#IVE MUSSED HIM SO MUCH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zombiequeenblog · 6 months ago

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The Promise

I wrote some dumb Papa Emeritus IV smut lol

There are no Ghovie spoilers here, I hope you enjoy it! Papa x Sister of Sin

Explicit ~ 5,500 words ~ ao3

Summary: Papa Copia catches you sneaking in way past curfew, and gives you a lecture. You respond cheekily.

It must be well past 2 am, maybe 3, I thought, as I tumbled guiltily back into my room. So late! A giggle, most likely fuelled by a gin and tonic or two I wasn’t used to, escaped me as I shed my coat and fled over to the comfort of my bed, feet aching. Sitting on the edge with a graceless bounce I didn’t intend, I flicked on the little lamp beside me and bent down to work my heels off, head still a bit dizzy.

“Where have you been?”

My body went stiff as soon as I heard his voice from over in the corner. My long and tangled hair, still smelling faintly of the perfume I had used to combat the mustiness of the local dive bar, had fallen down in my face, and I stayed hidden behind its safety as I made my reply as light and chipper as I could. “Oh Papa! Hmm, I… ahh, I didn’t see you there…” Obviously.

“Where have you been, Sorella?” I heard the slight tap of his shoe as the sole hit the floor, and a creaking noise like he was leaning forward in my austere little armchair. Sitting over there in the dark, like a cranky old cat.

“I was just… out, Papa…” I had finally fumbled my heels off, and now I sat up to lean back on my hands, rolling my stiff neck back along my shoulders to shake my hair out. “I had a drink down at the bar, watched a band play. It was fun.”

“It’s past curfew.” He sounded displeased. Well, of course he would be! I knew the rules, but in this juniper-flavoured moment I didn’t much care. I had had fun, and I didn’t regret it. Still though…

“I’m sorry, Papa. I lost track of the time.” I let myself flop back on the bed, tired, and I thought I heard him rise up to his feet in the shadowed corner.

“You cannot lose track of the time, eh, mia Sorella preziosa? This is dangerous. I cannot lose track of you.” He sounded very displeased, indeed.

I just scoffed at him. Ever since I had come here, I would say we’d been flirting with one another, but isn’t that just what Papa did? What all the Papas do? Papa Copia was charming, intense, and sweet, and utterly devoted to enjoying the passions of the flesh, as the living embodiment of lust here on earth. He slept with many, and many more wanted to sleep with him. Hell, I wanted to sleep with him; we just hadn’t really come to find ourselves in that situation just yet. We hadn’t even kissed, and I resented him acting like he was some kind of handler of me.

“I cannot allow you to behave in this way,” he continued with severity, coming closer, “running all around in that town, which you should know is crawling with Christians who don’t give one shit about you on account of that grucifix you have pinned there…” Papa gestured to the little symbol of our dark faith I had dutifully displayed on my shirt collar. “Without a single care for your safety, and sneaking back in here like some kind of little rat!”

I turned my head so I didn’t have to look at him, and I found that the long night of careless freedom had loosened my tongue, apparently terribly. “Well, hell… you’re not my dad!” I muttered up into the ceiling with a glib shrug of annoyance at his scolding.

A shocked pause within the room, and then his sharp steps were coming right on over to me. “I. Am. Your. Papa,” his voice seethed down, “And I am responsible for you.”

I darted my eyes over to see his handsome face, still painted up, with his odd eyes blazing and his greying hair all mussed over his forehead in the most charming way. Had he really been sitting in here all night, waiting… worrying about me? As if to ruin it on purpose, he straightened up and ran his previously clenching hand back along his hair, smoothing everything down with a tense sigh. I thought he looked stunningly attractive, and it gave me a certain kind of little thrill to continue irritating him.

“What are you gonna do, spank me, Papa?” I threw out, carelessly turning over onto my front to let my body sink down further into the bed.

Another pause, and I felt the mattress shift when he sat down beside me.

“Do you… Do you want me to spank you?” He sounded serious.

I felt myself blush immediately, grateful that he couldn’t see. “No!” I almost shouted, kicking my leg up a bit.

He didn’t say anything.

“Not… not right now, Papa…” Well, now I had gone and made everything awkward… Satan damn it! “Maybe later,” I added, muffled into the comforter. I wriggled my butt a little in a fiddling attempt to be coy, and I thought perhaps I heard him make the slightest sound of a chuckle. I couldn’t be sure.

“Is there anything at all I may do for you, mia cara?”

“You… you could help me out of these clothes, Papa,” I confessed to him, “Please.”

“With pleasure,” he said, his voice astoundingly kind now, and I felt the gentlest touch of his glove on the back of my thigh. He gave me a little squeeze there, and then his fingertips ran up to catch on the hem of my mini skirt. I felt him tug at it a little, and I mumbled something about the zipper.

“Ahh yes, of course,” he said, and his fingers traveled up to the small of my back, finding the little clasp there to unhook it, and sliding the zipper down with care. I was not unaware of the way he was grazing the full curve of my ass as he did this, unnecessarily. He brought his gloves to either side of my waist and paused for a moment, his firm hands feeling warm on me through the leather, and then he started to roll my skirt down, encouraging me to lift my hips a bit, in a soft tone.

Halfway down my ass I remembered that I was wearing perhaps my skimpiest thong. The cool air of the room hit my skin and I heard Papa hum appreciatively, making me blush anew. As he slid my skirt off completely, all the way down my bare legs like he relished the task, he spoke low.

“Were you meeting someone special down in town? Bringing some favoured errant soul into the fold?”

“No, Papa,” I answered honestly, “I just wanted to go out and relax in a crowd, you know? Look a bit pretty and get lost in some music…” I tried to turn over subtly but his hand was now firm on my lower back. “Avoiding panty lines, you know?” I explained further, with a soft laugh, turning my head only.

Papa laughed too. “I do not often have to contend with panty lines, my dear Sorella,” he replied, and I remembered his reported distaste for wearing knickers himself. I had been thinking often lately about what he had there in his pants, and I found myself rubbing my thighs together at the warmth forming now in my poor little empty cunt. As if to prove his point, he skimmed a gloved finger along the scant fabric of my thong to make me shiver.

“May I kiss you?” he suddenly said.

“Yes, Papa,” I chirped, but before I could turn around I registered him moving down and I felt his warm lips pressing a firm kiss against the cheek of my ass.

“A kiss now, a spank later, eh?” he remarked, and I twisted my head to look back and see a black kiss mark left there on my exposed skin. He patted my butt affectionately, then stopped as if he’d forgotten. “Oh! My apologies, Sorella…”

I couldn’t help but grin at his silliness, and he finally let me roll over.

“Papa…” I groaned, moving to sit up and unbutton my shirt.

“No, no,” he insisted, taking my hands away, “Lay back, Sorella mia, and let Papa finish, si?”

“Si,” I agreed, laying back like a doll, and watching him get back to work through my torpid eyes. I saw him grin now, sweet and sly.

My top was obviously next, and I marvelled at the way his gloves seemed to have no trouble with the tiny buttons, working nimbly from my waist right up to my cleavage. I wanted to feel that supple leather on more parts of me, and when he looked down into my face with intention, pausing before he opened up my shirt, I nodded up at him.

“Sei squisito,” he breathed, slowly revealing more of me to his heavy gaze.

“What are you saying?” I asked him softly. I had learned much Italian in my time here, but not enough.

“I am telling you,” he said, looking up at my face now and brushing my hair back with the lightest touch of his glove, his fingertip running down to my chin to tilt me up to him slightly, “that you are exquisite, tesoro mio.” He tilted his own head as he looked down at me, his strange eyes darkening with devotion, and perhaps, also, with need.

“May I have another kiss?” I asked him.

“On your ass?”

“No, Papa!” I could have hit him, he was so being so facetious. A complete ass, himself.

I endured the roguish twinkle in his eye for a moment, and then I pointed at my mouth. “Here.” I watched his hungry eyes hone in on my softly parted lips, and I knew he wanted me too. “I want you to kiss me here.”

Without another word he brought his mouth right down on mine. His lips, soft but insistent, giving me a taste of his papal paints when our kiss quickly deepened. So focused was I upon those lips, and his tongue, that I almost didn’t notice his gloves holding me up to him, tearing my opened shirt down along my shoulders.

“More,” he muttered, breaking away only for a moment, “give me more… Sorella…”

Desperately, I shrugged off my top as he helped me, lurching forward to continue kissing him, tasting this irresistible man as if I were parched. Too soon he dragged his lips along my cheek, smearing himself all down my neck to come to my chest where he could use his tongue further, and his teeth, giving me little licks and nips along the top of my breasts as he let loose his hunger.

By this time I was gripping the lapels of his suit jacket, and my fingers slid inside, trying to find a closer purchase along his shoulders, noticing his skin was dampening with sweat underneath the smooth fabric of his shirt. “Give me more,” I whined, and he obliged eagerly, shedding the shiny irksome thing and coming forward again to push me right down beneath him. His hand came up to knead my breast, pulling my bra down as he kissed my pouty lips again and again, his leathered thumb flicking and circling my nipple. When I couldn’t hold back my gasps of pleasure into his mouth, he abandoned mine, coming down again to taste my breasts each in turn, pulling my sensitive peaks in between his smudged lips, and swirling his wet tongue to drive me mad with desire.

Through my struggle not to lose my head, I had been fumbling about blindly with the buttons of his dress shirt, and I finally got it open enough to slide my hand down along his chest, to feel the glorious swirls of hair there. I ran my fingers along his beautifully greying head too.

“Papa,” I begged, “I want to see you… please…”

“Can you be a good girl for me?” He was taking off my bra, rather easily.

“Yes.”

“Follow the rules?”

Rolling my eyes in frustration and pleasure both, I grabbed his cravat and pulled him back up to kiss me once more. With him distracted so with my lips, I thought I’d find out if he really was so easy to access inside his pants, and so I ran my hand down his solid body to find his distractingly large bulge straining within its confines. Papa groaned against my cheek as I let out a gasp of anticipation. I couldn’t wait to get his cock out.

But first, just to tease him, I brought my hand back and around to cup his ass, squeeze him there and pull him against my thrilling cunt before I locked my legs up and around his waist. No panty lines, I thought to myself, and I grinned against his lips for a moment, feeling him rut against me down below.

He was growing impatient too. “I want you, tesoro,” Papa growled, gloved hands groping, fingers dragging down my body, my ass, to hook underneath the scant fabric keeping him from my pussy. His hot mouth came to my ear with a harsh whisper. “I want to fuck you.”

“No,” I said, and he let me go immediately, pushing himself up and off of me and looking straight down into my face, his eyes concerned. He went to speak, breathless and flushed underneath his smudged paint, but I was quicker.

“Take your shirt off first,” I finished, and he looked so relieved and cross I thought he might bend me over his knee and spank me right there.

“You are a little brat, trottolina…” he threw out at me, sitting up and giving me one flash of the darkest look of desire I thought possible, before furiously undoing his cravat and bending his head to pay careful attention to the buttons of his tailored shirt, opening it up slowly.

I hummed wickedly, and nodded, though he didn’t see, backing up to recline against the cushions and squeezing my knees together in my excitement. And yet I’m well rewarded, aren’t I? I thought to myself, bringing my fingertip up to rest flippantly between my teeth as I watched my Papa.

Satan, he was so beautiful. Flustered hair he’d let get longer fell into his lined face, painted so sinister, yet with a learned tenderness about his darkened sockets and the curve of his mouth which he couldn’t quite hide. Every day I could see it; Copia was so full of adoration for his flock, a steady affection he kept quiet underneath a carnality of care. I couldn’t believe how privileged I was, both to be here and to be of any concern to such as him. I wanted him; I revelled in the thought of him wanting me. And I was grateful for our liberated faith, which laid out the way for this.

His neck and shoulders, so kissable. His chest adorned in fine hair begging to be touched, the textured whisper of a few greys amongst them calling to me. His skin pale, scattered with faint freckles, his stomach soft and comforting and so utterly fallible it belied his exalted status. The trail of hair leading down underneath the waistband of his pants drove me absolutely raving inside with want, and so I asked him for more, bluntly.

“Your pants too,” I said, finding that my mouth was suddenly dry. Was I nervous? It was just that he was so completely perfect, amplified by the way he lacked any true hubris, and I suddenly felt a little unworthy in my Papa’s presence. What could he possibly see in me, really?

“Of course, Sorella,” he replied measuredly, “Have patience, your Papa has waited for you long enough…” The shirt was quickly shed, and then he rested his gloves upon the fastening of his pants, looking over at me. “Come here and help me, si?”

I crawled to him, but when I got close enough I sat back on my heels to mirror his posture, and I let myself touch his forearms instead, lightly scraping my nails up to hold onto him by his warm shoulders. Copia just watched me, head tilted a bit with a puzzled smile. My fingertips slid over, grazing his clavicle to rest with shyness in the hollow of his throat. “I want you, Papa,” I told him, “I want to be here, with you, forever.”

Arms full of reassurance to match his desire came up and around me, and he held me so very close, his fingers nestling up the back of my head. “I’m not going anywhere, Sorella mia,” he murmured into my hair, “I feared perhaps you wanted to leave this place… leave me…”

I pulled back and silenced his nonsense with a kiss, which he held me in, and I let my hand wander blindly down his body, his soft stomach, following the treasure trail to something harder. I was trying to suavely slip my fingers into his pants, open them up to free his frustrated cock to my attentions.

This proved difficult, even when I brought my other hand down to assist.

“What is wrong with your pants, Papa?” I finally broke away to exclaim. I looked down to observe the securely knotted lacing. “They’re ridiculous!”

Copia laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t want an embarrassing mishap, on account of having nothing on underneath…”

I laughed with him. “Take them off…” I finally whined.

Papa motioned for me to scooch back on the bed, and expertly began to undo his pants in front of me. The poor man must have felt a great relief at finally freeing his swollen cock, and he did groan a bit, in pleasure, as he took himself in hand for a few lazy strokes. He was big, and I felt insane looking at it. At all of him.

“Fuck me, Papa,” I breathed, laying back.

“No,” he said, and I sat back up in a little shock.

