply through your nose to avoid getting dizzy. Her tongue explores your mouth like it already knows where everything is and swirls around yours in a way that has you arching against her.

You recognize the look in Kafka’s eyes when she suddenly pulls away, bottom lip shining with saliva. You’re sure she can feel your heartbeat sending ripples through your chest with how close it is to hers. An unapologetic smile makes its way onto your face. You take great pleasure in knowing she’ll make you regret your blatant manipulation.

Frustration builds inside you at the same unhurried pace as Kafka’s single digit plunging into your cunt. Her lips ignore your clit as they plant wet kisses to your slick folds, her tongue occasionally dipping between them with strokes far too light for your liking. It’s been half an hour and Kafka’s still between your thighs, savoring the taste of your arousal with no care for your release. Her gloved finger feels good against your walls and the wet sounds it makes as she thrusts it inside you only turns you on more, but it’s not nearly enough to make you come. Your wrists tug on their restraints— the glowing pink silk keeps them above your head on the mattress, unable to move. You tilt your head to the ceiling and groan for the hundredth time.

“Kafka, come on…” Your whine is real this time as you look down at her figure between your legs.

Kafka only hums over your twitching clit, then deserts it completely and raises her head to meet your eyes. Arousal stains her mouth, giving it a pretty sheen like the one on her favorite coat. Her finger opts for a massage and rubs your clenching walls as your lips part to let out another pained whine. Kafka watches the way your hips greedily chase your release, bucking towards her appreciative mouth.

A breathy moan breaks your pout when her tongue licks a long stripe up your slit. It’s warm and wet against you, and it sends pleasant shivers down your spine every time it makes contact with your needy cunt. Kafka takes her time tasting you and it’s in moments like these where you curse her patience. She has no issue working you up for hours because she knows the end results will be satisfactory, so she turns a deaf ear to your complaints and pleas. There’s a coil in your belly begging to burst and you can’t do anything but try to get Kafka to care.

“Please? Give me more…”

Kafka’s lips abandon your folds with a wet sound. She sighs exaggeratingly and adjusts herself between your thighs so she’s kneeling, then holds you down with a hand on your hip.

“So noisy,” she says, a glint in the depths of her eyes that you’re not sure you like. “Don’t make me shut you up.”

“Don’t be mean.” You groan in frustration when her finger completely stops moving inside you. “Come on.”

“Mean?” Kafka repeats, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “Fine.”

She plunges three fingers inside your waiting cunt at once, hard and fast, and the sudden intrusion has you choking out a surprised moan.

“W—Wait—“

You don’t have time to adjust to the stretch, she doesn’t let you. The next breath gets caught in your throat as her fingers drive inside you with a speed you’re not accustomed to, effectively shutting you up. She brings her other hand to press rough circles on your clit, forcing the sensations to overwhelm you completely. Your hips stutter. It feels good beyond the initial shock, great, and you’re still huffing out short gasps while you eagerly take in her digits. Your vision blurs at the edges. You can still make out Kafka’s intense gaze on your face, drinking in your expression like the sight alone could make her come.

Once you get used to the rhythm, moving against her hand and sighing in relief, Kafka stops entirely. You struggle to let out a pained noise as her fingers leave your cunt at once before you even have time to beg.

“No,” you whine, “please…”

You’re getting irritated and desperate, the feeling curls around your throat and threatens to spill in an embarrassing sob. You swallow it as Kafka slips two fingers past her lips. She suckles on them while you try to control your breathing, taking longer breaths and willing your heart to slow down lest it bursts. The digits come out wet with a mix of saliva and arousal. She spreads them apart to see the sticky string that connects them, before bringing them down to smear it over your sex in a teasing manner.

You exhale sharply when her thumb swipes over your clit a few times, not enough to build your orgasm back up despite the pleasure it brings. You tug on your restraints a second time and feel humiliated when Kafka only watches you with lidded eyes and a happy smile. You know what she’s after, what she wants from you. It’s the only way you can get her to fuck you like she means it, so you take another deep, shaky breath and keep quiet.

“Oh…?” Kafka’s middle finger circles your entrance when she witnesses your resolve. She doesn’t say another word, simply pushes it inside in slow thrusts.

You bite into the flesh of your cheek as her thumb massages the base of your clit then teases the tip. Your chest heaves but you’re determined not to make a sound. She masturbates you the way she wants to; circles your pulsing clit, slides a forefinger between your slick folds, watches the way her middle one disappears inside your cunt as if swallowed. You take it like she wants you to, also, because she’s the only one who can push you over the edge. When you least expect it, Kafka thrusts three fingers inside you at the same pace as earlier, knocking the wind out of you until you’re a moaning mess. With every sharp thrust and the pressure on your clit, you get closer to your release. Then she stops, drastically slows down to a mere massage that has your nose scrunching up and your lips trembling. A lump forms in your throat after she denies you for the third time.

She plays you like a string instrument, denies you relief she knows you crave, until your brows twist in that pretty, familiar way and she hears the bright, crisp tones of a melody meant for her ears only. Her lips part and the pupils beneath her lenses swallow the pink of her irises. She stills, muscles taut, senses attuned to every crease of your skin and quiver of your features. You take in a shuddering breath through your mouth, your eyes screwed shut in frustration and need and finally, you cry. Fat tears spill from the corner of your eyes and slide down your skin into your ears. Kafka’s reaction is instant. Her fingers drill into you, fast, rough, unrelenting. She moves to hover over you as your orgasm builds in your belly and reverently kisses your tears as they escape your eyes. Her mouth is gentle while her fingers are not; there’s a distinct ringing inside her head when the sound of your whimpers hits her ears and the salt of your tears coats her lips. It’s as she feels your cunt squeeze tight around her fingers while she softly shushes you that Kafka realizes something else.

You come with a broken cry, pleasure coursing through your body like a sudden shock as the coil in your stomach finally bursts. Kafka tears herself away from your glistening face to watch how you gush over her fingers and ruin the sheets under you. The sticky mess makes her own cunt clench, she particularly enjoys how messy things can get during sex. Her silk glove is positively dirty, the material gleams in the light and is thick with your arousal when she takes her fingers out of you.

You’re coming down from your high with your nose buried in Kafka’s neck, and occasional sniffles can be heard as her cleanest hand strokes your hair. This feeling she’s become familiar with suddenly has a name, it swirls around her ribs and snakes under the sturdy walls of her heart. Kafka doesn’t need to be eloquent to know that she adores you. She adores you especially when she makes you cry because she can soothe it all away afterwards.

#honkai star rail #hsr kafka #kafka smut #kafka x reader #kafka x you #hsr x reader #hsr smut #dom!hsr #honkai star rail smut #fem!reader #dom!kafka #hsr fanfic #hsr x you

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joshdonnas · 3 months ago

Note

do you have any j/d fic recs? :D

Absolutely!! This fandom is really blessed with some of the best writers I've seen, so there's a lot of really good content out there to read, but I'll list some of my favorites under the cut ☺️

FAVORITE AUTHORS 💛

I thought I'd start by listing some of my authors, I’ll also be listing some of my personal favorite fics from theirs down bellow, but any of their works are totally worth the read:

FAVORITE FICS (in no particular order) 💛

running, by andyoureturntome (work in progress, rated M): "Matt Santos is running for president. Josh and Donna are just running away. Augmented canon for seasons six and seven. Ventures into AU territory from 6x18 on." (when I say this is one of my favorite fics ever you have no idea how much I mean it. it’s honestly so good, a must read in my opinion. it’s still in progress, and it’s not updated very frequently , but it’s still so so worth it (here’s to hoping we’ll get a next chapter soon!!).

the other side of the door, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated M): "Donna wanders out of the bathroom, baffled by how late it is for the hundredth night in a row, and she drapes her coat over a chair before moving to plug in her cell phone. The blinking light catches her attention, and she flips it open. One missed call. From Josh. Perfect. Post-ep for 7x13: The Cold." (I honestly read this one every time I watch the cold)

say you’ll never let them tear us apart, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "what would it be like in the santos era for josh and donna to get media coverage as a couple?"

love grows (where my donnatella goes), by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "the first year of the santos administration in four parts"

how i love the view when i'm beside you, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Josh and Donna on Valentine's Day; Chiefs of Staff era J/D"

cutting me open then healing me fine, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna are in the press room when it gets shot at, and the trajectory of a bullet changes the trajectory of their lives. Evidence of Things Not Seen AU."