“First,” he said low with a grin, looking pointedly down between my legs, “Take those off. I want to taste you, dolcezza mia.” I wanted to kill him. Copia got up from the bed to peel off his pants completely, and I lay back again, sliding my thong down along my hips and my trembling legs to leave my pussy pleading, as I observed his perfect body and the way he carried himself. “You will not deny me this,” Papa said, coming back on the bed to crawl towards me. I fully agreed.

But before I could let my knees drop open for him, Papa was doing it, his gloves gripping my thighs and yanking me down a little closer. I could feel his warm breath on my pussy, and I shut my eyes and waited for him to begin.

But nothing happened, and I looked back down at him after a moment. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just looking, dolcezza…” His face was full of a lustful suspense, gazing upon my cunt and practically licking his paint-smeared lips in anticipation, so close. “You are so beautiful, ragazza mia, do you even know that? I cannot believe I get to enjoy someone so perfect.”

I blushed, but I answered him honestly. “I was just thinking the same thing about you, Papa.”

“Well, let’s get started on enjoying each other then, si?”

“Si— oh, Papa!”

He was attacking me with his mouth, surging forward to lick up along my seam and to jut his chin forward, delving his tongue inside. It felt so nice, warm and forceful, and I would have been much too sensitive for it if I wasn’t so wound up already. My hips were bucking up, but he had slid his hands up underneath my ass and around to hold them, to hold me down for his carnal feast.

Papa may have been enjoying me, but I could not believe how good his mouth felt on my cunt. A warm tingly pleasure was rising, stoked deep inside by his wet tongue exploring my most intimate areas, and when he started to circle and suck my clit in a kind of rhythm the jolts of delight this afforded me made me gasp out.

“That’s so good! I…” Coherent thought escaped me. “Oh, Papa… fuck…”

Hums of pleasure rumbled into my pussy as Copia revelled in my wetness, the taste of me. After a bit of his perfect pleasuring, cruelly, he told me so. “Bellissima… Sorella,” he broke away to say, face darkened with lust, “Your pretty little pussy, so fucking sweet, Satanas…” He began to tease me with only the tip of his tongue now, as if he fretted about missing any drop of the sweetness he was coaxing out from my slit. Gradually he applied more blessed pleasure, his tongue igniting ecstasies I didn’t even know I had down there.

His words were thrilling me, but I wanted him to keep going, don’t stop, please don’t stop, keep going Papa that feels so good so good so fucking good I’m so close I’m… My fingertips reaching down to brush against his gorgeous locks, I almost pulled him closer in my desperation, but Copia grinned up at me quickly and went right back to it, seeming pleased at the way he was keeping me tottering there just beyond all sense. He licked and lathed his tongue against me with a lazy indulgence, holding me at a simmering torture until he went back to my clit at just the right pace, as if he had been taking his time, enjoying what he did to me, and learning what I needed best to be thrown right over the edge.

When I finally felt that racing thrill begin inside, my thighs tightened against his ears, and I almost kicked out, my heels coming to rest upon his bare back as I twitched and convulsed up against his face. My nails were digging into the skin just underneath his gloves, my hands holding on to his wrists for dear life as I bucked up and moaned aloud, and he didn’t stop, continuing to eat me out ravenously as if he could taste my orgasm, and couldn’t get enough. I felt like I could hardly breathe.

“Fuck, Papa,” I cried when I was able, my eyes on the edge of tearing up.

“Mmmm…” Copia licked up my twitching cunt and gazed down upon me with pride, his paint ruined. “Oh yes, my sweet Sorella, we’ll do that next…”

“Fuck,” was all I could barely repeat, like an idiot, out of breath and wanting him more than ever. I reached down for him.

Copia’s body surged up and over me, on all fours, but instead of giving me his cock he gave me his fingers, two I was pretty sure. Gloved fingers, smooth and warm, sliding slow and exploratory into my dripping wet cunt. If I had been moaning before, now I made sounds much more urgent, the feeling all alight around my pussy walls still tingling, incredible.

“Papa!” I cried out, writhing beneath him.

“Papa needs to make sure you’re nice and ready…” Copia huffed out, circling gently, and stroking deep in my pussy, curling his smooth leathered digits up, “Nice and ready for me, eh?”

“Fuck I am ready,” I pleaded with him, “Please please fuck me, Papa… Please I need it…”

He needed it too; I could see his cock hanging flushed and heavy, precum almost dripping from the darkened tip. I was clenching around his fingers, and he groaned. I could make him feel so good, I knew it, he just had to make me take his cock; I wanted him so badly I could scream.

Only when he judged me sufficiently wound up did he position me the way he wanted, supine underneath him with my knees apart, and he brought the head of his cock to my weeping cunt, sliding up and down my seam slowly just to tease. Copia really was a devil; he had a dark mischief inside him he loved to let out to play sometimes. I could see why his lovers went so crazy over him.

But Papa’s most veritable calling was to love tenderly. “Come here,” he said, softly, reaching up to stroke the sweaty strands of hair out of my face, and keeping his hand there, cradling me nice and firm. His thumb wandered over to my lips and I could smell the leather; I moved and bit the tip a little, heavy-lidded, stifling the gasps I knew were coming as I could feel him begin to finally push inside me below.

My eyes widened; I was glad he’d taken the time to warm me up because Lucifer in hell, he was large and oh so hard… I felt like I could barely take it.

“Are you okay?” Copia asked me, his brow sweating off the paint he had remaining. I think he was only halfway inside, and my leg twitched against his waist as he pushed in a little deeper, unable to help himself.

“Yes, Papa!” I told him in a hushed whisper, the stretch of him divine, “Oh, yes… don’t stop… fuck…”

“La mia dolce, cara, Sorella…” he was murmuring, sliding inside my tightness, his face a lined and messy vision of pure delight. I felt that wonderfully conflicting feeling of need and completeness deep inside, and I saw him look down to watch my pussy take all of him in as I hitched my hips up feebly to meet him.

There was nothing in the world quite like this, to have him inside me. “Do you… Do you like my pussy, Papa?” I managed to gasp out.

“Fuck, yes… dolcezza…” Copia choked out, already starting to pull back, “You’re so tight, am I hurting you? Satanas…” He hissed out his pleasure and I saw his eyes roll back a little before he focused down on my face, his odd eyes searching mine in some concern.

Reaching up to smooth his eye paint into the darling crow’s feet he had there, I met his gaze and marvelled. “No, it feels so good, I… I want you to fuck me, don’t stop, Papa… please…”

Papa didn’t stop, sliding his cock back inside me, aided so by my wetness and making me moan out loud at the incredible pressure. I watched him bite his own lip to stifle himself, paying close attention to my body as he held me, stroke by stroke, like I was the most precious thing. When he saw me press my head back on the mattress, becoming delirious with pleasure, he smiled, becoming more relaxed himself, and gave me a thrust to make me grip onto him harder.

“Yes Papa! That’s so fucking good…”

Copia hooked his hand underneath my knee and opened my thigh up further, thrusting a little deeper into my pussy, and he settled more atop me, kissing and licking all over my décolletage, before bringing his head up to murmur low and sweet into my ear.

“I like it when you call me that, fuck! Eh, ahh… Papa,” he told me, “I like it when you call me Papa…”

“You are Papa,” I said, and he snorted into my neck mid-thrust.

“You are delightful, Sorella,” he said, “Bellissima… ugh, fuck… I think I am going to be fucking you a lot, eh?” Copia was pumping his cock into me in the best way, warm and hard and steady. “If you’ll have me?” he continued, leaning down to pant against my cheek as he thrust.

“Yes, Papa, please!” Every drive of his cock hit those parts inside me to make me shiver, and the brief absence of him with each pass made me yearn for it again and again and again. “Ugh, I need you, you fuck me so good!”

He really was. Copia knew what he was doing, and he fucked me ecstatically now in a perfect rhythm of lust, his hips snapping against the backs of my thighs to make the bed shake. I took his cock again and again, scratching my nails along his shoulders and letting his tongue into my mouth when he sought my lips to kiss me sloppily. Our bodies were beginning to work up a sweat, joined so carnally in our mutual pleasure, and I couldn’t get enough of him.

“You can fuck me whenever you want,” I purred up to him wickedly, “you’re Papa here… I’m here for your pleasure…”

Copia groaned, approaching the throes of that exact pleasure, but he slowed down, seemingly trying to focus again. “That’s true, isn’t it, Sorella?” I saw his lip curl into a mischievous grin. “What is it that all Papas may say, ah?”

“What?” I whisper-gasped, my eyes shut tight, overwhelmed by his cock, the feel of his gloves on me.

“I, ahh… ahh… I brought you into this institution, yes?” Copia gave me one jolting thrust to make me squeak underneath him and then he was fucking me, so fucking good, but his thrusts were becoming more erratic as he seemed to try and focus on his thoughts for a moment, “and I can take you out, so…” Another sweet thrust… He was speaking to me in a mock tone of gruff authority, and I lost it at his silliness even as I felt our mutual pleasure rising.

I laughed out loud, trapped so underneath him, and he joined me in sweet laughter himself, continuing to fuck me as he hung his head down into my shoulder with a grunt.

“Shut up, Papa,” I giggled through a moan, “Oh, just shut up… and fuck me…” I ran my fingers up through his hair, getting it more and more disheveled with the sweat beginning to run off the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, down his spine. He smelled so fucking good on top of me, the weight of him addicting, and I never wanted this to end. “I’ll never come home late again, I promise… If you just keep fucking me…”

But I could sense my poor sweet Papa approaching his end, and I wanted him to feel so fucking good, let everything go and achieve the sweetest release possible.

“Fuck me, Papa, really fuck me… fill me up…”

Copia held me close, thrusting faster and harder for a minute as he groaned into my flushed skin, and then he reared back, his dark gaze piercing into me with pure desire as he began to fuck me hard, holding me down so I couldn’t writhe away from his thrusts, my body jostling, the heat of his body and his lust palpable in the scant air between us.

I opened my legs further for him, taking his cock to the point of pain so he could get his fill of me. “Good girl,” he huffed under his breath, and I could almost come again just from that.

He’d never looked better than this, I thought in awe, chasing his own pleasure and using my poor pussy to do so. Copia drove his cock into my cunt like he just couldn’t help himself near the end, and then he finally came, choking out a shout before he collapsed on top of me, muttering what I guessed was filthy Italian into my hair. I could feel his thick cock throbbing deep inside as he ground his hips into me, pulsing out his spend to fill me completely up, and I clenched my thighs and my pussy around him in delight, holding him tightly as he trembled in my arms.

I felt him come down from his high, breathing heavy. “Satanas, Sorella… that was…”

“Good?” I giggled.

“So fucking good, you’re going to kill your poor old Papa…”

I only hummed wickedly, but soon I was making louder noises. Copia had pushed himself up, still deep within my cunt, and he was dragging his gloved hand down my body, getting a few gropes in before settling his fingers on my clit. His cum was already leaking out of me, the slickness only aiding in that ecstatic circling sensation to drive me wild.

“That’s it, my good girl,” I heard him purr, “Come for Papa… si…”

I was so close already from our fucking that it didn’t take long; I came hard again with cries of pleasure as he hissed in triumph, sliding his spent cock out of me in satisfaction.

“I mean it, Papa,” I managed to say after, “I am never coming home late again.”

Copia flopped down beside me and gathered me to him, sighing out in his exhaustion. “My dear Sorella…”

My mussed up head on his shoulder, I nestled in close, breathing in his scent and wrapping my free arm around him. He felt so warm, his heartbeat only beginning to slow, and I watched his gorgeous face rest, his smudged eyes closing in bliss. My body was covered in smears of his paint, especially my lower half, mixing now with cooling sweat and the sticky remnants of him still seeping out.

After a moment, Copia sought my hand upon him with his gloved one, and brought it up to his lips. “You know, amore,” he murmured between soft kisses to my knuckles, “I cannot stop you from doing as you please… but maybe…” Copia turned over on his side to look down into my face, earnestly, still playing with my hand. “Maybe you’ll allow me to accompany you next time? When you stay out much too late?”

“I’d like that, Papa.” Disentangling from his fingers, I reached up to guide his chin down so he could kiss me on my lips again, and he lingered there for a sweet while, only breaking away to say one thing more.

“And then, I promise, dolcezza… I will spank you.”

#papa emeritus iv #papa copia #popia #the band ghost fanfiction #papa copia x sister of sin #dad behaviour (sexy)#I like it when he looks pissed off

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luvrgreyy · 3 days ago

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LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER, iv.

leon kennedy x religious f!reader

word count: 4.1k summary: god hates what he can’t have. masterlist | taglist | wips

previous chapter

18+ MDNI. DEAD DOVE. themes of religion, manipulation, religious rationalization, age gap(reader is 19, leon is 27), leon being mean for like a split second, kissing, virginity loss, fingering, praise, unprotected sex. this is pretty self indulgent, sorry.

a/n: okay so this might be the last chapter of lambs to the slaughter… i really don’t know how i want to end it so yeah, and i’d rather just wrap this up now that i still like writing about it than force myself to continue with no interest whatsoever. but i do have alot of wips and a few ideas for new series that i look forward to sharing w you guys soon :) thanks so much for the support on ltts, love all of you sm, and hope you all have a great christmas <3

he doesn’t know how it happened or how you ended up here, on the couch, with your arms wrapped around his neck and his hands tangled all up in your hair.

its’s the middle of the week and you went over to his place, like you usually did when your parents were out for work, and now you’re here, your breath hot against his neck and your body pressed close so to his. and it’s all he can focus on. you. you’re all he wants.

the two of you had kissed before, the first time being roughly two weeks ago when you came to him crying, your eyes were red and puffy, and fresh tears were streaking down your cheeks.

the next thing he knew, he had already smothered you with his mouth. it was hard. rough. messy.

when he pulled away, you almost immediately started to complain to him that it was wrong, that the two of you would go to hell for kissing before marriage, and he had to shut you up with another deep kiss before having to talk you through the fact that it wasn’t a bad thing and that the two of you were not gonna go to hell for it, seeing the tears start to swell up in your eyes again.

the coffee mug now sat forgotten on the coffee table, the drink now cold and untouched.

the way your hair feels, tangled between his fingers, as he threads them through the strands.

when he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. your lips are swollen, your hair is mussed, and your clothes are rumpled.

"hey," he reaches up, gently brushing his fingers through the strands of your hair. his other hand slides down your lower back, pulling you flush against him. you're quiet, your eyes fixed on his throat as he speaks. your breathing's harsh, and your body's tense.