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

even cnn is wrong, sometimes, by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "She snakes her hand between them, high instead of low, wrapping it around his bowtie. Starts to pull. And it’s this that snaps him out of it. Because Josh Lyman isn’t a press secretary and he isn’t a communications director and he isn’t Sam or Toby and he sure as hell isn’t Will, but he’s spent enough time around enough writers to appreciate the art of analogy (at the end of the night you wanna be able to pull it open like tony bennett), to recognize symmetry (donna? my tie’s falling apart), to understand that codas don’t exist merely in cello suites or stump speeches; that life makes space for sartorial bookends, too. Like bowties being tied, then untied." (utterly obsessed with the way this author writes)

gather ye rosebuds, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "A one and done smutshot, canon-divergent from 20 Hours in LA, in which Josh realizes where his rosebuds are and goes back to his hotel room to gather them."

we've been living on a fault line, by sam_writes_fics (finished, rated T): "6x02: Josh spends five days at Camp David, and every night all he thinks about is Donna."

burning slowly, my one and only, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated T): "I can't stop thinking about you."

sacred new beginnings, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): " But now, he doesn’t need her anymore – or he shouldn’t, anyway. So she’ll go back to her apartment, and he’ll go back to work, and things will go back to normal, whatever the hell that means. There’s something about that idea that makes his stomach churn."

an act of charity, by thatTWWgirl (finished, rated T): "A date with the White House Deputy Chief of Staff is put up for auction at the First Lady's fundraiser, and he's not too happy about it."

domestic days, by spooky_spacegirl (finished, rated G): "One day Josh and Donna look around and realize that, somewhere along the line, they have slipped into something that can only be described as Domesticated. One-Shot collection. Post-Canon." (so so so cute, never fails to bring a smile to my face)

this is the wonder (that's keeping the stars apart), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (work in progress, rated T): "A soulmate AU".

I want It all or nothing, no more in between, by scarmophogoghs (finished, rated E): "Want to go to Hawai'i? With me? Please?” (huuuge Hawaii fit we all cheered)

stuck with nowhere to go, by littlefoolswritings (finished, rated E): "what if it was only Josh and Donna who'd been left behind by the motorcade? just the two of them?)" (I love this one my god)

a pathological avoidance thing, by yanak324 (finished, rated M): "Josh isn’t sure what to make of the lack of surprise on the President-elect’s face when he explains why he’s taking time off. He has bigger fish to fry though." (this one is from Josh's POV, and this one is from Donna's!)

when a woman loves a man (who loves a woman), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (finished, rated M): "“You’re sensitive. It’s sweet.” She bites back a smile at the image she’s evoked. Everyone thinks they know the real Josh Lyman. Bartlet’s bulldog, political wunderkind, the man behind Washington’s curtain. But they don’t know him like this. She brushes a sweaty tangle of hair from his forehead and pretends not to notice when he leans into her touch. No, this side of him is reserved just for her. His mouth opens in surprise, voice pitching up a notch, “I am n—” “Your system,” she amends. “Your system is sensitive.”"

of the united states, by violet_storms (finished, rated G): "Fifty states, fifty sentences, fifty snapshots of Josh and Donna falling in love on the campaign trail."

on the line, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated G): "Josh and Donna and a pathological inability to hang up the phone."

you can run (but only so far), by swancharmings (finished, rated M): "The room is quaint, if a bit tacky, one sad sprig of holly greeting them at the door. A fine representation of how she feels this Christmas."

love is the only thing, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "The Moss-Lyman girls read Little Women; Josh has a lot of feelings."

it was like autumn, looking at her, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "His eyelids flutter open, gentler than usual. Blearily, he catches the alarm clock blinking a red 7:48 a.m. If this were five years ago, he would already be on his third cup of coffee. If this were five months ago, he never would have made it to bed in the first place. But it’s now—and he wraps his arm tighter around Donna’s waist."

it's paradise as long as I'm with you, by thotsandfeelings (finished, rated E): "Hawaii."

only bought this dress so you could take it off, by hanyolo (finished, rated M): "josh has a thing for donna in red (as he should)"

nothing that i wouldn't do (to make you feel my love), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Josh re-arranges his priorities. A Gaza hospital fix-it fic." (I'm always thinking about this one)

hell was the journey but it brought me heaven, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "On the drive, it starts to hit him. Leah was born on the anniversary of the Rosslyn shooting. What would this mean for him? Leah deserved a father who wouldn’t be absolutely miserable on his daughter’s birthday every year. Of course, he’d love to think that her birth could erase all of the negative feelings he’s ever had toward this day, that it could make all of the anxiety and trauma melt away. But if he couldn’t pull it together on the day she was born, the day she came into the world, what evidence does he have to support the idea that next year will be better? Or the year after that?"

there ain’t no need to go outside, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated E): "A lazy, rainy morning at home."

how to say I love you in subtext, by RhapsodyInProgress (finished, rated T): "If you know where to look and what to listen for, Josh and Donna have been telling each other how they feel for years. A series of vignettes on a theme."

annus primus, by hufflepuffhermione (finished, rated T): "The first year of the Santos administration, in twelve movements."

sit with you in the trenches, by swancharmings (finished, rated T): "”So you’ve got health and strength.” “And we’ll steal the rest?” “Bet your ass.” // Four ways they did exactly that."

oversight, by thefinestmuffins (finished, rated E): "War Crimes angst + hooking up" (a MUST read!!!)

can't call you a stranger (but i can't call you), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "King Corn. The elevator gets stuck."

for a long time, by onelargecoffeepls (finished, rated M): "Seven short glimpses into Donna falling in love with Josh based on "Love You For A Long Time" by Maggie Rogers."

this is how mythology is written (or: shards; scars; and whole again), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "The mosaic of Josh and Donna." (GOD this one!!!)

where the lovelight gleams, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated E): "Donna brings Josh home for Christmas and has some thoughts about him in a holiday sweater; takes place during Transition" (OBSESSED!!!)

the way old friends do, by mikaylawrites (finished, rated T): "Donna, Toby, Charlie, and the chaotic people they love."

the first 100 days, by BimadaBomily (finished, rated T): "100 moments in Josh/Donna's relationship during the first 100 days of the Santos Administration."

like we were in paris (we were somewhere else), by BeneathAnOrangeSky (work in progress, rated M): "Josh, Donna, and the worlds they transform together // or: an ode to Paris (Taylor's Version)" (again, the way this author writes??!!?!)

find ourselves in the winter snow, by swancharmings (finished, rated E): "It’s when he leads her to dance, holding her impossibly close and swaying gently through the upbeat tempo, that she truly doesn’t know what to expect of the evening."

please linger near the door, by cmbing (finished, rated T): "They’re definitely not dating when there is a presidential dinner and they don’t think to invite dates. Instead, they assume they’ll go with each other. Him in a black tux, her in a red dress. Their arms are interlocked as they enter the ballroom, and Donna even goads Josh into dancing with her. It’s friendly, nothing more. They’re just having sex. That’s it."

with one hello, I'll never be the same, by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "Josh and Donna and how 'hi' means so much more than 'hello'."

all you ever wanted from me (was sweet nothin'), by joshatella (shuuuliet) (finished, rated T): "Donna hadn’t had a nightmare about her ex since she started dating Josh, since well before she moved in with Josh after their week in Hawaii, since her life became better than it ever has been, since she became happier than she ever thought that she could be. Which is probably why she’s so shaken when the nightmare returns. Set post-series, in the Santos CoS era." (soooo sweet)