“what's wrong?" he asks, his voice soft. you don't answer. can't answer. the words are lodged in your throat, threatening to choke you. all you can do is shake your head.

he kisses you again, his mouth slanting over yours. he shifts you slightly on his lap, so that you're settled on one of his thighs, one leg on either side of it. this new position allows for even closer contact. your body molds against his, fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle. his hands slide up your waist, his fingers gliding over your back, leaving trails of warmth in their wake.

“leon,” you shiver at the contact, his name falling from your lips like a plea.

his hands tighten on your back, fingers digging in just enough to ground you. “hmm?" he asks, his voice soft, but with a hint of something else. his hands move, one cupping the back of your head, the other on your hip, rocking you softly against his thigh.

one of his hands moves to your knee, gently pushing it forward. the action forces you to spread your legs slightly. the other hand's still on your hip, holding you in place. the hand at your knee begins to drift upward and under your dress, fingers dancing on the skin of your inner thigh. you tremble at the touch, your body reacting before your mind has a chance to process what's happening.

"feel good?" he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. the question is rhetorical, and he doesn't wait for an answer.

fingers slip further beneath the dress, fingers splaying across your lower back and creeping up towards your bra clasp.

you try to complain, to object, but all that comes out is a stuttering mess. words jumble in your head, and your mouth refuses to form the right sounds. it's almost as if you've lost the ability to speak, overcome by your body's reaction to his touch.

“what’s wrong, baby?”

his fingers reach the clasp of your bra, and he gently unsnaps it. your body betrays you, arching into his touch despite your protests. his fingers find the underside of your breasts, and you jolt at the sensation.

“leon,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “leon, please… don't want to do anything wrong,"

"baby, there's nothing wrong with this," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "do you trust me?” fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, and you tense, ready to push him away.

"please don't..." you shake your head, unable to find the right words to say. "what if... what if god doesn't understand?"

he pauses at your words, considering them for a long moment. "god gave us free will," he says finally, his voice soft but resolute. "and i think he'd be pretty damn disappointed if we didn't use it." his fingers continue probing into your clothed cunt, tracing the lace trim of your panties, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit through the fabric. you tremble at the contact, your hips shifting slightly of their own accord.

you arch into the touch, your back bowing, and your breath catches in your throat.

"doll," he whispers, the word is almost lost in the kiss he presses to the sensitive skin just behind your ear. "look at me."

you can't, can't bring yourself to do so. your eyes are screwed shut, and your face is flushed.

"c’mon, baby, open your eyes." he prompts again, his tone gentle. and when you refuse to comply, he stops moving his fingers altogether, leaving his thumb pressed to your clit through the lace of your panties.

the pressure is just enough to make you squirm, a constant stimulation that leaves you teetering on the edge.

he gently takes your chin in his hand and tilts your face up towards his. slowly, almost hesitantly, you crack your lids open, peeking through the slits.

"please," you whine, your voice high-pitched and desperate. failing to hide the need and desperation stirring within you. you can't form words, can't string together a coherent thought with his skilled fingers wreaking havoc on your senses. instead, you let out a feeble whimper, your head thrashing from side to side as pleasure mounts within you.

“there you go,” he coos, as if praising a small child for completing a task.

"see?" you search his face, seeking some sign of deception, but find only sincerity and unwavering devotion. "nothing bad is happening. it just feels good, that's all." your lashes flutter, struggling to obey. and yet, you yield. your body melting into his touch, and your head tilting back to rest against his shoulder. leon's hand slides up to cradle your face, his thumb caressing your cheek as he whispers reassurance against your hair.

"breathe for me, baby," he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple.

"it's alright," he soothes. "i've got you." your head starts to spin, and your heart pounds in your ears. your skin feels too tight, like it can barely contain the heat rising to the surface. his fingers finally find the edge of your panties, and with a swift motion, his thumb rubs against your clit, and you jolt, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

“leon,” you whine out, his name torn from your throat. his fingers continue their assault, rubbing and pressing against your cunt.

he chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrates against your body. “yeah? you like that?”

you nod, unable to speak.

his tongue plunders your mouth, taking what he wants. you submit to the kiss, your body pliant against him.

you're sprawled across his lap, your legs draped over each other, your skirt riding up your thighs. his hands are everywhere at once, palming your breasts, teasing your nipples, rubbing your clit. you're panting, your breath coming in harsh gasps.

your skin's flushed, your cheeks burning, and your heartbeat's pounding in your ears. "fuck," he mutters, his eyes locked on yours.

two of his fingers swiftly push inside of you, and you cry out, your body bowing off his lap, nails digging into his thigh. he holds you steady, his other hand gripping your hip.

"relax, princess," he coos. "so tense."

you squeeze your eyes shut, your body trembling. his fingers move, sliding against the slick walls of your pussy.

you tremble and shake, your body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. his fingers move, curling and straightening, rubbing against that one spot inside of you that makes you see stars. "lemme hear you, baby," he prompts. "make some noise for me."

you whimper, a broken, keening sound escaping your lips. he chuckles low in his throat, the vibrations of the sound seeming to reach down and press against your clit. "that's it, such a good little doll f’me. feels good, doesn’t it?"

he's right, it feels amazing. you've never felt anything like it before. his thumb is relentless against your clit, your hands fisting in his shirt. you're lost in a sea of sensation, his fingers and thumb working your cunt like it's the most important thing in the world.

“there you go, baby," he murmurs. "just a lil' more." you're not sure what he's asking for, not really. but you feel it in your bones, in the way your entire body is tightening up like a coil spring.

"lemme hear you," he prompts, his voice low and gravelly.

and then you do. you scream, the sound ripping from your throat as your body convulses and spasms. your vision goes white, and for a moment, you're weightless, floating in a sea of bliss. when you come back to yourself, you're slumped against him, your body limp and boneless. he's still rubbing your clit with his thumb, his fingers still curled inside of you, milking out every last wave of pleasure.

"so pretty when you cum," he breathes, his lips brushing against your temple. "so beautiful.”

you can't form a coherent response, not that you'd know what to say. your brain's gone mushy, and all you can do is sag against him. his fingers slowly withdraw, and you whimper, feeling the empty ache of your spent cunt.

“i wanna try somethin' else," he starts to maneuver you. "c'mon, baby, let’s get this off you," he says, pulling your dress up and off.

you don't protest, letting him strip you naked.

he helps you scoot further up the couch, until you're more reclined, your back pressed against the cushions. he settles between your spread thighs, his body looming over yours.

he positions himself at your entrance, the thick crown of his cock notched against your slit. he pushes forward, and you feel him start to penetrate, your body resisting his invasion.

"aah—“ you whimper, forehead creasing.

"n-no, don’t.." you try to protest, but it comes out as a moan. he chuckles softly, the vibration of his laughter sending shivers through your body.

"’m not doing anything wrong," he reminds you. "think you're forgetting that you’re the one who came to me."

his hands grip your knees, holding them back as he sinks more of himself inside of you. you whine, the sting of the stretch causing you to gasp. but it's a good stretch, like after waking up from a long nap. he sets a slow, deep pace, his hips rocking against yours. your hands reach out, grasping at his shoulders for balance.

"shh, 'm sorry, baby," he grimaces, his pace slowing. "gotta break you in real quick, ‘ts only gonna hurt a bit.”

you try to push against his chest, but he's too strong. he keeps pushing forward, forcing his way into your resisting body. the intrusion is painful, making you instinctively flinch and and jerk away.

"jesus, just fuckin— fucking relax, okay? you're only makin' it worse for yourself,"

he leans down, claiming your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss as he bottom's out, buried to the hilt inside of you. "mmpff—“ you mewl against his lips.

your cunt clenches around him, trying to coax him deeper. he groans into the kiss, the vibration of the sound sending tingles through your body.

he starts to move, his hips rocking against yours in a slow, deep grind. you're still sore, still stretching to accommodate his size, but with each passing moment, the pain fades, replaced by a growing sense of pleasure.

"feels good, doesn't it?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. "i know, dolly. i know,”

he nuzzles against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he sets a slow, easy pace. his hands slide up your legs, your thighs, your hips. one hand comes back up to hold your knees, pushing them down to spread you open.

"gonna take my time with you, princess," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "work you open, nice and slow,”

he's huge, and it hurts, but there's something else, something that makes the pain worthwhile. pleasure, building at the base of your spine.

he sets a slow, deep pace, his hips rocking against yours. your hands reach out, grasping at his shoulders for balance. you take a shallow breath, and then another, your body starting to unclench. he starts to pull back, sliding out of you, and you whine in protest. but he's just switching it up, angling himself and pushing back inside. and this time, it doesn't hurt so much. in fact, it feels downright good.

"you gotta breathe, baby," he pants, forehead pressed against yours. "just f'get about it. breathe."

he kisses you again, the movements slow and languid, like he's savoring something delicious.

you're not sure how long he works you open. it could've been minutes or hours. time seems to blur together into nothingness. at some point, he tilts his hips, and you feel him nudging against a spot inside of you that makes your whole body jerk. he does it again, and again, until you're writhing beneath him, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"yeah, baby, that's it," he groans, forehead pressed against yours. "show me how bad you want it." you try to speak, to tell him that you don't know what he's talking about, that this is all wrong. but the words won't come.

all that comes out is a keening moan, a sound that's equal parts pain and pleasure. he's still easing you open, stretching you in ways you never thought possible. but it's no longer painful, not in the way it was before.

it's... pleasant. yeah, that's the only way to describe it. pleasant and good and right.

"fuckin’ hell, look at you, baby. takin' it so good, you were made for this, doll. made to take my cock," he starts to speak, his words a stream of praise and nonsense, but you barely register what he's saying. the words are distant, a blur of noise as your focus narrows down to the sensations raging through your body.

his hips are moving in a blur now, slamming into you with a rhythmic intensity that's pushing you towards some unknown precipice. he's saying things, praising you, telling you how good you look, how perfect your cunt is wrapped around his cock.

the words are lost on you, drowned out by the escalating tide of pleasure.

“i knew you'd fit me so good," he pants, his hips snapping harder now, driving deeper. "every inch of you made just for me. so perfect ‘nd pretty. and this perfect fuckin’ cunt... fuck, baby... tightest pussy i’ve ever had…" his words are a blur, a stream-of-consciousness praise that washes over you in waves. you can't process them, not really. all that matters is the feeling of him inside of you, stretching you wide, hitting that spot that makes sparks fly behind your eyes.

your nails dig into his shoulders, your back arching off the couch as he pistons in and out of you, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. your inner muscles are fluttering, clenching around him like a vice, urging him on.

"s'not fuckin' fair," he grunts, his pace faltering for a moment as he fights for control. he's chasing something, you can tell. his movements become jerky, erratic, like he's on the verge of losing control.

"feels too fucking good." he regains his composure, redoubling his efforts until the room is filled with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh and your high-pitched moans.

the pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your gut until you're sure you'll snap. he's hitting that spot inside of you again and again, and you're teetering on the brink — it's all too much, and yet, somehow, not enough.

"please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for.

"yeah, baby?" he prompts, his hips stilling deep inside of you. "whatcha need?" you can't form the words, not really. your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. all that manages to slip out is:

"more."

his hips flex, and he slams into you again, the force of his thrust sending you sprawling back against the cushions. you gasp, your eyes widening as he bottoms out once more, his cock buried to the hilt inside of you.

"so greedy," his hips start to move again, slowly at first, but picking up speed as he senses your desperation. "atta girl.”

each thrust jars you to your core, and you can only cling to him, your nails raking down his back as you're fucked into oblivion.

his fingers weave through your hair, holding your head still as his lips trail over your face. he kisses your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, your cheekbones. each press of his mouth against your skin is gentle, soothing, a contrast to the roughness of his lovemaking.

"easy, baby," he coos, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against your ear that seems to seep into your very bones.

his fingers tighten in your hair, holding you as he peppers you face with a series of gentle, soothing kisses. he's a paradox — the way he's caressing you, holding you, so gently, delicately. but the way he��s been fucking you is anything but.

you feel the change in him, a subtle shift in his movements, his breaths. he's close, you realize, and so are you. there’s that coil in your stomach, something that’s warm and fluttering, building towards something you can't quite reach yet.

“leon, leon— feel weird, again..” you stumble on your words.

"weird's good, doll. means you're gettin' there,” he assures. “just... f'get about it. breathe,”

at the same time, he picks up his pace, his hips slapping against yours with a rhythmic intensity that threatens to shake the couch apart.

"gonna cum soon," he warns, his words a guttural groan, his thrusts even more erratic. "when i do, i want you to let go for me, 'kay? just... just fall apart," he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath washing over your skin.

"gonna fill you up," he grunts, his voice strained. "make a mess of your perfect little cunt.”

and your body responds, as if driven by an outside force. your muscles lock, your back arching impossibly high. your cunt spasms around him, milking his cock for all it's worth as it finally rips through you. a blinding, white-hot rush.

his cock throbs inside you, his hips stuttering against yours as he finally reaches the same peak.

hot strings of cum paint the inside of your walls as he empties himself deep inside you. he stays buried inside of you for long moments after, and you’re not sure exactly how long. but when you finally come down from the high, you find yourself draped across his chest, his hands rubbing slow circles on your back, your sides, soothing you as the aftershocks slowly dissipate.

you're a puddle of warmth and satisfaction, your body splayed beneath his, his softening cock still buried deep inside of you.

you're still limp and pliant in his arms, your breath coming in soft pants against his chest.

he shifts slightly, easing his himself out of you with a soft squelch. you flinch at the sensation, and he notices, his grip on you tightening as he pulls you into his arms. he strokes your hair, your back, your sides, his touch gentle and soothing.

"stay a little longer, alright? just... a little bit more," he asks, his tone sweet and pleading. you blink slowly, trying to clear the haze from your mind. it's hard to think clearly when he's speaking to you like this, his words dripping with affection and adoration.

he's saying things, nice things, telling you how amazing you are, how perfect you are for him, how much he needs you. it's all a blur, a warm, fuzzy haze that surrounds you, envelops you. it makes you feel cherished, special, like you're the only person in the world.

and you feel like you'd do anything to please him, to make him happy.

your mind flits to the clock on the mantle, its numbers seeming to mock you. you should go home, you know that. your parents will be back soon, and you can't afford to be late again.