AUs 💛

i like shiny things (but i'd marry you with paper rings), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated T): "In the aftermath of the First Lady's birthday party, Josh, Donna, and the rest of the Senior Staff deal with the fallout of Donna's realization that she's no longer a U.S. Citizen. CJ, Sam, and Toby have taken it upon themselves to get this figured out, and it’s a good thing, because Josh’s brain can only present him with one solution: Marry Donna Moss."

my days now end as they began (with thoughts of you), by flowersinapril (work in progress, rated T): "A new neighbour moves in next door to Josh and she isn't happy with how loud and chaotic he is." (can't wait for the next chapter of this one!!!)

sometimes it's like you grew up down the street, by starsontheceiling (finished, rated G): "Afterwards, he’ll say he did it without thinking and all their friends will laugh at him in disbelief, and he understands why but it’s still true."

you came like a resolution (under a starry sky), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Donna, this is my brother, Josh. Josh, this is Donna. She lives across the hall"

an everlasting love, by sam_writes_fics (work in progress, rated T): "best man and maid of honor au" (has not been updated in a while but I love the idea of this pic so so much and I think about constantly)

think i missed the gun at the starting line, by ansatz (finished, rated T): "After qualifying for the Olympics in 2016, but being unable to compete due to an injury, Donna Moss is back, ready to run, and completely focused on earning a medal for Team Canada. Enter Josh Lyman, reigning Olympic champion with a heart of—you guessed it—gold. Two countries, two sports: one chance to fall in love?"

what if i told you, i feel like i know you? but we never met., by donnatellamoss (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss meets an unfamiliar face when she knocks on Sam Seaborn’s door for their English project. His name’s Josh Lyman and he’s good at bothering people."

absolutely smitten (never let you go), by JessBakesCakes (finished, rated G): "Josh feels all the air whoosh out of his lungs when he sees the teacher standing on the other side of the door. She looks at the group standing outside her door, puzzled for a moment, until her blue eyes lock with Josh’s. Her blonde hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, and pumpkin earrings dangle from her earlobes. She’s wearing a copper-colored fall sweater, adorned with leaves around the collar that match her bulletin board. Her ID badge dangles from her neck, one of those ink pens in a bright, funky color clipped to her lanyard. “Miss Moss,” CJ says. “This is Mr. Lyman from the high school."" (always thinking about this one honestly I need more!!!)

the campaign around the corner, orphan_account (finished, rated G): "Donna Moss is working for Howard Stackhouse's presidential campaign in 1998. Josh Lyman is working for Jed Bartlet's presidential campaign in 1998. The two cannot stand each other. Little do they know the person each of them is beginning to fall in love with over email is the other." (you've got mail au!!!!!!!!!!)

everybody talks (it started with a whisper), by JessBakesCakes (work in progress, rated G): "Being the White House Press Secretary, Josh realizes, is one of the toughest jobs in the administration to begin with. But with her co-workers' propensity for going viral, CJ certainly deserves a raise. The West Wing, set 20 years later." (soooo obsessed with this one MY GOD)

darling, so it goes (some things are meant to be), by mikaylawrites (finished, rated M): "The story of rising country singers Josh Lyman and Donna Moss." (so good!!!)

ballerina, you've must have seen her, by thababes (work in progress, rated G): "It was always supposed to have been Josh and Mandy. After their successful run of Carmen, it had been expected that The Washington Ballet would stick to what worked. There was never supposed to be another audition. Company principles seemingly traveling from role to role was the usual. It had been an unusual season — schedule conflicts and last minute alternate class partners — and suddenly, everything seemed to have changed. And it had all started when he had danced with her." (I think about this one constantly)

#this ended up so big and it's still missing a lot of fics I love aaaa #it brought me physical pain not listing some fics here but like I said read all the work from those authors #hope you enjoy them as much as I do anon!#fic rec #josh x donna #the west wing #request

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agaypanic · 6 months ago

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How about a rodrick x fem reader where she's a preppy girl but goes through a change and becomes a punk rock girl. And Rodrick had already noticed her before but now he's really into because they match aesthetics and she's really into rock music now

New Music (Rodrick Heffley X Jefferson!Reader)

Masterlist

Request Something!

Summary: While having to watch your and Rodrick’s younger brothers, he makes a little jab at you about how you only play boring classical music. You challenge this notion by learning a rock piece.

A/N: i could make a part two, bc by the time i was done writing i realized i kinda deviated from the request, whoops… inspired by metal lords and some of the rodrick asks i answered about rodrick x rowley’s older sister (specifically this one)

***

You were used to routines. You liked structure. Every day, you’d have breakfast with your family, take your brother Rowley to his school before going to your own, go to class, pick Rowley up, do homework and thirty minutes of practicing music, have dinner with your family and catch up with each other, then go to bed. Of course, every day differed the slightest bit, and you’d make sure you weren’t constantly overworking yourself, but that was the main gist of it.

And a few times a week, you had to watch after Rowley when he hung out with his best friend, Greg Heffley. And when his mom was forcing him to spend time with his brother, Rodrick had to watch after the boys with you.

More often than not, you’d either be at the Heffley house or a public place like a park or arcade. Very rarely though, you’d all go to your house.

Today was one of those days.

“Okay, don’t do that.” You said, trying to keep the frustration out of your tone as you snatched a fork away from Rodrick while he tried putting some food in your microwave. “My dad doesn’t even like Greg being here sometimes. He’d probably hate your whole family if you burned our house down.”

Rodrick rolled his eyes, slamming the microwave door shut and rolling his eyes. “Oh my god, relax. I would’ve stopped the microwave after the first few sparks.”

You sighed, gripping the fork tightly. You’d think that after years of knowing Rodrick, you’d be used to his behavior. “Look, Rodrick. We already have to look after two little kids; I don’t wanna have to look after three.” Then you handed Rodrick his fork and walked over to the living room, hoping the oldest Heffley could handle himself and his lunch without causing too much trouble.

Rowley and Greg were sitting on the couch, deeply invested in some video game. Your parents didn’t like you and your brother having too much screen time, but you figured another hour or so wouldn’t hurt. You looked at the clock on the wall and realized you hadn’t touched your cello all day.

“Hey, I’m gonna go practice so…” You looked back toward the kitchen, thinking of calling Rodrick over. But instead, you shook your head and looked at the boys again. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

“Wait!” Rowley paused the game, ignoring Greg’s annoyed reaction. “Can you practice in here? I like that new song you’re doing.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Sure, Row-Row. I’ll be right back.”

As you ran up to your room to fetch your things, you faintly heard Greg say, “Row-Row?”

You came back to the living room with your cello, sheet music, and music stand. As you set up, Greg looked at Rowley questioningly. “She’s really good, Greg.” He said reassuringly. “It’ll be like nice background music.” Greg just shrugged, unpausing the game and going back to playing.

You quickly became immersed in your music, somehow tuning out your little brother and his friend yelling at the TV and Rodrick loudly munching on his food as he looked at your music from over your shoulder.

He was polite enough to swallow his food and wait until you were finished playing to speak. “That was boring.” You rolled your eyes and rearranged the papers on your stand to play a new song. “You could play anything, and you decide to play music by dead guys.”

“Well, you don’t have to listen to it, Rodrick.” You hissed. “I’d ask what you think would be better, but I don’t really care for your opinion on music.”

You started playing again, hoping that it would push Rodrick away. But instead, he got closer. “I bet you wouldn’t be able to handle my type of music, goody-two-shoes.” You scowled, trying to not hit Rodrick with your bow.

“You could spend a year practicing a piece, and I would still play it better if I was sight reading.” You inched closer, making intense eye contact with the Heffley boy.

“Challenge accepted.”

***

Later that week, while picking up Rowley from school, he said that Rodrick told Greg to tell him to tell you to bring your cello to the Heffley house that afternoon. Part of you wanted to say you had more important things to do, but simultaneously, you were curious to see what Rodrick was up to.

“Black Sabbath?” You read the top of the sheet music Rodrick gave you as soon as you and Rowley walked into the Heffley house. “War Pigs… like the Pig War?”

Rodrick narrowed his eyes at you and furrowed his brows. “What?” Before you could answer, he held his hand up in front of your face. “Don’t. Come on.” Then Rodrick grabbed your wrist and dragged you over to the garage, leaving your little brothers to most likely wreak havoc.

You rarely came into the Heffley’s garage. Whenever Rodrick was in there with his friends, it was beyond loud and chaotic. Totally not your scene. So you were a bit relieved to see that besides Rodrick’s drums and decorations, the room was empty. He grabbed a chair and set it near his drums, and only then did he realize that he was still holding your wrist. Rodrick quickly let go and grabbed his drumsticks, warming up on his drums while you set up your stand and tuned your cello.

“What exactly are we doing right now?” You asked while tightening your bow.

“We’re about to see if you can handle my type of music, princess.” Rodrick twirled the sticks between his fingers, giving you a smirk that forced you to take a deep breath and stare at your new music so you wouldn’t have to look at him. “There’s a bunch of stuff before your part starts, so just go when you’re ready. I know where to jump in. And the song’s like eight minutes long, so we’ll only do the first two pages.”

“Eight minutes?”

“Just play, Jefferson.”

You sighed, giving the page a quick once over before setting your bow on the string. You tapped your foot to the tempo written above the first measure, internalizing it for a few seconds before playing the first notes. Rodrick immediately followed by tapping on one of his cymbals. Being classically trained and not interested in this kind of music, you had no idea what each little piece of Rodrick’s set was called.

But as the two of you kept playing, the sound started to grow on you. There was something about the mix of strings and percussion that pleased you. The music relaxed you in a way, despite some of the big note jumps.

By the time you reached the second page, you were a bit disappointed that it was over. Rodrick silenced one of his big cymbals with his hand, seeming slightly impressed. “...Not bad.”

You nodded along, loosening your bow. “So… what does Black Sabbath sound like?”

Rodrick perked up at your question. After staring at you for a few seconds, he almost fell down with how quickly he got out of his seat to go over to his CD collection. You set your bow on the stand and leaned against your cello, watching him curiously. Eventually, he plucked out a CD and put it into a player connected to a large speaker.

As War Pigs started to play, you realized it was very different from how it sounded when you and Rodrick played. When the song got to the part Rodrick had given you, you started to pizzicato along. Unknown to you, Rodrick watched you intently.

You were both surprised that you listened to the almost eight-minute-long song without asking for it to be turned off. You quietly played along the whole time, tapping your foot in tempo. When the next song on the track played, Rodrick paused the CD, figuring you had had enough. “Not bad.” You said, which surprised him. “...I think I like our version more, though.” That surprised Rodrick even more.

He laughed a little, slightly amused. He walked over to where you were sitting, crouching down to make eye contact with you. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna go all rock now, goody-goody.” You thought he looked a bit hopeful as he said it. You rolled your eyes and shook your head.

“In your dreams, Heffley.”

***

“Oh my gosh.” Rodrick gasped dramatically as he opened the front door. “What are you wearing?”

“Shut up, Rodrick.” You rolled your eyes, but still smiled at him as you pushed Rowley to go into the house first. Once again, you lugged your cello with you. “It’s just a black dress; I’m not going all emo like you.”

“I’m not emo.” He muttered, shutting the door after you entered. “What’s with the guitar?”

“Cello.” You corrected. “I learned all of that song you gave me. Wanna play it?”

Rodrick looked at you, a bit surprised. “Uhh, yeah, sure. Follow me.” You did as told, walking close behind as he led you back to the garage. “So, you like Black Sabbath now?”

“It’s just an interesting piece.” That wasn’t a lie, but it definitely didn’t tell the whole truth. After going home from that first playing session with Rodrick, you decided to look more into the band. Your search led to their other albums, and then other similar bands. Some of the songs you heard were a bit much, in your opinion, but you really liked some of the others you heard. “And, I guess playing with you is fun, or whatever.”

Rodrick’s back still faced you, so you couldn’t see the blush creeping onto his cheeks. The chair he had pulled out for you the first time you played together was still in its spot, like he didn’t want to move it.

The two of you got situated and quickly started playing. You were a lot better than the first time, but then again, that was a sight reading. When doing your daily half hour of practice, you added an extra ten just for the song Rodrick gave you. You didn’t know why you were so fixated on it, but it was fun to play, which you suppose was all that really mattered.

You ended up getting through the whole song with Rodrick. About seven minutes of uninterrupted playing, so in sync with him despite only practicing together once.

“That was pretty good,” Rodrick said, popping his knuckles. He watched silently for a moment as you plucked through a couple measures before giving a mischievous grin. “I think I’m slowly corrupting you and that nerdy, good girl image of yours. One day, you’ll be wearing chunky eyeliner and listening to Metallica.”

You shook your head, giving Rodrick an unimpressed look. “Shut up.” Yet the thought of that sure did sound interesting.

***

Rodrick Heffley Taglist: @tweedledipshit

#agaypanic #rodrick heffley x reader #doawk rodrick #diary of a wimpy kid rodrick #rodrick heffley #doawk x reader #metal lords

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lovingmayday · 1 year ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

warnings : fluff, cursing, innacurate-ish depictions of hobie's speech

notes : hobie is about 16-17 here (and so is the pov). halfway writing this, im overwhelmed by how much of an extrovert hobie actually is 😭 btw, i know nothing of classical music concerts so beware! all of this just because i wanted to write hobie sneaking in your window but i didnt even get to fit it in 😭😭

Two words that you've used as an excuse and an apology when you couldn't join your friends at house parties, when a classmate asks you out, or when your phone notifications go crazy because you still weren't home at 5 PM — it was a tiring cycle.

You know they were simply looking out for you but you can't help but feel overwhelmed and exhausted for always being monitored and left out. You couldn't possibly ask your peers to adjust to your parents' standards, you thought it shameless because they already had a hard time with your folks reaching out and interrogating them about your school and social life.

With so much of your life being tracked by them, you deserve at least one thing in your control, right?

Hobie Brown, the school troublemaker. Skips class, vandalizes school property, and actively participates in movements against authority. Frankly, he just does whatever he wants. And he had your respect (+ jealousy). It must've been nice to be so free.

You and Hobie were never given the chance to befriend each other before — you had some classes together but he rarely ever showed up to any of them. You had no reason to approach him and vice versa.

Until, Wednesday �� your cello performance. God, you don't know why you insisted to your parents you could handle commuting to the concert venue on your own with the heavy as fuck cello slung around your torso. You had your book bag with you as well because you had just finished school. The bus stop was a few more blocks away but you were tired.

You weren't paying much attention to your surroundings, busy focusing on your aching shoulder. So once you saw the pedestrian lane green signal, you didn't think twice before walking, failing to notice the bicycle riding full speed to your direction. Your eyes widen when a strong force pulled you back, making you stumble a bit and see the bike dart just in front of you.

"Aye, watch it!" you hear the cyclist exclaim.

You back was leaning against the tall figure, looking up to see a familiar face. You regain your balance and face him — Hobie Brown, the boy that just saved your life. "I-It was green– green meant it was safe to walk... I should've looked first, 'm sorry," you say quietly.

"Nah yeah, it's straight. He was the arse," he replies, hands in his pockets. "Dunno where he got the audacity to tell you off when he was in the wrong. Don't worry abou' it." He gives you a reassuring smile, noticing your still dazed expression.

"Thank you, Hobie," you say, a small polite smile on your lips.

He smiles back and nods, "'Twas nothin'." His eyes hover on the unignorable instrument case you were carrying. "Ya headed somewhere?"

"Uhh, yeah," you say, watching the pedestrian stop light turn red again and pouting a bit. You probably won't be late to the performance but you'd miss most of final rehearsal. "Nueva Hall. I have a cello performance in a bit."

"Nueva Hall.. That fuckin' massive, fancy lookin' museum along 5th Ave?" he asks, his eyebrows rising a bit from amazement. "Didn't know you were a big shot musician. Let me get for ya, then." He swings the case from your torso and starts walking across the street before you could protest.