“leon… i can’t,”

“c’mon, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "just a few more minutes,” you swallow hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. it makes you weak in the knees, it takes everything in you not to give in to his request.

“but—“

his arms tighten around you, holding you impossibly close as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. "please, doll," he murmurs in a low, honeyed tone that seeps into your very bones. "i need you. just a little more time, 'kay?" his words are a gentle persuasion, a tender plea that tugs at your heartstrings.

he's been so gentle with you, so caring. "i'll make it up to you," he promises, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "i'll take you out, wherever you want to go. just... stay with me a little longer, okay?”

the room feels smaller somehow, as though the world itself has shrunk to the space between his heartbeat and yours. your lips part, the beginnings of another protest forming, but the weight of his gaze stops you short. there’s something in his eyes —dark, pleading, a flicker of vulnerability that you can’t quite name.

“okay,” you whisper at last, the word barely audible, a ghost of sound that slips past your lips before you can think better of it.

his face softens instantly, relief washing over his features like a summer tide. “yeah?” he breathes, his smile curling slow and dangerous, like he knows he’s won.

you nod faintly, unsure of what exactly you’ve just agreed to, or why it feels both terrifying and impossible to resist. your thoughts churn, hazy and fragmented, but his fingers are already lacing through yours, grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvet hum that sends shivers down your spine. “i knew you’d understand.”

you close your eyes, letting yourself sink further into his embrace. it’s too easy, the way his words coax you into letting go of the worries clawing at the edges of your mind. for now, it feels safe — his arms, his voice, the way he holds you as if you’re something precious, something he can’t bear to let slip away.

he pulls you closer, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs tucked up against him. you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and strong. "rest, baby," he soothes. "you had a long day.”

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae @clitorphosis

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honeyynymphh · 1 year ago

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La Principessa Addormentata Papa IV x FemReader Rating: T tags: mostly sfw, cuddles, daddy dom papa, established relationship, fluff, google translated italiano 800 words

summary: Copia returns to his papal chambers late one night to find his principessa asleep on the lounge after trying to wait up all night for him

I wrote this last night at midight and it's mostly unedited, sorry. I was feeling a type of way. I might expand it later and turn it into a proper fic another day. This is the same universe as this fic and this one

“Principessa?”

You open your eyes slowly to see Copia standing above you, the low light of the room made his painted face look eerie—but it doesn't frighten you, instead, it's a welcome sight. You’d been waiting up for him for hours. At first, it had been easy; a little studying before you had put the demonic textbooks aside and swapped them for much more enjoyable books. After showering and getting comfortable in your nightgown, you had sat on the lounge reading. When your eyes had become heavy, you had told yourself you would just shut them for a moment, your novel still held in one hand as it rested against your chest.

But you must have fallen asleep—and how could you not? It was so cosy in his papal suite with the warm fire and the comfortable lounge. The flames had tickled your cheeks and the crackling of the burning logs had lulled you into a hazy place of dreamless rest.

“Papa?” you say, voice heavy with sleep as you gaze up at him.

He smiles down at you, a gloved hand reaching out and brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The firelight flickers over his jewelled vestments and you note how his hair is a little mussed from wearing the mitre.

“It’s very late, I am sorry,” he says, slowly shrugging out his vestments and placing them on a nearby armchair, revealing the black suit underneath. “You should have gone to bed.”

You shake your head lazily, unable to stifle a yawn. “But I was waiting for you."

The sound of his low chuckle makes you smile, you eyes closing when he leans over you and places a kiss on your temple. Your smile spreads into a giddy grin and he places another kiss on your forehead before his fingers wipe at where he has kissed you—clearly trying to remove the black marks he has left behind.

“Sei troppo dolce, mia piccola principessa,” he says, his arms sliding under you so he can pick you up, cradling your head against his chest. “Time for bed.”

You try to protest, surely you are too heavy for him but he clearly doesn’t seem to struggle as he moves you with ease towards his bedroom. While the smell of the fire and the incense you had been burning earlier had been delightful, nothing could compare to the smell of your Papa and you nuzzle closer, deeply breathing him in. His suit jacket is smooth against your skin and you can hear, and feel, the steady beat of his heart. Ever so gently he places you on the bed, helping to lift the covers up so you can slide in.

The sheets are far too cool and you curl up instantly on your side, your head burying into the soft pillow. You can hear him moving about—the sound of him undressing, and then the shower turning on. His little hums as he sings to himself merely aid you in feeling sleepy again. It was always so comforting having him near, and the domestic sound of him getting ready for bed always made you smile. How quickly you had learned his little routines. He didn’t like hot showers, though they were always so long, and he insisted on using two towels—one around his waist and another to go over his shoulders, he always said he got cold after getting out. You must drift back to sleep as you jolt when you feel the mattress dip and open your eyes to find the room completely dark. Warm arms wrap around you, pulling you close against his bare chest—the hair there still a little damp.

“You use two towels yet you don’t dry yourself properly,” you mumble, though you make no effort to move away from him.

He doesn’t say anything, instead, he just pulls you closer so your back is completely pressed against his chest—you can feel that he’s dampened your nightgown. When he presses his face against your neck you feel water dropping onto your skin from his wet hair.

“Copia, you’re making me wet,” you whine half-heartedly, wiping at the droplets he has dripped on your neck.

“I hope so, principessa,” he says, pressing himself against you—you can feel his cock hardening against your ass.

You shake your head, though you can’t help but smile in the darkness. “You said bedtime.”

His mouth presses a kiss against your neck and you shiver. He does it again, his mouth hot and hitting that sensitive patch of skin behind your ear. You can't help but sigh in pleasure at the feel of it, feeling less sleepy with each touch of his lips on your skin.

“Si,” he murmurs in between another kiss, “I said bedtime.” The arm he has over you shifts, his hand moving down your side and skating over your hip. “But not time to sleep, principessa.”

La Principessa Addormentata - The Sleeping Princess Sei troppo dolce, mia piccola principessa - You are too sweet, my little princess

#my-writing #the band ghost fic #papa iv x reader #copia x reader #fanfic #copia x sister of sin #papa iv x female reader #ghost fanfiction #ficlet

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petricocked · 1 year ago

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winter king x softdom!reader

u made me do this... anyways ive never posted on tumblr before so i dont really know how this works

cw: smut, pwp, soft dom reader, reader is called "princess", bitchboy winter king, also probably ooc wk, not proofread

wc: 987

You had him slotted between your legs, arms wrapping around his front to let your hands glide across his chest. You could feel his heart beating through his half-buttoned dress shirt. His breaths came out in short gasps in spite of the fact that you had barely started touching him.

He whined when your hand inched down to ghost over the crotch of his pants, instinctively bucking up into you.

He was, Golb bless him, trying his damndest to keep his regal composure, but you could tell he was growing impatient. Sucks for him. Not you, though. It was fun for you.

"Princess, please," he pleaded with you.

You thought you'd take pity on him this time.

You took your time undoing his fly, making it a point to run your fingers painstakingly slow up against him.

He let out another one of his pretty whines, wordlessly begging you to fist his cock until he squirted against his chest. But you wouldn't do that. Not yet, at least.

Pretty tears welled up in his eyes, and you think they'd crystalize if they fell out. You wanted him in you in a way that surpassed sex and was far beyond morally correct. You thought about eating him, but that made it weird.

He was fucking hard. His poor cock strained against those fancy boxers he wore and literally sprung up when you freed him.

He was gorgeous. Had the prettiest little dick-- blue at the base and flushed a cotton candy pink at the tip.

Your hands danced around the extremely pressing matter. Of course, you weren't just gonna give him what he wanted-- he had to work for it!

"Tell me what you want,"

Golb, that got him. He hated being out of control like this. Poor thing.

"Want you," he breathed out.

"Already got me, what now?"

That irritated him.

"Want you to touch me,"

"'M already touching you,"

Poor thing couldn't catch a break, and to frost the metaphorical cake: after his slip-up, you let your fingers rest against his thighs. Completely opposite of where he wanted them.

He genuinely cried at this, gripping his own hands atop yours.

"My cock! Please, want you to help me get off!" he affirmed the earnestness of his confession with a sharp and almost involuntary upward thrust of his hips.

Much better! You'd accept that.

"What a good boy, baby! See, was that so hard?"

He was. Indefinitely.

You felt equal parts bad for him and fucking turned on at how hot he was letting himself go like this.

Your hands found their way back to his cock, finally giving him what he wanted.

You worked the tip of his cock with your index and middle finger, not yet giving him the exact amount of pressure he wanted.

Your fingers slinked down to wrap around his cock. Did I mention it was pretty?

Golb, was he a sight. Splayed out for you, open and completely vulnerable. Head tilted back against you, eyes lidded, and glasses slipping down his nose. His glittery hair was mussed, and his chest was rising and falling at a rate you think would kill him. You think you want him in your chest.

You wanted to see him ruined and cumming all over himself. But you'd draw it out a little longer.

He'd never say it outright, but he wanted that too. There was something so, for a lack of better words, hot, about letting you humiliate him like this. Being reduced to nothing more than a crying mess in your lap.

Literally crying.

Pretty tears had started to run down his cheeks as you pumped his cock, and you reveled in them.

He couldn't take much more of this. You knew he was going to cum if you kept it up.

So you didn't.

And, Golb, did that almost kill him.

He jerked up, whining and humping aimlessly at the air, hands frantically reaching back to grab at you for leaving him, (your king!!!!) like this. He would definitely mention his title if he could think about anything else besides your hands on his cock.

"Please, please, please, please, please, please, holy fucking shit,"

The mouth on this so-called "king"!

"Princess, can't, I,"

"You can,"

"Can't, need to cum," he knew better than to get himself off, so his hands gripped desperately at yours on his taut thighs.

"Mm," you anything but half-heartedly retorted.

You lifted your left hand up to stretch out his mouth, your warm fingers perfectly contrasting his cold tongue, which left your right hand to make its way back to jackhammering away at his poor swollen cock.

He was fucking gone. His spit dripped down and coated your fingers, and his little hips were moving as fast as he could will them to.

Golb bless him, he was really trying his hardest to talk to you with your fingers jammed down his throat and rubbing against his teeth, but all he could get out were garbled moans and pleas.

You thought you might be nice this go around.

He looked so pretty like this, you wanted to give him the world.

So you didn't stop this time, you kept your fist working diligently around his cock until his thrusts devolved into erratic jerky spasms, and his pretty mouth went limp, no longer able to service your fingers. His entire face contorted, partly in sheer shock that you were actually letting him cum this time. He came in thin milky ropes, shooting up against his fancy blazer and dribbling out onto your hand.

You jerked him off through his high and sincerely thought about not stopping until he was crying for a different reason, but that was for a different day.

"Thank you," he mumbled against your fingers, shifting his hips to get comfortable in your lap.

Wow! What a gracious and unexpected show of gratitude!

"But my BLAZER," :((((((

-----------

ok um.. idrk how to use tumblr but anyways i wrote this because i had evil awful winter king thoughts in my head and had to get them out.. if anyone reads this its not my fault.. if u liked it ummm u can request anything go nuts idrc just be rlly specific but i cant guarantee u ill write it im a busy girl!!!!!

#winter king x reader smut #the winter king x reader smut #fionna and cake fic #winter king x reader #the winter king x reader

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hockeyisforthegays · 4 months ago

Note

did you read 264 and 265 chapter's of jjk? if so what are you thoughts? you don't have to answer i'm just curious about what you think because i feel like you have really unique observations

(love you writing, thank you in advance if you end up answering)

oh shit anon let me write you an essay. and by essay i mean a disjointed series of long ass bulletpoints. also im gonna be focusing mostly on 265 because as my friends put it i am "ceo of itadori yuuji" or the proprietor of the "itadori cinematic universe" so you could say. that i am biased

okay. one. as an overall thing. i wish that for pretty much everything . that they would just lean into it more. theres a lot of concepts im into but everything lately seems to be presented without exploration or followup. like im about to analyze this to shit but i feel like im gluing meat to a skeleton. help me out here gege

FOR EXAMPLE yuuji's ultimatum to sukuna. i wish. i wish there was more here. like in theory this is really cool to me. yuuji says You Choose Whether I Eat You Or Kill You. Will You Live With Me? Or Will You Die Alone?

I lay my Body down as a Sacrifice

but more so as a Prison

but most of all as a Mercy

the first to my Friend, the second to my Curse, and the third to the Person i hope is buried deep down inside that evil.

aaaaand then this is kinda undercut by sukuna's reaction to me. not that i need him to go full on mahito quaking rabbit ass on us tbc. but the stubborn non-engagement with the premise just makes me roll my eyes and groan. i wish gege had found a way to let this reveal SOME new or unexplored aspect of sukuna's character? one chink in the armour. one stray thought that we wouldn't expect to hear from him. something. something to latch onto.

this may be unreasonable also given that gege is writing in literally a different language but i hope we find our way somehow to the double meaning of the phrase "flesh and blood" btw. like. sukuna is yuuji's uncle and they shared a body. yuuji is trying to make sukuna come back to that body. theres something there i swear it.

sukuna, come home. we're family. you're my flesh and blood.

(while beating his ass)

like make it scary. god PLEASE put some metamorphosis stank on it. gimme that I Am You flavourrrrr

okay now also. yuuji's domain. i want to talk about yuuji's domain so bad. one thing i noticed was that he doesn't name it. at first i was pretty disappointed because im a weirdo and i love their weird word salad names, i love that e.g. fushiguro and mahito just bust out full poems on i guess instinct when they use their domains for the first time!! so the fact that yuuji didn't get one felt at first like he was being... slighted by the convention almost? but.

this is again a thing i think could have been cool if leaned into, in a few ways. ive just been having these ideas about how yuuji's domain is different from other domains, one of those ways being in its lack of a name.

first of all from a character perspective - yuuji's whole persona in battle is like warpath, tunnel vision, beat your ass shit, so it does kinda make sense that his domain would be just as no muss no fuss just get it the fuck done, in a way. once again. lean into this!!

but also, i started thinking about what we saw with characters like gojo and sukuna, and the idea of jujutsu as the art of elision. when those characters wanted to juice their big moves, they reverted rituals that included vocal incantations. that exact word salad shit. i started thinking - those word salad domain names are like, that, you know? maybe this is explicit and i just missed it somewhere. or i forgor. but perhaps invoking a domain's name makes it more powerful, or easier to establish, or something

(i so much dont want to reread to figure this out. RIP)

if this is the case, yuuji not using a domain name would say a darn something about his power huh???

LEAN INTO THIS. LIKE SUKUNA COMMENT ON IT FOR FUCK SAKE i know you are allergic to acknolwedging your nephew but its for the AUDIENCE'S SAKE NOT YOURS

gege i am fucking inventing lore for you to make it cooler. why wont you. come back here

but anyway. what IS yuuji's domain and what does it do. he learned from kusakabe, so it's at least somewhat akin to a simple domain, but we also know yuuji's body holds the memory of malevolent shrine - does that have any influence on how the domain turned out? it seems pretty... big, for lack of a better way of describing a mental projection. no other simple domain really HAD projections. are there no techniques imbued in it? what about vows, like sukuna with his whatever barrier bullshit? yuuji's forces sukuna back into the yuukuna body. why? how? we've seen how domains can make its targets abide by rules, what rule is this? sukuna also acts nonviolently for as long as yuuji strings him through illusory sendai, and i dont know if this is a choice by sukuna (which idk whether i do or do not understand as a character choice at this point) or if it's enforced by the domain somehow.

(I feel like, these things either need to be More or even Less clear. like i understand just enough to have burning questions. if this were more obtuse and symbolic, i would probably be content to ride the vibes, actually. BUT IM NOT. ANSWER ME GEGE. YOU'VE TOLD ME SO MUCH LORE I DONT CARE ABOUT!!! WHAT OF MY SON!)

anyway closing thoughts wrt 266 you may be able to tell from my Fucking Fanfiction but i have literally been waiting for yuuji's own fingers to become cursed objects for EVER. i was imagining scenarios while watching season 1. im crazy stupid about it. i hope i hope i hope this finger shakes out into something WORTHWHILE. and sorry again this is entirely yuuji centred my only thoughts about the characters who were in 264 is the frustration of the way they got sidelined so carelessly RIP

#jjk manga spoilers #uuuuh someotne tell me if i should put this under a readmore

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nothoughts-onlywomen · 1 month ago

Text

steadfast sightless - chapter sixteen

Lucas has regrets, and Eleven does too. Lucas reads Max's letter. Mike visits Max to make amends. Lori and Nancy help care for Max in her weakened state. Max hears a new song. El and Max have a difficult discussion, and our friends in Hawkins are left to make a weighty decision.

Lucas couldn’t believe where they’d ended up.

Their efforts to break Max out of the hospital now seemed utterly wasted. And she was even worse than before. Lucas tried to push guilt-ridden thoughts from his mind, tried to silence the inner voice that was repeating: You made her worse. You made her worse. It was hard not to think this as he looked down at her, hearing her labored breathing, seeing the sweat gleam against her pale skin in the muted light, dimmed by the ever-growing dark clouds which now seemed to eclipse the sky in full. Now, when the rumbling happened, Lucas could swear he heard the building groan around them, hear it creak.

Lucas knew that the Upside Down was closing in. The true sky was less visible by the day, replaced by the rumbling hell that would soon eclipse any hope of a world beyond what was to come. The utter bleakness of knowing that the end was near…Lucas didn’t want to succumb to it, but it seemed as if it was cornering them. And he could only stand on a sinking ship for so long before his survival instincts kicked in and he fled to the last safe place. For Lucas, that was at Max’s side. It wasn’t exactly secure in their current circumstances, but if their world was indeed going to end, Lucas wanted to die with Max in his arms. Going together into the night.

The only sliver of hope Lucas was holding onto was that all these wires and tubes and machines might somehow allow her to cling to life. At least long enough for him to kiss her one last time. To hold her against the apocalypse. She now wore an oxygen mask instead of a cannula, with a small notch in it to allow room for her newly reinstated feeding tube. She had the IV in her arm, that was familiar, but Max now had electrodes stuck to her chest, and some thin, colored wires slithered out from under her hospital gown and trailed toward a slowly beeping machine.

Lucas could hardly stand to look at her. He wanted to run far away, to wipe this image of broken, dying Max from his mind, but he wanted to take her with him. As if enveloping her in his arms would keep her from slipping through them.

“Lucas.”

He started, turning around. It was El, and she shrunk back at his reaction.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Lucas shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

“It’s okay. In fact, let’s go outside. I…I need some air.”

Without waiting for her response, Lucas brushed past El, making a beeline for the door. He heard her quiet footsteps behind him as he swept right past the chairs outside of Max’s room. The hospital’s four walls were starting to close in on him, and he could barely breathe within their confines. It was only when they were through the sliding doors and on the gray pavement that Lucas felt his lungs expand.

He sat on the grass, his head in his hands. He took his first deep breath in several hours and regretted it at once; the smell of the air was stale, almost foul, like rotting wood. The rumbling clouds almost completely engulfed the sky. The air was cold and cruel. And still, out here was preferable to Max’s hospital room right now.

He felt El sit down next to him, felt her hand on his arm.

“I thought she might be awake,” she admitted.

Lucas chuckled sadly. “She’s not awake much these days.”

It wasn’t until Lucas looked at El before he saw the dark circles under her wet eyes. Her mop of curly hair was unkempt, slightly mussed. Her dark blue jacket was zipped up snug, and she pulled it a little closer around her in the chilly air.

“She is getting weaker.”

Somehow hearing it said aloud made the horrible truth more immediate. Lucas looked at her.

“We have to do something, El. I can’t watch her die again.”

El wiped her eyes, nodding resolutely.

“I think…” She swallowed. “You were right about how to help her. Visiting her memories, and helping her survive them. But I also think when we go into her memories, it has hurt her mind too.”

“Do we even know if this is the way to help her anymore?” Lucas questioned miserably. “It doesn’t seem to have done a lot of good.”

El’s expression solidified.

“It is the way.”

“But how do we know?”

El met his gaze.

“The night you and Will stayed with us. She saw Billy at Starcourt and got scared.”

Lucas hadn’t really pressed El or Max for further details of that night, but knowing they had seen Starcourt was indication enough that the mere sight of the mall was triggering to Max. He hadn’t, until now, realized that Billy had actually made an appearance. It made sense, though.

“She was on the ground, curled up, screaming. I was holding her, and she said she heard your heartbeat. She heard mine…and she heard yours.”

Lucas frowned, both mollified and confused.

“She heard my heartbeat?”

“Max was sure it was yours. That was how we knew it was helping her make a connection. And it wasn’t just that. This last time, when she woke up…I could see it in her eyes. She was confused, and she didn’t know where she was because she couldn’t see. I think the Max from the void was in there for a moment.”

Lucas was still slightly rattled from that day. The image of Max’s wide milky eyes, her white face covered in blood, her jerky attempts at getting away from him…he would never forget it. In the moment, he had been so staggered by Max’s extreme reaction that he hadn’t been considering its cause. But it would explain her sudden hysteria.

“But then,” El explained. “She went back there again. And she was different when she woke up.”

“You looked different too,” Lucas told her, and she frowned. “That day, when that happened…you had a look on your face. Like you’d seen someone do that before.”

El sighed.

“I have.”

She took another breath, as if steeling herself.

“Not Max,” she whispered. “Mama.”

Lucas watched her. She had vaguely mentioned seeing her mother in the months after her return to Hawkins, but had always seemed hesitant to divulge further details. It now made sense why.

“When I found Mama, she was doing that. Sitting in a chair. Staring at TV. Saying the same words, over and over.”

The longing in El’s expression wasn’t lost on him.

“Did she know you were there?”

El nodded.

“She could not talk to me. But she knew. Mama has a mind like me.”

Lucas decided he didn’t want to entertain the possibility that Max’s mind could have fallen prey to the same phenomenon. She seemed to have escaped it for now, as she could still respond to them. But its implications for the next dive into the void had become all the more daunting.

“This isn’t like your mom,” he tried to bolster her. “Max is still here with us.”

El shrugged, her expression bleak. “Until we hurt her again.”

“We had no choice, El. It was going to hurt her either way.”

El’s face tightened, but she nodded.

“Which memories of hers have you seen?” Lucas inquired, suddenly curious. ‘You don’t have to give me details.”

“A few of them were…sad. She has been very lonely. But in her Hawkins memories – memories with us – she is happy. She is smiling, laughing, and not lonely anymore.”

El’s sorrowful smile mirrored Lucas’ feelings. The thought of Max happy…it seemed so far away now.

Eleven’s brows furrowed.

“After the last memories we saw, something has changed.”

“How do you mean?”

“I have gone to visit her once or twice. Her memories come in pieces now. Sometimes I hear her mother’s voice, I see palm trees, I feel boards beneath my feet. But they are all disconnected. Nothing goes together. Nothing makes sense. And Max…she looks like she is in pain.”

Lucas tried to quell the familiar foreboding that was once again stirring in the pit of his stomach.

“So…you think we’re close to bringing her back?”

“We have to be. But I need your help.”

He nodded vigorously. “Anything.”

El reached out and squeezed his hand.

“There is a memory. It happened a while ago. You and Max were sitting on a van roof. At nighttime.”

Lucas brought the memory forth in his mind. He knew exactly which one El was referring to. It had been the first time he’d seen Max let down her walls a little bit.

“Think of it,” El said from next to him. “And I will join you in there.”

“You’ll…join me?”

El shook her head. “I will explain later.”

Lucas closed his eyes, and let the memory wash over him in his mind’s eye. That dark, cloudy night, where he himself had sat on the roof of that rickety old bus, looking for Dart through the shifting fog. Soon, Lucas could smell the damp air, could feel the metal bus roof beneath him. He opened his eyes, and he now sat on the broken-down bus, the shadows of the gloomy junkyard leering in the distance. Once he’d gotten his bearings, he watched the younger version of himself stare through the fog with binoculars.

It was a strange experience, watching himself in his youth. Not that he wasn’t still young. In the measure of years, anyway. He felt much older now.

Lucas felt El sit down quietly next to him, and he turned towards her.

“Why are we in this memory?”

El was watching younger Lucas intently. “During this memory, something happened. Something strange.”

“What do you mean?” Lucas frowned, but El shook her head, pointing at the scene in front of them. Lucas felt a lump rise in his throat as a familiar scruffy mane of red hair emerged from the door in the roof. Max’s younger self climbed off the ladder, sitting next to younger Lucas.

As the two began quiet conversation, Lucas couldn’t tear his eyes off younger Max. She was as beautiful and vulnerable as she ever was, her face quiet, her eyes guarded. Even her posture seemed drawn in, wary, unsure. The longer they spoke, however, Lucas watched the tension in her face start to ease, her stiff shoulders start to slacken. Younger Max’s face grew sorrowful as she discussed California, her dad, and, inevitably, Billy. Lucas recognized her now melancholy expression, her eyes glassy with tears as she confessed the pain she had endured. This mask of despair she now held was more reminiscent of Max a year ago – any joy she’d once gained snuffed out like a candle in an arctic storm, leaving bleak emptiness in its wake.

Younger Max’s morose expression suddenly tightened. “I know…I can be a jerk like him sometimes. But I do not want to be like him. Ever. I guess…I’m angry too, and…I’m sorry.”

Lucas was reminded of the genuine fear and remorse in her eyes at this notion as it flashed upon her face. Silence sat between them as his younger self processed this. After several moments, Max withdrew again, wiping her eyes, laughing dismissively.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with me?”

Younger Lucas straightened up, leaning in toward her.

“Hey,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re nothing like your brother, okay? You’re cool, and different. And you’re super smart.”

Younger Max’s mouth started to curl up in a smile.

“And you’re like totally tubular.”

Max laughed, and Lucas felt a surge of emotion at the sound. “Nobody actually says that, you know.”

“Well, I do now.”

Max’s teasing grin widened. “And it makes you sound really cool.”

Lucas felt a deep anguish weigh heavy in his soul. It was an excruciating burden to know what awaited this version of Max, and he wished with all his heart he could break into the memory to shield her from it. Even her reminiscent snarky smile, the one he had rarely seen then – and certainly never saw now – made his arms ache for her.

“I like talking with you, Mad Max,” Lucas heard his younger self say, and younger Max replied, “I like talking with you, stalker.”

Lucas was broken out of his focus by El, who was tugging on his sleeve.

“Let’s go back.”

He fought to tear his eyes away from younger Max. It felt like years since he’d seen her so whole. And those eyes, her eyes that were now soft and warm and open…no matter where they ended up, he would never see those eyes again. Not how they were before.

After several more seconds of trying to encapsulate this image of Max in his mind – a slightly happier, certainly healthier, and blissfully unaware Max – Lucas finally allowed himself to be led away by El. He shook his head a little, opening his eyes. The gray pavement and withering grass outside the hospital slowly filled his vision, accompanied by the dark black and red clouds that ate up the sky.

El was wiping her nose next to him, and Lucas turned toward her.

“Are you going to tell me what we just did? And why?”

Her expression was urgent. “When Max and I saw that memory, it was different. Something strange happened. The colors got brighter. There was a high noise, like a scream. And then you said: ‘you’ll end up just like him’ to Max.”

Lucas shook his head, horrified.

“No, I didn’t say that. I would never. I would never.”

“I think Vecna is messing up Max’s memories,” said El, looking reassured at his insistence. “Because that memory in your mind – nothing strange happened. It was a normal memory. But for her – he wants to make her believe her happy memories are bad ones, and her bad memories are worse. So she has nothing left to hope for.”

He uses my memories against me. Lucas remembered that Max had warned him of this. He had always assumed this to mean that Vecna simply reminded her of her darkest memories, on a loop in her mind. But now that Lucas thought about it, warping Max’s good memories – in addition to constantly presenting her with bad ones – would be just as effective, if not more. Leading her to believe she had no good memories at all. It seemed like the kind of twisted thing Vecna would do.

“You think he would still try to do that?” Lucas asked half-heartedly, well aware of his question’s absurdity. “Even now, with so much else going on?”

“Especially now,” El replied urgently, and Lucas was surprised to see tears in her eyes. “Because…I’m scared Max will not want to live.”

Both anger and anxiety spiked sharply within him at these words.

“Why wouldn’t she?”

El pursed her lips tightly.

“Like I just told you. When she came out of her memory and was scared, I think it was the Max in the void. That Max doesn’t know about her eyes. The next time I go in there, I have to tell her.”