"Hey!" you exclaim, running after him, dodging the other pedestrians walking past you.

"It's a bit distant from here, innit? Let me take you there, I got time. Wouldn't want you to croak before the big show," he jests, turning around and walking backwards. "If it's fine with you, [Name], of course."

You weren't too keen on traveling alone; you only did so so that your parents would think you were independent enough. You consider it for a few moments. "Are you sure I wouldn't be bothering you with this?"

"'Course not. 'Was the one who suggested, wasn't I?" He smirks before turning back around to walk properly and you catch up to his side. "What're you playin'?"

"Tchaikovsky, Rococo Variation. It's a cello and orchestra performance and I got to play cello," you say excitedly. "You're in a band, right? It's like a lead singer but cello!"

He smiles softly at your energy, feeling his cheeks warm up a bit. "How'd you know I was in a band?" he asks almost teasingly.

"I walked by one of your public concerts with my family. I would've stayed if my parents let me," you answer with a small laugh. "You were amazing, by the way."

"Thanks, mate. You're probably not too bad yourself," he says, chuckling as you playfully hit his shoulder.

It was safe to say you hit it off well, which was surprising since you didn't think you would. You thought your personalities would clash, you being at the quieter side while Hobie, you could hear his ruckus from another dimension (and there was a tiny part of you that was intimidated at him, at first).

You arrived at the venue earlier than expected — still late to rehearsals but not by much. "Hey, thanks again. I really appreciate it," you say to him just outside the concert hall doors.

He handed you your cello and waved off your thank you. "It was a pleasure," he teases and you roll your eyes. "Break a leg, [Name]." You thank him once again before he turns around to leave.

Seeing him walk away gave you an unfamiliar ache in your chest. After a much needed self-courage-boost, you let out a soft but loud enough "Wait." for him to hear. He turns around with a small smile and raises an eyebrow, silently asking you to go on. You wet your lips before taking a deep breathe. "Do you want to stay for the show?"

His smile widens, a handsome grin reaching ear to ear. "Finally. 've been waitin' the entire trip for that offer." He laughs and jogs back to you.

He sits at the back row. When he entered the room, he got a few stares and hushed whispers from the other audiences but he couldn't care less, his attention was unwaveringly stuck on you. It was just rehearsals but it overwhelmed Hobie to think about how you'd do in the real thing. He was entranced by you the entire time. The movement of your bow and the emotions you protrayed. It was magnetic.

Once practice was over, the musicians left the stage for a bit as audiences started to pour in. With guests on the older side with more formal attires, it was so obvious that he was out of place.

Meanwhile, you were panicking a bit because after you got changed out of your school uniform, you neared the stage's curtains to check up on Hobie. Your mouth gapes when you see him sat at the back row, almost directly behind your parents. Your parents! You forgot about your parents!! How did you forget about your parents??! They'd go crazy once they knew that you had invited this boy to your performance — you never invite your friends, let alone anybody, to watch your performances.

The second it was time for the musicians to come on stage, Hobie's head rises from his phone and looks for your figure immediately, smiling once he notices your wardrobe change. It was a simple long-sleeve black dress but it was pretty on you. Hobie thought so.

Your take deep breathes to calm your nerves before situating the cello between your thighs. You wait for the violins, the flutes, and the organ to start playing the intro before propping up the cello's bow. With your head held high, you play the first few notes — the position of your hands finding its own way around the fingerboard like muscle memory.

The music closes to an end, claps and praises erupt the venue. You smile and stand to find Hobie. He was already making his way to you. You leave the cello leaning safely on your chair as you scurry to the stairs of the sides of the stage.

"Hobie!" you greet as you reached him. "How did I do? Was I rushing? What'd you think of it?" you ask, rambling almost. If Spiderpunk gets his adrenaline from his fights, you get it from instances that make your heart feel like its about to burst into a million burnt pieces of flesh in your chest.

He smiles back at you, amused. He's never seen this side of you before. He's never seen anything of you other than your surface-level calmness and pliance. "'ts not usually my thing but I know to appreciate talent. Credit when credit is due and all tha' and, luv, you absolutely smashed it!" he exclaims as quietly as exclaiming can allow, placing both hands on you shoulders and shaking them.

"Thanks," you giggle out, placing your hands on his arm. From the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice your parents on their way to you, confused looks on their faces. Your smile falters as you gently loosen Hobie's hold on you, the adrenaline slowly dying down.

"[Name], amazing as always," your mother says, holding your hand in hers' and caressing your cheek with the other. "Who's your friend?" she quickly asks. Her judgmental eyes scan his appearance from head to toe, attempting to hide her expression with a faux smile.

Hobie was about to introduce himself when you cut him off. "–He's a classmate, Hobie Brown." You look into his eyes apologizing and almost pleading to him to go along with whatever you were about to say. "He came here by pure coincidence, could you believe that?!"

"Yeah, a friend gave me an invitation," he follows up seamlessly, a polite smile on his lips. "'Didn't know your daugh'er was performin'."

"Well, it's a nice surprise, isn't it?" you mother says, pulling you to her side.

Your father had yet to contribute to the conversation so you checked up on hi.. He was glaring at Hobie so harshly you could see burn marks starting to appear on his forehead. "Did you enjoy the show?" he finally asks, tone almost threatening.

Your cheeks start to flush in embarrassment. It wasn't uncommon for your parents to ask about the boys you talk to but it never felt any less humiliating every time it happens. You see each and every one of them get uncomfortable and you couldn't do anything to stop them because they'd think you were hiding something.

"Yeah, I enjoyed [Name]'s performance a lot. You must be very proud of her, Mr. [Last Name]," Hobie answers. You've talked to him long enough to notice the slight teasing in his voice. He smirks at you which makes your father's hands turn into fists.

"Honey," you mother calls, "We'll be late for our dinner reservation. It was really nice to meet you, Hobie, but we have to go." Her smile was still plastered across her face, you wonder why her cheeks hasn't hurt yet. She tells you to collect your stuff and you do so quickly. You bid Hobie an apologetic goodbye before you leave.

On the car to the restaurant, you were given the 'no boyfriends' talk again. You tried to respond with 'mhmm's and 'uh-huh's here and there but you weren't listening to a thing — having heard them repeat the same points many times before. You wondered how to approach Hobie the next day, thinking of stuff to say, how to bring it up, and how to act once he says he doesn't want to get involved with you anymore. It was a shame since you really enjoyed his company.

You wished that Hobie went to school the next day and he did, surprisingly. After classes, you catch up to him leaving the building to speak to him.

You were supposed to explain to him the situation but it seemed he was already up to pace and accepting. "The things is," you pause for a bit, "I really liked hanging out with you.." you confess.

"Hey, wait up!" you yell, running to reach him before he got too far. He paused in his tracks, hands in his vest pockets as he watches you catch your breath. "About yesterday..–"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts you. "Strict parents and shit. It's cool if your folks don't want you hanging out with me anymore. It sucks but I get it." He was disappointed but chill about the entire thing which made your heart sink. You really didn't want to stop seeing him again. You wondered if he felt the same.

A small gentle smile stretches his lips. "I really liked hanging out with you, too. A lot. Best time I've had in a while, honestly."

You contemplate on what to say next — whether to let them out or not. You mouth gapes open, waiting on your next words. You were about to give him an apology but seeing his eyes, hearing that he liked your company maybe as much as you did, it made the decision so much more difficult. ..Fuck it. "I'd like to continue spending time with you.. even if it meant disobeying my parents. If it's alright with you, of course." You feel your ears heat up as you look down, scared of what the other's reaction might be.

It was rather obvious that Hobie didn't expect it, his eyes widening by a fraction. A big smirk appears on his face as he leans down to catch your eyes. "'Must've left quite the impression on you, huh?" he teases. He watches your eyes roll as you playfully shove his shoulder. "Well, I do love a good rebellion."

"It's not a rebellion."

"It's painfully close then, isn't it?"