It was the same conundrum that Lucas had found himself in weeks earlier. The need to speak the truth, to unseat the terrible burden within, and to be fearful of its bloody, tattered aftermath. All this was reflected in El’s expression, along with the gnawing regret of making things worse for Max. Lucas understood. He was being dragged through the same hell.

“She should know,” he said finally.

El’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“I am afraid it will kill her.”

He felt any disingenuous reply leave him. No comfort seemed attainable now. Especially not for this. Out of this sprang a fresh, seething hatred for Vecna. Because this could be the nail in the coffin. Max was already struggling, growing weaker, and to be hit while she was down…it was as good as killing her. And Lucas didn’t know if her will to live, albeit already flimsy, would survive it.

El was quiet for several moments. When Lucas looked up at her again, she was giving him a strange look.

“What?”

She smiled sadly.

“When Vecna…” Eleven swallowed. “When her heart stopped. She was thinking of you.”

Lucas frowned.

“How do you know that?”

El closed her eyes.

“When Max walked through that house, she was scared. She didn’t know if she could do it. The only reason she could keep going was because you were there beside her.”

Lucas could picture it in his mind’s eye: Max carrying the blue lantern, stepping slowly and quietly, her blue eyes large in the dark. Eyes that flitted toward him every few minutes as he crept in behind her. El continued, as if also mentally reliving the scene.

“You were there when she talked to Vecna. You being there made her strong.”

Lucas felt emotion rise into his throat as she continued, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Max does not say what she feels sometimes. But I know you are important to her. And everyone else knows, too.”

Bizarrely, Lucas found it in himself to chuckle. He had made no secret of his feelings for Max, and he would openly admit his affection to anyone who asked. But Max…she never wanted anyone to know how much she cared. Even though he knew she did. And apparently, everyone else did too.

“She cares so much,” he said, willing the surge of sorrow within him to die down. “So much it hurts her.”

El nodded, squeezing his shoulder.

“I know.”

Lucas’ steps felt heavier than usual.

Once Eleven had bid him farewell, he trudged back to Max’s room. Back to their holding cell.

It was a small blessing that Max looked peaceful. Her breath still wheezed, her skin still glistened with sweat, but she didn’t look pained. She lay on her side, facing him. Lucas watched the fog of her breath fill the mask, in and out. Her heart monitor was beeping steadily, a tense regimen. One that Lucas almost always expected to go south at any moment. Especially nowadays.

He wondered, not for the first time, how aware she was. Did she have any conception of what was happening within and around her? As he’d said to El, Max spent much of her time asleep lately. And when she was awake, she didn’t talk much. Her cloudy eyes would swivel, and she would croak a few words here and there: a name, a request, a response. So Lucas had to assume she had some awareness. But it was impossible to know how much. As he pulled the chair up closer to her, Lucas rested his hand on her head, his thumb gently caressing her temple. He hoped she knew he still loved her. And that he was here, still.

She was thinking of you.

Lucas remembered the look in her eyes as she’d handed them her letters all those months ago. The look in her eyes as they reluctantly met his. Before flitting away self-consciously, as if embarrassed to take up space. Vecna’s threat of death had been looming, yes, but had she had a premonition about her death? Surely she couldn’t have known she’d escape death twice, though admittedly that second time had been far more precarious than the first.

Lucas knew she’d been scared, though. Despite her best efforts not to show it. He remembered stopping her in the cemetery, pleading with her to just talk. Just talk to them.

I don’t want a letter. I don’t need a letter. Just talk to me.

We’re right here.

I’m right here.

Lucas suddenly remembered.

Max’s letter.

He immediately turned in his chair, flinging open his bag, digging through it. He had to have it still…he’d kept it safe all this time…

He finally unearthed from a middle pocket that brown envelope, slightly bent from being transferred around. Lucas’ heart ached as he looked at the name on the front: Lucas. In Max’s handwriting.

He felt suddenly hesitant to open it. Max had established it as a failsafe. For after. If things don’t work out. But, he reasoned miserably, things did seem to be going that direction. And he was lonely for her voice – the way she had been, the way he knew her. Lucas wasn’t sure he could resist the temptation now that it was grasped in his hands.

Internally begging Max to forgive him, he broke the seal and pulled out the letter.

Lucas –

I’ve started and restarted this letter so many times. Being on death’s doorstep is distracting, as you can probably tell, and I’ve also been up all night. Writing everything I want to say. Everything that I need to say. And so, instead of rewriting this letter, again, for the millionth time, I’ll just keep going with this one.

I don’t really have words to describe what you are to me. What you’ve been to me. People look past me, or look down at me. You look right through me, and somehow, whatever you see doesn’t faze you. Even though I’m hard to love. I always have been. But you make it seem effortless. I’m not sure I’ll ever know what you see in me, but whatever it is, thank you.

I guess that’s what I’m really trying to say. Thank you. For loving me. I don’t know if I deserve it, but thank you for doing it anyway. When I got to Hawkins, I hadn’t planned on finding any friends. I hadn’t planned on you. I don’t think I know how to love, or at least love people well enough for it to matter.

But with you, this feeling that I have…if it’s not love, it’s pretty damn close.

Mad Max

Teardrops dotted the thin paper. With shaking hands, Lucas folded up the note and pressed it to his chest as he felt it start to separate, felt her words start to re-lacerate his barely healed heart. More than ever he wished he could reach back across time to take her hand. And if Lucas had known then where they would end up, he would never have let her go.

Lucas’ weeping seized him so intensely that he leaned forward, his forehead against the cold floor. Tears and snot ran down his upper lip and smeared on the linoleum. He was clutching Max’s letter so hard that he heard it crumpling slightly in his tightly closed hands. Gripping what was left of her.

There was a quiet knock on the door, followed by the metal’s creaking as it opened.

“Lucas, we’re here to – ”

Will’s voice stopped abruptly, presumably at the sight of Lucas sobbing on the floor.

Lucas couldn’t bring himself to look at Will. But, as he soon discovered, he didn’t have to. He heard Will’s footsteps approach, felt Will’s arms surround him. Other arms soon enveloped them. It was only when he looked up that he noticed Mike and Dustin embracing him as well, sitting solemnly with him.

Even though he perhaps had the most to lose if Max died, Lucas knew they were all grieving along with him. That alone broke the space open to vulnerability, and he allowed his sobs to rack him harder. He felt his friends touch his back, his shoulders, rubbing slowly, patting.

Only once Lucas sat dazedly on the hospital room floor, in the arms of his friends, did he finally run out of tears.

Max’s head felt as if it were wrapped in gauze.

It was weak enough that she couldn’t lift it. Nor her arms or legs. Max was grateful not to be laying supine. Whomever of her nurses were left seemed to have collectively realized that Max no longer had the strength to sit up, and therefore kept her at an angle all the time. Not that she could see differently either way – or at all – but lying flat all the time couldn’t be good for her. Though Max didn’t know how much good any of this was doing for her anymore.

Sure, her heart was still beating, but to what end? She was little more than a lump of flesh at this point. An empty vessel with a tattered sail. Max wondered if this was what true emptiness felt like. It wasn’t as pleasant as she was led to believe. Numbness, strangely, was uncomfortable. And unfortunately, it didn’t seem to translate physically. When Max tried to move, her muscles tightened painfully, her bones scraping against each other. She felt like her blood had been drained from her body, any trace of fluid gone. Dry as a bone in the desert. Max’s own breathing frightened her; hoarse and faint, like her lungs were full of dust. She willed herself to keep taking breaths.

Something of note had happened within the last day or so, but the memories wouldn’t form in her mind properly. She’d been in Lucas’ arms. She remembered that. But the rest was extremely foggy. The smell of cigarettes surfaced sluggishly in Max’s mind, along with the sensation of a threadbare blanket. And blood. There had been a lot of blood. She still tasted it, in fact.

Max heard a gentle knock on the door, and it creaked open nearby.

“Max?” It was Mike’s voice.

Max tried to make a noise in response, but her vocal cords were arid, mottled roots, snaking up from within, with no soil to fortify her. After a few minutes, she heard Mike’s footsteps.

“Max, are you okay?”

Max managed to finally croak “Mike” into her oxygen mask just as his steps drew up close to the bed. Max heard him give a shaky little sigh. That was the default response from most of them nowadays.

“I’m here to keep you company,” Mike murmured hesitantly.

Max gave a small jerk of her head, and she heard the chair legs drag across the linoleum as Mike sat next to her. Max let her eyes stray toward the sound of his voice as he spoke again.

“I, um…this is…”

He cleared his throat, starting again.

“Max. I’m sorry.”

Max’s brows furrowed slightly. Sorry? Had Mike done something?

“The other night…I was the one who told Lucas we had to get you out of here. So you could start getting better. You’ve been here so long, and we were all going out of our minds watching you waste away in here. I thought maybe if we got you to a safe place, away from all this death and disease…maybe it would change things.”

Could that be the nagging memory at the back of her mind? Max wondered if this was why she was remembering different smells, different sensations.

“Lucas didn’t want to do it, and I put the idea in his head. So we tried to move you. It was a stupid idea, obviously…”

Max could swear she heard Mike’s voice start to tremble.

“It’s my fault, Max. It’s my fault you got worse, I…”

Max gave a soft hum, reaching her hand up slightly toward him. She felt his hand meet hers, squeezing it lightly. She couldn’t shake her head, so she squeezed back, as hard as she could.

Mike gave a watery sigh, and she knew he was crying.

“Lucas said Vecna uses your memories against you. And, well, I know I haven’t always been the best – ”

Max squeezed his hand again.

“N-no,” she mumbled through her mask, though it came out whisper-quiet. Mike apologizing was an unexpected kindness, especially from him…but she barely had enough energy to breathe, let alone speak. All Max could do was clench his hand in hers with any ounce of strength she possessed.

Mike’s shaky breathing and occasional sniffling was so strange. She’d almost never seen or heard him cry. Only Eleven or Will had ever affected him in such a way. With great effort, Max managed to turn her head in his direction.

“Max?” Mike questioned softly. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

Max blinked emphatically. Mike let out a breathy sob in response.

“If we manage to survive all this…maybe you, me, El, and Lucas can go on a double date. Maybe we could catch a movie or something.”

Max blinked hard again.

Mike gripped her hand.

“Do you need anything?”

Max wanted to request her collage, but she wasn’t sure she could say the word properly. She pulled her hand back from Mike’s slightly, and began to trace the letters in his palm. It seemed to take him a moment before he realized what she was doing.

“Wait, Max, start again. C…O…L…L…A…oh, your collage?”

Max blinked as hard as she could.

“You want your collage? Okay…”

Max heard rustling and shifting, and after a few moments, she felt the canvas be placed gently in her lap. At once, Max rested her palms on top of it, letting the cavalcade of textures center her. The smoothness of the shells, the jaggedness of the broaches, the softness of the cotton balls. She dragged her hands over it, searching. There was a specific thing she wanted to find, something that would make her feel safe again…

Max’s fingers brushed against one of the flannel squares, and she quickly went back to it. It wasn’t as if El didn’t come to visit her often, but Max found herself lonely without her there. Where Lucas’ presence was safe and secure, El’s was calm and true. Both were welcome in Max’s current state. Especially now that her body seemed to be in limbo. She could feel her own palms’ clamminess against the fabric. She wanted to inhale the flannel’s smell, but she couldn’t sit up enough to do so. And she couldn’t ask Mike, either. Her vocal cords barely worked. She wanted to wail aloud, to scream until her lungs cracked. But her voice wouldn’t come out.

“You like that, huh?” Mike questioned nearby. Max didn’t respond to him. She didn’t have the energy to. She just kept her hands on the flannel square, allowing it to anchor her.

El was still out there, fighting for her. And today, Max took refuge in that.

Lucas was half-considering sleeping at the hospital regularly.

His mother would barely let him leave the house anymore, and this morning she had almost succeeded by getting his father involved. They had all but blocked the front door, imploring him to stay home.

“Guys, I have to go be with Max.”

His father’s thick moustache seemed to frown along with him. “It’s not safe out there, son. We need to be together as a family.”

“Max doesn’t have any family here right now. Her mom’s in Indianapolis.”

Lucas could see his mother’s resolve starting to crumble in light of that fact.

“Charles, maybe we can bring her here so she’s not – ”

“Mom, we can’t move her. We already tried, and she got worse when we did.”

Erica’s sharp voice suddenly sounded behind them.

“I’ll go with him.”

All three of them turned toward her.

“You heard me,” Erica told them, her expression uncommonly resolute. “I’ll go, too.”

“Absolutely not,” his mother refuted. “I’m not risking both my kids’ safety.”

“I have to go,” Lucas repeated. “I have to.”

Tears sprang to his eyes, and his voice wobbled slightly.

“She’s not doing good, and…if we’re gonna lose her, I don’t want her to be alone. Please.”

His father surveyed him, looking uncertain.

“If I drive you,” he started slowly. “And it starts to look bad while you’re there…I want you to call us, and then I want you to shelter in place. Okay?”

Lucas threw his arms around his parents, who squeezed him tightly back. He knew it was an insane thing to ask of them. And he also knew that he would never forgive himself if Max died and he wasn’t there.

The ride to the hospital was mercifully short, though Lucas now noticed that the constant dark grey and red in the sky made everything look more jagged, more sinister. The buildings looked small against the mass expanse of the clouds, as if standing against a storm about to break loose. He could sense his father’s unease as they pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the hospital.

“I’m serious, son,” his father said as they stopped at the front doors. “If you can’t come home – ”

“Call, then shelter in place. Got it.”

His father nodded, then reached forward to hug him. Lucas returned it.

This time, when he entered Max’s room, it felt different. He supposed he should plan as if he was now sheltering here. Lucas knew the cot was still here somewhere, and there had to still be food in the kitchens. Hospitals usually had preservable food stashed. And if there wasn’t food already made, he could throw something together.

Lucas let his eyes fall on Max. She was awake, surprisingly. Her head was turned in his direction, her cloudy eyes trained over his shoulder. He knew she was listening for him.

“It’s me,” Lucas murmured quietly.

Max blinked, and he watched her thin hand flop around weakly on her blankets. She wanted him to hold her hand. Lucas grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it up close to her bedside, taking her hand at once. It was clammy and bony, so fragile he was scared to break it. Max didn’t speak, but he saw a shadow of a smile cross her face, and her eyes closed. Lucas pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

As he let his eyes wander, Lucas noticed with alarm that Max’s IV bag was empty, so empty it looked vacuum-sealed. Her food bag was almost empty too. Uneasiness filled him as he realized that Cynthia was normally the nurse who handled this. She wouldn’t have let Max’s fluid or food bags get so low. Lucas’ eyes traveled to the bag itself, examining it. If the nurses were all gone, he would have to teach himself how to change her fluid and food bags. It couldn’t be that complicated.

Lucas nearly jumped out of his skin as Max’s door swung open. It was Nancy, her arms laden with blankets and sheets. Close behind her was Lori, holding full fluid and food bags.

“Lucas, out. Take a break.” Nancy jerked her thumb over her shoulder.

Lucas scowled at her. “I just got – ”

“It’s not a request,” Lori said, joining them seconds later. “Go to an empty room and shower, then go get something to eat from the cafeteria. I’m sure you can scrounge something up. I promise you can come back once we get her showered and fed. Go.”

Realizing he was outnumbered, Lucas straightened up, albeit very begrudgingly. He leaned down toward her, and he watched her face seem to register his presence. Lucas pressed his lips gently to her forehead. She gave a little sigh, and her eyes closed.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured.

Max didn’t try to speak, just blinked slowly in his direction, her eyelids peeling apart as if they were stuck together. She seemed sedated, almost. Or perhaps she was just exhausted. Lucas couldn’t read her facial expression very well under the oxygen mask, and it was too vacant to give him any indication either way. Lucas knew Nancy and Lori were getting ready to forcibly remove him from the room if he didn’t leave voluntarily, so he forced himself to let go of her hand, walking past them and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Max wondered where Lucas was going.

Lucas’ footsteps trailed away, and she felt her heart pulling in his direction. She had heard others come in, but the twilight between sleep and wakefulness was muffling her hearing slightly. She didn’t care who it was. She wanted Lucas to come back. Max tried to voice her dissent, but all that came out was a thin cry. The door closed in the distance anyway.

Two pairs of footsteps slowly approached.

“Nancy, let me get a look at her before you come closer.”

Max’s heart sank. Lori. It wasn’t as if she disliked Lori. She just wasn’t Cynthia. Lori’s steps grew closer, and Max felt her draw up next to the bed.

“Max, it’s Lori.”

“Cindy,” she murmured in the direction of Lori’s voice. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, her dry tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth as her voice was muted by the oxygen mask.

“Hang on, let me get that thing off you. I’m getting some water in you today.”

The mask lifted from her face and Max felt cool air on her cheeks where the edges of the mask had no doubt made indents in her skin. She felt mostly able to take in air without it on. At least, for now.

“Cindy,” she managed again, faintly.

Lori didn’t answer right away, and Max could hear her perturbed muttering as buttons clicked and tubes were adjusted. After several moments of this, Max felt the end of her bed sink a little, and she realized Lori had sat down. When she spoke, her voice had lost its irritation.

“I don’t know where Cindy is, kiddo. Nobody does.”

Max felt her eyes start to well up. Cynthia had become as important to her as any of her friends or family. Not having Cynthia here made Max feel as if she’d been blinded all over again – a vital part of herself now missing, and the hospital room was once again unfamiliar and terrifying.

Lori sat in silence on the bed with her, and Max wondered if she didn’t know what to say. Lori didn’t strike her as the kind to fill Max’s head with false promises and shallow sentiments, and so remaining silent might have been the kindest option.

Lori finally spoke again after a few more moments.

“I’m going to lift your bed up a little so I can get a better look at you, okay?”

The bar behind the head of the bed clanged beneath her, and Max felt her upper body rising, felt the bed tilt upward. Her head swam and her stomach churned with the movement.

“I’m going to touch your arm,” Lori warned her, and Max felt her roughened palm close around her elbow, lifting it slightly.

“Christ. Whoever put in this IV bruised you pretty good. Stacey never was good at placing them…”

Lori clucked her tongue in disapproval as she lay Max’s arm back down on the bed.

“My god, Miss Mayfield, your IV bag is sucked dry. Hasn’t anyone come to check on you?”

Truthfully, Max wasn’t sure. If another nurse had been there, this Stacey or someone else, she didn’t remember them, nor could she place them in her mind.

“Okay. Before we do anything else, you’re drinking some water. Nancy, could you give me a hand?”

It took some jostling, but Max soon felt Nancy’s hand on the back of her head, raising it up a little.

“Okay, Max, I’m going to put the straw near your mouth, and I want you to drink.”

Max felt the plastic touch her lips, and her mouth closed around it. She sucked the cold water through the straw, hearing the slight clicking of ice cubes all clustering against each other. Swallowing felt scary, but she managed to do it. The cold water felt so good on her dry throat, and she found herself drinking with more vigor.

“Good girl. Not too fast, not too fast…” Lori told her, but Max couldn’t help it. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty.

Nancy’s calm and encouraging voice sounded from next to her. “Good job.”

“The fact she can still swallow is a good thing,” Lori murmured, as Max drank the last bit of water through the straw. “Best we could hope for.”

Once there was only ice in the cup, Lori told Nancy to take the cup to the kitchen and put it in the freezer to preserve the ice. If Max couldn’t swallow later, she said, then they could have her suck on ice cubes.

As Nancy’s footsteps trailed away, Lori’s hand slid down, and Max felt calloused fingers press to her wrist.

“Pulse uneven,” she said. “Your skin’s clammy, and you’re white as a sheet. Can you tell me how you feel?”

Before Max could respond, nausea rose up within her like poison, and within seconds she’d vomited up the water she’d drank down the front of her gown.

“Oh, now,” Lori muttered, and Max felt her stand up. “Come on, let’s get you to the shower. You’re looking a little grubby anyway. Can you walk?”

Max went to lift her legs, to get them moving. In horror, she found that they wouldn’t. Not well enough to walk, anyway. They weighed more than she had the strength to move them. Her eyes filled with tears.

“No,” she gulped.

Lori’s voice had grown soft. “I can get you there, Max. It’s all right.”

Nancy’s quick footsteps soon rejoined them, and they stopped short.

“Is she okay?”

“She threw up. I’m getting her in the shower.”

Max heard Nancy approach the bed and exhale sadly. Presumably at the sight of her. Max couldn’t conceptualize how she must look – pale and ill, with vomit on her gown – but she certainly felt unkempt after the fact.

“I could use your help,” Lori offered from next to her. “She might feel safer with you there.”

“Of course,” Nancy assented. “What can I do?”

“I’ll get her in there, if you can grab our supplies. Soap, shampoo, towels, washcloths. In the linen closet down the hall. Grab new sheets and pillowcases too. We’ll need them later.”

Nancy’s footsteps became distant again as she left the room. Max felt the rush of air as her covers were removed from her legs. She heard things being disconnected, wires being pulled, buttons being pressed…her oxygen mask lifted from her face, her IV and electrodes detached, her feeding tube clamped off. Max then felt Lori draw close, the fabric of Lori’s scrubs brushing against her skin.

“Here we go. Just hang onto me.”

Max couldn’t keep herself from crying as Lori lifted her up. Her body was giving up on her, and she could do nothing but succumb to it. Her head rested on Lori’s shoulder as they moved across the room. She wished it was Cindy carrying her. Or her mother. She ached for them both.

Max felt the air change as they entered the bathroom, and she heard Nancy re-enter the room nearby. Lori deposited her into the shower chair, removing her hospital gown. Without Lori to lean against, Max felt herself start to droop slowly in the chair, unable to hold up her head, her naked body sinking into itself like melting putty.

“Shit,” Lori muttered, and in one quick motion, she had grabbed Max and slid in behind her on the chair. Her body was warm, a welcome comfort against the chilliness of being bare.

“I’m fat, so I’m not sure how long this chair will hold us both,” Lori noted. “But we’ll do our best. Nancy?”

Max caught a whiff of Nancy’s perfume as she re-joined them. Lori reached over her and Max heard the squeak of the faucet as the hiss of water rained over her. Max whimpered. The droplets of water felt like coarse pebbles against her paper-thin skin.

“Hang on, hang on…” Lori was saying. “It should warm up soon.”

Sure enough, the water began to run warm after a few minutes. It was a balm for her frail body, a temperate embrace. Max let herself be supported by Lori, leaning her head back on her nurse’s shoulder. At least, if her body was weak, it was in the presence of people who helped make her strong.

“Nancy, if you’d like to shampoo her hair, I can use the soap.”

Max felt the smooth bar of soap start to rub across her skin. She heard the squeeze of a bottle, felt the cold glob of shampoo in the middle of her scalp. Nancy’s familiarly slender hands massaged through her wet hair, bunching it into foam. She noticed that Lori’s scrubs were wet against her back, and it occurred to Max that Lori and presumably Nancy were fully clothed. But she didn’t have the energy to feel guilty about it.

Lori spoke into her ear.

“I’m not soaping up any sensitive areas, okay? We’re just getting your back, arms, face, and hair.”

Max made a noise in assent, and they continued washing her.

“Nancy, please grab me a washcloth – yes, thank you. If you want to get the pitcher over there, you can rinse her hair.”

“Bow your head, Max,” Nancy murmured.

Max followed suit, closing her eyes at the feeling of warm water flowing through her soapy hair, turning it smooth and long and heavy. She felt Lori rubbing the washcloth over her back and shoulders, and Max felt the sensation of weeks of stink, weeks of stagnation and vomit and blood shed from her like skin, revealing fresh newness underneath. Nancy wrung out Max’s wet hair, and gently adjusted her so she was once more leaning back against Lori. The washcloth then travelled to her arms, and she let herself be calmed by its soft, repetitive motion.

Lori broke into her thoughts several moments later.

“All right, Max. Let’s wrap up and get you dry, hmm?”

Max felt Lori reach forward past her. The shower squeaked off, and then Max was sitting against Lori’s wet shirt, already violently shivering in the chilly air. It seemed there wasn’t much between her skin and bones anymore.

“Nancy? A towel, please?”

The bristly towel soon met Max’s skin, and she sputtered a little as Lori wiped her face.

“You’re all right, you’re all right,” her nurse muttered a little gruffly, though the towel’s rubbing lessened slightly. “Lean forward a little.”

Max did so, and she felt a towel rest over her back and shoulders. Lori pulled her wet hair out of it, letting it hang over Max’s shoulder. Max could feel how long it had gotten as it tickled her stomach.

“Nancy, can you change her bedding, please? Thank you. We’ll finish up in here.”

As Nancy left, they sat there for a moment, Lori dabbing Max’s face with a corner of the fabric.

“That boy of yours can’t stay away, can he?”

Max didn’t reply. In truth, she was now ready for this to be done so he could come back. She managed a slight jerk of her head. Lori said no more about it, but continued to dry Max off.

Lucas’ earnest face floated lazily through her mind. She didn’t have much to give him right now, this was true, but Max would be happy just to be in his warm, strong arms today. To feel the safety she always felt in them. If she asked for Lucas just to hold her, she knew he would jump at the chance, and then she could forget about everything. Forget her failing body, the damnation of Hawkins, her fear of losing anyone else. Her fear of losing everyone else. Maybe if she just held onto Lucas, she thought, she could keep him safe too.

Nancy called from the door of her room.

“Her bed’s ready, Lori.”

“Wonderful,” said Lori, and she got up from behind Max, one hand on Max’s shoulder to keep her upright. “Come on, kiddo.”

She scooped Max up, and Max looped her arms around Lori’s neck. As Lori carried her back into the room, Max could hear the rustle of blankets being drawn back.

“Max, I’ve changed the sheets and pillowcases, okay? Everything’s new and clean.”

“Pink,” Max gulped out, all at once anxious.

“That pink pillowcase is from home, I know,” Nancy reassured her. “It’s okay, Max, I left it there. Lori, here’s her change of clothes.”

Max felt Lori nod. “Max, I’m going to set you on the bed, and we’ll get dressed. Nancy, if you would take the linens to the laundry room, that would be great. And then go find wherever Lucas ended up. I’m sure he’s pining to get back in here.”

Lori sat Max on the bed, and she could feel the crispness of the new sheets beneath her, could smell how clean they were. Lori’s hand remained firmly on her back as she pressed a soft shirt into Max’s hand.

“Can you dress yourself, or do you need help?”

“My…self,” Max told her. Her muscles were still weak, but she was able to slowly slide an arm through a sleeve. It took her a few minutes to get the other one through. Once the shirt was on, she felt Lori put the towel on her head, and start to rub her hair with it.

The rest passed with almost no consequence. Lori had Max lie down, lift her hips so Lori could put underwear and smooth pants on. Then Lori adjusted her to where she was lying against her pillows, which also smelled fresh and new save for her pink pillowcase, which – to Max’s relief – still held whispers of home.

“There we go,” Lori pulled the blankets over Max. “I’ll wait here with you until Nancy gets back with Lucas. In the meantime, let’s get your oxygen back on.”

As Max felt the oxygen mask cover her mouth and nose, Lori started speaking again.

“I don’t want to scare you, Max. But it’s not looking good out there. The clouds are just black now, with red lightning. And everything feels…strange. Like we’re all sinking into the ground.”

Max wasn’t sure what to tell her. She knew why everything was going to shit, of course, but she wasn’t sure Lori would believe her.

From underneath the mask, Max tried to speak.

“Dan…ger,” she managed.

Lori laughed humorlessly.

“I think we’re all in danger. This place is getting emptier by the day. Patients and staff. My last few shifts, fewer and fewer people have shown up. And patients are disappearing. Just like you. Except we brought you back, because home isn’t safe for you. Not many places are safe anymore, Max. And to be honest, I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be around.”

Max’s hand opened, grasping in Lori’s direction. She wanted to hold onto Lori, to keep her from slipping away too.

“No,” she said, her voice small and broken.

Lori gave another dry chuckle, but Max felt Lori’s weathered hand slip into hers.

“I’d miss you too, kiddo.”

Lori let go of her hand after a moment, and Max jumped as she heard the clacking of her cassette tapes on the tray table nearby.

“You’ve got good taste,” Lori observed, a smile in her voice. “Fleetwood Mac, Bowie, Siouxsie…very eclectic.”

There was a quiet rustle of fabric.