#hobie #hobie brown #hobie x reader #hobie brown x reader #spider punk #spider punk x reader #atsv hobie #hobie atsv #hobie brown atsv #hobie fluff #atsv #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse

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j-onedrabbles · 1 year ago

Note

Just a heads up this is kinda sad (unfortunately a friend of mine was in a similar situation). It's alright if you don't wanna write it, I just thought l'd ask be of how talented you are🤭🩵. Poly skz + reader, or just Minsung or Hyunlix if you want, totally up to you. Reader relatively new to the relationship and is trying their best to be the best partner to all parties, but doesn't feel like it's being returned. They feel like skz (or whichever ship you choose is) too into each other and not them, like the shiny new toy isn't exciting anymore. One night, after everyone goes to sleep, reader gets their things and leaves without saying anything. If you're not comfortable with writing it, that's ok!🩵

✧ PAIRING: HYUNJIN X GN!READER X FELIX ✧ CW: ANGST, FLUFF IF YOU SQUINT, FEELINGS OF NOT BEING LOVED, THIRD WHEEL MENTIONS, SHORT BLURB, OPEN ENDING ✧ WC: 0.5K ✧ NOTE: you think im talented 🥹🩵🩵 and im so sorry your friend went through that. i had an old cosplay friend who was in a situation like that as well so i’d hear about it a bit

Y/n tried. They tried as hard as they could in the relationship. But entering an already established relationship was hard. Starting to date two people who already had a history together felt, weird? Almost like, sometimes you were intruding on the other two in the relaetionship.

The start of it was great. Y/n had met Hyunjin first and the two hit it off and he had mentioned them to Felix. Meeting Felix was a nice warm fuzzy feeling the moment he smiled at them. After a few months, the two boys asked Y/n out. Promising equal love. But three-way love was difficult.

Because of work, Hyunjin and Felix both spent a lot more time together than Y/n with just one of them. It was a little unfair, maybe a lot.They still showed Y/n the same amount of love they gave each other, good morning kisses, cuddling all the time, sleeping together, etc. But that didn’t stop those thoughts from coming in.

Maybe it was just all just one-sided to begin with. The two men were happy well before Y/n entered the picture; even though they both tried their hardest to wash the worries they had away. But all they did was give them words. Words that started to barely mean anything. Yeah, they were busy, but it just felt like Y/n was left out. Kisses, hugs, and cuddles weren’t enough anymore.

The two didn’t really need them, right? Would they even notice if Y/n left? Would they even care?

The thoughts swirled in their head for a week. It was when the two came home from a rough day at the company and just said good night Y/n figured it was time to go. They didn’t say anything, just texted a friend asking to stay with them for a few days. Once they agreed, she quietly grabbed as much as she could fit in a small bag while the two were passed out in each others arms.

It hurt to look at the couple laying in the threes shared bed all by themselves, but when you don’t feel the same love you put out, you get out before you hurt yourself more. Y/n wiped a stray tear from under their eye and tip-toed out of the room. They closed the door and headed out of the home. Y/n took one look around the living area, not praying that one of them wakes up and walks out of the room asking where they were going, but making sure they had everything.

Y/n sighed and closed the door, locking it and heading down to their car. The realization came once they got to their friends place. Crying on their coach till almost two or three in the morning. There weren’t enough words to describe that pain of being promised shared love and only receiving it when it was new and fun— if there was even words to describe that pain.

M. LIST ✧ TIP JAR

T A G S ✧ @junebug032 @the-sweetest-rose @hanjingin @hyunjinshairband01 @miintmochii @ohish @changbinisabigboy @dreamingaboutjisung @tattywood @stepout-09-15 @cello--190 @just-randomm-stuff @greysweaters @hazyspirts @mhasimp666 @slay-and-gay @smally97 @bloom4yu @itstorimf @linoyouknow @fjseung @jungsodesjoyyy @jjwhorehouse @carinathefairy @litepowee @babyphotos @inniecore @jeonginssa @dolceem @stvrfir3 @tasteskz-sworld @ultimatestayandminoronce @seungincore @TinyElfPerson @greyyeti @Dimpledsatan @camixiez @chansbabygirlsstuff @thatlonelyalto @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @donut-crazs @meloryme

if you wanna be added to my tag list, comment, dm, send me an ask or fill out this form to be added

#: ̗̀➛karmic writes #stray kids x reader #stray kids #skz x reader #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader angst #skz x reader angst #felix x reader angst #hyunjin x reader angst #lee felix angst #hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin angst #felix angst #hyunlix x reader #lee felix x reader #lee felix x reader angst #hwang hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader angst

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doodle-pops · 8 months ago

Text

Lords of Gondolin | With A Musician Reader

Request: hi mina how have you been? i hope you’re doing ok c: i was wondering if you’d write a scenario about human!reader showing off her greatest musical creation to the elves? it’s a piano they’ve spent a decade workshopping & building to perfection. readers also made middle earth versions of the upright bass, acoustic guitar, & cello. they plan on making more instruments cause it’s their passion and how they want to be remembered by. for the lords of gondolin - @dicksoutformtl

A/N: I’m doing just fine! It was fun writing this request know that all of them would be impressed at reader’s craftsmanship. Enjoy!

.𑁍༊˚ Galdor

Galdor is thoroughly impressed by your craftsmanship in creating new and improved versions of some of the instruments they already have while crafting newly discovered pieces as well.

He would have known you were into the musical arts, hence why you were always playing or composing a new piece every few weeks. However, what he had never suspected was a entire batch of new instruments being presented to him.

He is enthralled and eager. While some instruments may not be a favourite to his ear due to the sounds they emit, you can bet he’s informing you of some upcoming festival where you can show off your creative talents.

Galdor is a proud elf Lord who would happily talk about what you’ve created to the others and recommend you to the King to play your pieces at balls. He wants everyone to be aware that you’ve made inventions and they’re groundbreaking.

There are moments when he’d sit around and listen as you explain to him how you created each piece and the inspiration behind them or watch as you play songs on them.

It touches him when he becomes aware of the purpose of your collection of paper in the corner of your room. They were all songs written to be played on these instruments about how much you like or care about him. He’s touched and appreciative.

.𑁍༊˚ Ecthelion

The musical master is too stunned to speak as he enters your humble abode and notices all the new “classical” instruments lying about. Ecthelion’s curiosity gets the better of him and he can’t help but strum the strings of the bass and cello, or press the keys on the piano and gasp at the new pitch echoing.

He becomes aware that these are not instruments that exist in Middle Earth and bombard you with a million questions. “How did you make this?” “Where did your idea come from?” “What inspired you?” “Who are you really?”

Ecthelion probably assumes that you’re not normal to come up with all these instruments since the Valar would have created their instruments for them…so are you a Maiar or Valar in disguise?

You will be followed around until you answer all of his questions with responses that tickle his brain the right way. And be prepared for him to request if you two can now play duets at festivals and balls. He wants you to be the musician couple.

Ecthelion will show you off, more than Galdor and some of the others because he’s proud and wants everyone to know how talented you are. He doesn’t care if the other Lords comments that you’re more talented than him, he would simply acknowledge and say, “Yes!”

And not to forget, he’s making sure that your name gets recorded in the history books as an important figure in music. He’s even more proud when he realises that you’ve outdone musical protégé like Maglor and Daeron.

.𑁍༊˚ Glorfindel

There is not a person without a ten-mile radius who hasn’t been alerted by him of your musical genius abilities. Even Lord Elrond would be shaken aggressively as he is being told about your creation. “Y/N has reinvented the world of music! There is no one as great as them!”

Goodbye Lindir or Ecthelion, hello to Y/N, the new musical protégé of Gondolin or Imladris. Get used to being announced at dinners or balls to play your newest pieces and having Glorfindel looking like a proud dad (if he had a camera, his look would be completed).

Anytime you’re making a trip to your music room, don’t go without Glorfindel or else he’ll barge in all grumpy, complaining that you forgot him. He wants to be present at each new masterpiece you’re making, whether it be a new instrument or song. He likes watching the look of concentration as you play each piece to conclude which suits the song best.

Be noted that he’s curious, so he is bound to touch the piano or cello and gasp as the notes ring out. I can see him being drawn towards the guitar and requesting that you teach him. I don’t know, but Glorfindel playing the guitar suits him (idk if it’s just me).

Cue Glorfindel wanting to join you whenever you’re playing and the guitar can be included. He’ll happily sit beside you and strum away lightly while you play the piano or violin.

Like Ecthelion, be prepared to be announced/talked about by Glorfindel any chance he gets. He’s not rubbing it in anyone’s face, simply expressing how proud he is of his little human creating instruments that “change everything”.

.𑁍༊˚ Egalmoth

Most proud of them all, however, he’s torn between wanting the world to learn about your skills and also keeping them hidden so he alone can know this secret and cherish it.

A bit stingy sharing your talents with the rest of the world because they should be for him to enjoy and praise. He does complain when people don’t praise you enough and encourages them to be louder.

I don’t see anyone surpassing him in terms of being the biggest cheerleader. This elf considers himself blessed to be around such a gifted person (you’re more gifted than his friends in his eyes). You’re a miracle worker creating new instruments unheard of or reinventing old ones.

He wants to learn about your pieces even though he doesn’t know about music deeply, he would to be told everything. Don’t worry if it sounds all foreign to him, he’s understanding.

Egalmoth would inquire if you would like more materials to make more instruments because he understands that it’s your passion. He would even ask if you would like to open up a school to teach others.

Like the others, he would request that you play at dinners when the Lords come over or if the King is hosting a dinner party. Might get annoyed if someone wants to collaborate with you because you sound great on your own.

.𑁍༊˚ Rog

This craftsman is enthralled, amazed, excited, and proud of your creation. You made these instruments all on your own! Rog cannot cease talking about how you designed and crafted all the instruments by yourself. This is one of the rare moments when he's talkative nonstop.

You’ve got one of the great blacksmiths hooked on your inventions and wants to know the process you took to create each piece. He’ll be teary if you mention that you used some of his instructions during his days of teaching you basic material crafting.

Learning more and more that everything was done on your own and you spent years making each puts a type of ride in his heart that’s unshakable. If you show him how each piece is played, Rog finds himself whipped and ready to boast.

It’s strange seeing the quiet blacksmith boasting and talkative, and it’s for good reasons, you. All the Lords know, the citizens know and the King as well. Very soon, you’ll be having a hearing with the King who was intrigued by your new inventions courtesy of Rog cheerful chattering.

Rog doesn’t mind whether you choose to play privately or publicly, the choice is yours and he’s pleased with either decision. He wants you to be comfortable, but he would ask if you could play him a piece so he could experience the beauty of your creations.

.𑁍༊˚ Maeglin

Curiosity caught his attention for a great purpose and it led him to discover new things worthwhile. Maeglin is enamoured and his curiosity is piqued tenfold. Questions rattle off the top of his head about all that he’s seeing and how did you manage to think about creating these pieces.

You’ll be seen as someone highly skilled and great in his eyes because you’re out here reinventing the world of music, something the elves are passionately known for.

“Can I come to watch?” “Can I sit and listen?” “Will you play for others to see what you’ve made?” He will stand in the doorway as you play your pieces and write songs suited best for each with a sense of pride in his chest. You’re a part of his House and creating all these great inventions to make a name for yourself. How could he not be pleased?

Definitely another one who would recommend you to the King to present your showstopping performances during balls. Whether you play with the orchestra or sole, Maeglin is supportive.

You’re Maeglin little songbird who he wakes up to playing your piano or guitar on the balcony or in the drawing room. You provide him with melodies that allow him to melt in and drive his tension away.

Masterlist

Taglist: @ranhanabi777 @lilmelily @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @mcwentfandomtraveling @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @hermaeuswhora @lamemaster @zheiya @addaigio @involuntaryspasms

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shall-we-die · 5 months ago

Text

╔‌‌‌‌•°🌃༄•°══════════•⊰•°༄༚

{Nightmares}

How often do they have them? || What are they about? How do they deal with it?

╞•⊰❖⊱•═══•༻🎐༺•═══•⊰❖⊱•╡

↬[Fandom]•⊰ {Bungo Stray Dogs}࿐

↬[Warnings]•⊰ {Angst}࿐

☰[Main list]•⊰ ────┈┈{0063}┈─╮

╭──────┈┈┈┈┈───────╯

╰┈➤Likes/Reblogs are appreciated࿐

╚•°🌃༄•°══════════•⊰•°༄༚‌‌‌

↬|Atsushi|

Atsushi is plagued by frequent nightmares and occasional flashbacks related to his traumatic past in the orphanage, particularly about the cruel headmaster. He struggles to deal with these nightmares and the memories, often waking up in a cold sweat and feeling shaken. As a way to cope, Atsushi turns to writing in his journal as a way to process his emotions and experiences. Additionally, he finds solace in talking to his friends, and specially you. He can talk about anything when you're by his side.

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↬|Dazai|

Dazai has nightmares all the time, sometimes more severe, sometimes less. He is traumatized by his past, which causes him to have frequent nightmares. He copes with it by listening to classical music to calm his heart and soul. He also takes relaxing baths and drinks some tea. Or he goes for a walk at night. Sometimes, he can't handle it all alone, and he came to you in the middle of the night to comfort him.

┣━━━━━━━━━━━━━┅┅┅┄┄

↬|Akutagawa|

Akutagawa suffers from nightmares and night terrors. Despite his usual cold demeanor, he is often kept awakened at night from the painful memories of his past. His usual method of calming himself down after waking up from a nightmare is to make a cup of tea or read a book, anything for him to forget his past traumas...

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↬|Chuuya|

Chuuya doesn't have nightmares often, perhaps a few times every few weeks or so. He tries to ignore them. When he's having nightmares, he will take a bottle of wine and get drunk until sunrise. He's too stubborn to ask other people for help, so he will probably try to deal with it by himself. (It's a lie, he likes it when you hug him and comfort him.) Also he rarely sleeps, which further contributes to why he doesn't have nightmares as often as other people might.

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↬|Tetchou|

Tetchou sometimes experiences nightmares related to his past traumas and regrets, especially concerning the death of a fellow Hunting Dog. Tetchou often wakes up in a sweat, breathing heavily, from these nightmares. To deal with the nightmares, Tetchou will often try his best to wake up and distract himself from the traumatic memories by taking a walk, training, or just simply trying to clear his mind.

┣━━━━━━━━━━━━━┅┅┅┄┄

↬|Jouno|

At least two times or so a week. Sometimes, they'll occur more often depending on how much stress he goes through throughout the day. I mean... They're not scary just, annoying. He just hear annoying sounds all the time. Jouno will often wake up in a cold sweat, jolting himself awake at the annoying sound that played in his subconscious. While he remains mostly unfazed, he is aware it's taking a toll on his mental health and his sleeping schedule. The only way to get past it is to try to fall back asleep.

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↬|Fyodor|

Fyodor has nightmares quite often. They're usually always regarding his childhood, past traumas, him doing a sin, getting his revenge and similar. To deal with his nightmares, Fyodor usually locks himself in his room and quietly plays his cello to calm himself down. When his nightmares get too bad he usually turns to drinking and drinking until he's drunk enough to forget what he saw in his dreams.

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↬|Nikolai|

Nikolai has nightmares quite often, as he is the type of person to overthink and has a lot of issues about things. So he often experiences a lot of nightmares about past incidents. Nikolai does not like to talk about his feelings, so he deals with his nightmares by laughing it off. Whenever he has nightmares, he'll get out of his bed and will perform a small dance or juggle knives to try and calm himself down.

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↬|Sigma|

Has nightmares every couple of weeks. Usually sits up, awake in bed while clutching a pillow as hard as he can while waiting for the nightmare to pass. Sometimes goes to his s/o's room to seek comfort after waking up from a particularly bad nightmare. The next day, always has black circles under his eyes, and is grumpy and more quiet than usual.

||[🄽ightmares]||

━●━━━━━━────────

⇆ㅤㅤ◁🄼ㅤㅤ❚❚ㅤㅤ🄾▷ㅤㅤ↻

#𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎–[❣]#bungo stray dogs headcanons #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd angst #bsd headcanons #bsd hcs #dazai osamu x reader #atsushi nakajima x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #akutagawa ryunosuke x reader #tetchou suehiro x reader #jouno saigiku x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #nikolai gogol x reader #bsd sigma x reader

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luvfy0dor · 1 year ago

Note

Henlo! I saw that requests for Fyodor are open! And I was wondering if you could write something about Fyodor as a parent if you’re comfortable with that. For some reason I can’t find enough of those and I really wanna see how you’d do it!

(Not as the reader’s parent btw, maybe having a child/children with the reader. But I just wanna see how you think he’d behave in that situation and how you think it would all go down)

"Come on, papa!" Fyodor Dostoevsky x GN!Reader ｡˚♡₊

╰┈➤ Dad!Fyodor ༉‧₊˚✧

Description ; How Fyodor acts towards his child/children!

Warnings ; None

A/N; IVE BEEN LOWKEY WAITING FOR THIS REQUEST BRO IM SO EXCITED OVER THIS YOU DONT EVEN GET IT ALSO P/T STANDS FOR PARENTAL TITLE BC IDK WHAT YALL WANNA BE CALLED YKYK AND D/N IS DAUGHTERS NAME OBVI

Headcannons !! ༊*·˚

→ Dad!Fyodor who lets his kid/s play with his hair, too, messing it up and laughing at their fathers disheveled appearance.

→ Dad!Fyodor who quietly reads your kids bed time stories, letting them sit on his lap while he holds the book in front of them, pointing to the pictures with a smile.

→ Dad!Fyodor who picks out the most whack ass outfits for your kid, proudly displaying it out to you and frowning at your hesitant smile.

→ Dad!Fyodor who discouraged your children from cutting their hair and braids it or puts it up for them every morning before school.

→ Dad!Fyodor who (very frequently) helps your kid/s with their homework or projects for school, not quite giving them answers but shoving nudging them in the right direction.

→ Dad!Fyodor who teaches his kid(s) the basics of playing the cello, letting them get a feel for the strings. He would teach them how to hold the bow and would let them stand beside him and watch him play.

→ Dad!Fyodor who cooks recipes that he learned in Russia for you and your children, encouraging all of you to try foreign dishes. They give him a feeling of nostalgia and wanting to pass those special foods on to his kid(s).

→ Dad!Fyodor who absolutely tries passing on happy group counseling hour to his kid/s when they seem sad or upset.

Scenarios !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Your keys jingled in the keyhole of your front door as you pushed it open, revealing the living room that you had longed to sit down in all day. Work sucked, you weren't going to lie, but there was something that was allegedly important going on, so you had no choice but to attend.

Your husband volunteered to watch your daughter on her day off of school, which wasn't a totally uncommon occurrence due to Fyodors line of work. He didn't mind watching d/n, he likes it a lot, actually. Fyodor values the quality time he can spend with his kid just as much as the quality time he gets to spend with you.

The pitter patter of your daughters feet got louder the closer she got to the living room, rounding the corner and smiling. "P/t!"

"Hey, what'd I tell you about running?" You say with a quiet and amused giggle as she throws herself onto you, hugging your waist. You run your fingers over the pretty braids weaved into her hair with a smile. "Papa did your hair?" The little girl nods excitedly.

"Well, you look very, very pretty." Another set of footsteps can be heard, this time softer. Fyodor rounds the corner with a smile, pulling you into a hug.

"Mm, my dear." He says, resting his head on you shoulder for a moment before pulling away, starting back towards the kitchen. He waves at d/n to follow him. "Come on, sweetheart, come help me finish dinner." She excitedly runs after her father, earning a soft and faint giggle from him.

Upon following the two of them into the kitchen, you can smell the beef stroganoff cooking, watching your daughter step up onto the little stool she dragged in next to Fyodor. They stand at the counter, Fyodor making sure she's nowhere near anything dangerous or hot. He gently pushes over a measuring cup filled with beef broth.

"Alright, Malyshka. Just pour this into the pan, and be very careful, alright?" He says softly, his voice gentle as he measures out the whipping cream. The beef broth can be heard being poured into the pan from the spot you're standing in, smiling at your husband and daughter making dinner together. Within a couple of seconds, Fyodor is handing d/n measurements of other ingredients, such as Worcestershire sauce and dijon mustard. He lets her stir it all in, guiding her whenever he sees fit.

"Alright, we're all done. Here, why don't you go sit down, I'll bring you and P/t your dinners, yeah?" He smiles at the young girl, rubbing her back before patting it. She nods and skitters off to join you at the dinner table. She blabbers on to you about everything she did that day, even running off to bring proof of her activities.

She comes back out, proudly showing off a coloring page filled with scribbles in numerous different hues. One of them was only slightly better than the other, the lesser messy one was labeled with Fyodor's name in his sloppy handwriting to match the coloring. You grinned at both of them, taking the thin sheets of paper and studying them intently.

"Wow, they're both wonderful!" Your daughter wears a proud smile at the praise from you, excitedly placing her hands on her hips. "Are ya gonna hang them up on the fridge?" You nod and ruffle her hair a bit, just in time for Fyodor to bring the food in for all three of you. He sets the plates down on the table, listening to the conversation still taking place between you and your daughter.

"Ofcourse I will, I love them both very much." Your daughter smiles, blowing on the small piece of meat impaled by her fork. "Maybe me and papa can have a coloring contest, you can be the judge!" She says to you excitedly. Fyodor smiles. "How about another night, Malyshka? It's getting close to your bedtime." He says, continuing eating his food. "Aw, but papa-" she sadly whines, Fyodor shaking his head. "No 'but''s, d/n. We can tomorrow night though, I promise." Fyodor smiles at her while she extends her outstretched pinky to her dad.

"Pinky promise?" She quietly mumbles. He grins and interlocks his pinky with hers, reaching across the table to do so. "I promise. You know i never break my promises, Malyshka." She smiles and nods in agreement. "Yeah, right. Tomorrow night then!" She says with a grin.

"Tomorrow night. Alright, d/n, time to go get ready for bed. Go put on pajamas and we'll come say goodnight in five minutes." You say to the small girl with a smile. She nods in compliance and quickly walks back to her room to change into sleep clothing. You look over at Fyodor, who is already looking back at you with a loving gaze.

"Ah, I forgot to apologize for the late dinner earlier, dear. I was quite busy being dressed up in tiaras and what not." Your heart warms at the thought of your husband bonding with your daughter. "It's alright, don't worry about it." You gently caress his shoulders before taking all the plates away from the dining table, washing them in the kitchen and sticking them in the dishwasher. Placing your hands on your hips, you nod in approval of your quick work. Fyodor waits for you in the doorway, nodding in the direction of d/n's room with a gentle smile.

You both approach the room, knocking to make sure she was finished getting ready for bed before you both entered. You said goodnight to her and kissed her cheek while Fyodor said goodnight and kissed her forehead. Before Fyodor could stand straight up again, d/n giggled and whispered to him.

"I'm gonna beat you tomorrow, so prepare yourself, papa. It's gonna be the best coloring you've ever seen!" She proudly claims, clearly confident in her coloring skills. Fyodor chuckles. "I believe it whole heartedly. Get some sleep, or you may wake up without that skill." He says, making sure she's 100% tucked in. She nods in understanding and snuggles into her blanket.

"Goodnight, Malyshka." Fyodor whispers, gently pulling her door closed a bit, leaving a crack between the door and the frame.

A/N (#2); I'm super sorry if any mistakes were made, I didn't proofread because I'm suuuuper tired lol, but I just wanna put it out there that I am absolutely willing to do more dad!Fyodor. Dad!Fyodor and soft!Fyodor literally give me life u don't even get it (recipe I referenced was from Natasha Kitchen)

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