“I noticed you like music, so I brought you a few of my own tapes. They’re a little heavier and louder than your other ones here, but you might still like them. I brought you AC/DC, the Stones…”

Max felt a single tape press into her hand.

“But this one…this one’s from my personal collection. Metallica. You know them?”

“No.”

“The song is called ‘One,’ and it’s the only one on the tape. The corner has a chip in it, which should make it easy for you to find. And trust me, you’re going to want to find it again. I think you’ll want to hear it more than once.”

Max’s finger pressed against the notch in the tape cover, unsure of how to respond as she rubbed the jagged edge. The sudden kindness of the gesture had momentarily silenced her. The door creaked open nearby, and Max heard both Nancy and Lucas’ footsteps against the linoleum.

“Thank…you,” Max told Lori finally, as Nancy and Lucas drew closer.

“No need to thank me. Just rest. Lucas and Nancy are here now, so I’m going to go ahead and change your fluid and food bags. Then I’ll come back to check on you in a little while.”

Max heard Lucas’ shaky breath as he sat back down.

“I’m back. I’m here.”

Max reached up and touched her ear.

“Music? You want music?”

Max blinked at him.

“Okay. Yes. Which tape?”

Max raised up the cassette tape she was holding in her other hand.

“Oh, I didn’t see you had one in your hand. Is that the one you want?”

Max blinked, as hard as she could.

“If I put the Walkman in your hand, can you take it from there?”

Max blinked again. She felt the Walkman press gently into her palms. Max rested her fingers against the buttons, and with some effort clicked the button to open the Walkman’s door. Her hands were shaking, and as she tried to get the tape into the Walkman, she could hear it clacking against the plastic.

Nancy’s voice sounded, exceedingly gentle.

“Do you want help?”

No, Max wanted to say, but this once simple task was turning out to be more arduous than usual. Her hands had such bad tremors that she was scared the Walkman was going to slip out of her grasp.

She jumped a little as Lucas’ rough hand rested over hers, steadying her grip on the Walkman. His other hand took the tape, and Max heard it click into place, the Walkman door clasping shut. A button clicked, and the tape started to rewind.

“There we go. All done. Let me grab your headphones.”

“My…self,” Max croaked.

“I’m just putting them in your hands. That’s it.”

After a few minutes, Max was able to clumsily lift her headphones to her ears. Once her hand was curled around the Walkman again, she could remember where the buttons were. Max waited for the whirring tape’s abrupt halt, signaling it was done rewinding. Once the rewinding finally stopped, Max found the play button and clicked it.

The song began with gunshots. People yelling. A cacophony of war and suffering, until it started to fade. A few electric guitar notes began to strum, sounding grim, almost wistful. Then more notes, until the lead singer started to intone:

I can’t remember anything

Can’t tell if this is true or a dream

Deep down inside I feel the scream

This terrible silence stops me

Now that the war is through with me

I’m waking up, I cannot see

That there’s not much left of me

Nothing is real but pain now

Hold my breath as I wish for death,

Oh please, God, wake me.

Max hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt the hot tears catch on the oxygen mask, felt them slip down toward the feeding tube in her nose. Whomever had written this song had known of the dark recesses that were now her living place. As if this song had been written for her, and only her. She felt Lucas take her hand again. She was sure he must be saying words of comfort, but she couldn’t make them out over the guitar, which grew heavier and angrier.

After the guitar’s strumming increased into a staccato rhythm, the singer started again:

Darkness, imprisoning me

All that I see, absolute horror

I cannot live, I cannot die

Trapped in myself, body my holding cell

Landmine has taken my sight

Taken my speech, taken my hearing

Taken my arms, taken my legs

Taken my soul, left me with life in hell

Max wanted to wail with anguish at this as the cruel truth was brought into focus for her once again: her broken body was indeed her holding cell, and all the work she’d done to be free was crumbling away. It was as if Max could feel her own muscles deteriorating, her own bones disintegrating.

The electric guitar continued to grind, louder and more frenzied, and Max lay still, feeling the song cascade over her, feeling the raw emotion plow through her like a train.

And then, the song was done.

A ringing quiet echoed in Max’s ears. Aside from Lucas’ breathing, she could hear only the buzz of the fluorescent lighting, the rumble from outside, the hiss from her oxygen, the beep of the heart monitor. Her hand was still grasped securely in Lucas’, his other hand resting over it. She pulled his hand toward her. Lucas hesitated, seeming unsure of what she wanted.

Max tugged his hand toward her again, and Lucas finally seemed to key in. His footsteps circled her bed, and she felt the covers pull back as Lucas climbed into bed with her. Slowly, Max turned her body toward his, and she felt Lucas’ arms surround her. She gave a little whine of frustration as her headphones started to slip off her ears.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Lucas murmured, readjusting them. It wasn’t just that. Max wanted to sink into him as much as she could, but her oxygen mask and electrodes were making this difficult. Max didn’t get the sense he understood the depth of her chagrin, but he at least knew she needed him in that moment. Eventually, they reached a comfortable position: Lucas’ arms enveloping Max as she lay her head on his arm, her eyes closing. Lucas’ cheek pressed against her head, his hand rubbing over her back.

Max’s finger slowly found the rewind button on her Walkman.

After a few moments, she clicked it.

Max’s head was splitting, screws drilling into her skull.

The memories didn’t make sense today. It was as if Max couldn’t form a cohesive one. Sights and sounds mixed together, garbled and unintelligible. Lucas’ calm, deep voice amid a thunderstorm. Her drunk mother wobbling around at Starcourt. Even El’s own voice, crying out for Max, while the Mind Flayer tore open Hopper’s cabin roof. The pain in her head grew worse, and Max’s knees buckled.

The floor in the void – if you could even call it that – brought her no reprieve. As Max stared into the blackness, lying crumpled in the moisture-less water, she was terrified to discover she could taste blood in her mouth. Every muscle clenched, every nerve was on fire. It was nigh unbearable, and she didn’t know how to make it stop.

“Max?” El’s concerned voice wandered in, but Max wasn’t sure if it was the El here with her or the one floating across her memories. She was immobilized by pain, frozen in agony. El’s hand on her arm confirmed her presence.

“I hurt all over,” Max managed.

“I know. I’m sorry.” El wrapped her arms around Max. She was crying. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Max didn’t have it in her to cry too. “How many more memories before we break through, El? I can’t do this much longer.”

“I know,” El repeated. “We have to try again. Please.”

El came around in front of Max, holding out her hands. Max took them, and El helped her sit up. It didn’t feel good, and Max didn’t want to, but she willed herself to try. She looked at Eleven, now eye level with her.

“My body in the real world. It’s not good, is it?”

Eleven seemed hesitant to give an answer.

“We are running out of time,” she stated finally, and Max sensed this was the most positive light in which she could frame their situation. “Your body is weak. You are sleeping more, and talking less. Machines and wires keep you alive.”

That made sense. Max felt more awful in here by the day. El prattled on.

“You have your collage. You like to hold it in your lap sometimes. Lucas is there every day, for hours and hours. Nancy helps when the nurse gives you showers. Robin used to bring Braille books, but now she just sits with you and doesn’t talk. Erica will read to you, sometimes. Or braid your hair. She is teaching Lucas how. And the rest of the boys visit, more and more now. Steve drives them. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they just sit.”

“Wait,” Max’s brows furrowed. “Braille?”

Eleven stopped short, and the stricken look on her face unsettled Max.

“El, what’s wrong with my eyes?”

El stammered, her eyes filling with tears again.

“I – I – ”

“El, if something’s wrong, you have to tell me,” Max implored, truly worried now. “Please.”

She could tell Eleven was struggling to get the words out, and every second that passed made the gnawing worry in her stomach only intensify. The ache in her muscles started to increase.

“You – ” El choked, then started again. “You can’t see.”

Something cold flopped over inside Max.

“So my eyes are damaged?”

“When Vecna…” El gestured around her own face. “He didn’t take your eyes. Not all the way.”

Maybe El wasn’t saying what Max had thought she was saying.

“They’ll get better, then, right?”

Eleven was unabashedly weeping now.

“No,” she barely whispered. “You are blind.”

A stone – a boulder – dropped into Max’s stomach.

Her veins flooded with ice.

No.

She grappled vainly for comfort. “But…there has to be something they can do. If and when I get out of here, my sight should come back. Right?”

Eleven was sobbing profusely into her hands.

“They told Lucas that your vision will never return.”

The ugly truth was cornering Max, sinking its claws into her, trapping her in the inevitable bleakness. An added twist of the knife was knowing that Lucas already knew. Because that meant he was still by her side, even after the fact. And she’d never see his face again.

Max could feel a dark beast of anger start to wake deep within her. Her breathing grew harsh, her hands curling into fists…

She chuckled. Then started to snicker. And then a heinous cackle broke free from her, one that she herself didn’t recognize. Her chest shuddered with her laughter, pain shooting across it.

“Well, that figures,” she said, a horrible heartiness to her voice. “Everything else in my life has gone tragically wrong, so what’s one more thing? Of course my fucking eyesight’s the next thing to go!”

Eleven looked up from her hands, her wet face shocked. Max let out another derisive crow of laughter.

“Life is really something, huh? For so long, for so long…I had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to hope for. My life was only night. And then I got moved to Hawkins, where I could finally see the sun. And now, to top it off, my friends are the only thing giving me any hope for escaping this shithole, and now I’ll never see any of you again. Life just couldn’t resist another chance to fuck me over, could it?”

El looked terrified, stunned into silence. Max felt a rush of fury at her expression.

“Go home, Eleven. Go back to our friends, and leave me here to rot. It’s what I deserve anyway.”

Eleven finally spoke, her quivering voice indignant.

“No.”

“El…” Max closed her eyes, trying not to think about how she’d never see El’s face again either. “Just. Go.”

“No!” Eleven cried, and she moved closer to Max, reaching out for her hand. “No, Max, I won’t let you –”

“You don’t get it!” Max shot back. “You’ll never understand what it’s like to be me. To hear, your entire life, that things will get better, that good will always win. And it’s all bullshit. This world is bullshit, and the people in it are bullshit. For any hope I’ve gained, darkness always snuffs it out, and I’m tired.” Tears started to fill her eyes before she could stop them. “I’m tired. And I’m done. With all of it.”

“You are not!” El’s voice was growing louder. “I am fighting for you! We are all fighting for you! Lucas is fighting for you!”

Lucas’ earnest face floated across her mind, and Max’s insides writhed in agony. She couldn’t bear to look at Eleven anymore. She turned away, the dark ripples billowing out underneath her, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

“You should have just let me die,” she said, in a tone of voice that even she hated.

El seemed lost for words. Max knew she was hurting her best friend. It only made her despise herself more.

She buried her face in her jeans, pulled her legs closer. Her voice was tiny. “Please. Just go.”

As a ringing silence fell, Max’s shoulders started to shake, knowing that her best friend had honored her wish.

Eleven was gone.

And Max hated herself for it.

Lucas wasn’t sure if he liked sheltering in place or not.

He had already called his father to let him know he was staying over. Lucas supposed it was nice to sleep in a different bed for a change, though it wasn’t the most comfortable. He’d never get used to the smell, either. That too-clean smell, with the faint tinge of decay. He tried not to think about the last occupant of this bed, and whether that person had made it out alive. When he had arrived, the bed had been stripped, so he had no way of knowing.

As Lucas lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, he held Max’s letter to his chest. He hadn’t tried to re-read it for fear of breaking down completely. He’d barely pulled it together enough to peel himself off the floor the other day. You can’t fall apart right now, he thought to himself. Max needs you. Be strong.

He was startled to hear the sliding door down the hall open, followed by multiple footsteps. As the footsteps drew closer, he could hear hushed voices, growing louder with urgency.

“What did she see? Mike, what’s going on?”

“El, slow down. El!”

Lucas sat up at once, tossing the letter onto his bed as he bolted toward the door. As he entered the hallway, he saw Nancy and Robin skitter anxiously into Max’s room. He felt his feet carry him forward until he himself reached the doorway. Once he entered, he saw that Mike, Jonathan, Steve, Dustin, and Will were also there. El was laid out over Max, her forehead pressed to Max’s chest. She turned her face toward them, and as Lucas approached the bed, he noticed she wasn’t crying. Her eyes were pits of despair.

“Max sent me away,” Eleven whispered to him.

“What happened? What do you mean?”

“I went in to see her. She was in pain. She asked about her body out here, and I told her about her eyes.”

Lucas would have thought El would cry while relaying this, but she remained listlessly sad.

“She was so angry, and she said ‘you should have just let me die.’”

From behind him, Lucas felt the concerned and anxious reactions of his friends ripple through the room. But the expression he shared with El only belonged to them. They had now stepped off the cliff, and with no guarantee that they wouldn’t be diced to pieces on the rocks below. All that was left to know was whether Max could find it in her to survive. And right now…the prospects didn’t look good.

Lucas turned toward the rest of the group. He didn’t know how to temper their facial expressions. Dustin looked devastated, and Lucas could see shades of Eddie in his eyes. Mike had a similar look on his face. Robin promptly burst into tears, and Steve put his arm around her, looking miserable. Nancy stared at the floor, her own eyes brimming as she rubbed Robin’s shoulder. Jonathan held her hand, his face grave. Will was crying too, and he rested his hand on El’s back, tears falling quietly onto the bed.

With all the strength he had left, Lucas finally said “El has to visit one more memory with her.”

His friends’ expressions went from sorrowful to incredulous.

“Lucas, there’s no way,” Nancy asserted in disbelief. “It’ll kill her. Permanently this time.”

Robin turned and left the room, still sobbing profusely. Steve followed her, and Lucas heard them walk down the hallway together.

“Why does El need to visit another one of her memories?” Dustin demanded, and Lucas could tell he was trying to keep his voice from wavering. “Why do we have to put her through that again?”

“Because it’s our last chance to save her life.”

“While also running the risk of ending her life!”

Mike numbly crossed the room toward El, reaching down and rubbing her back as she buried her face in Max’s hospital gown.

Lucas was now trying to keep his own voice from wavering.

“The last time we did this, we think she was in there for a moment. When she…freaked out. We have to give it one more shot.”

Dustin shook his head, looking unconvinced.

“We should have Lori with us,” Nancy suggested quietly. “When we do this, I mean.”

Lucas looked at her. She didn’t seem overly convinced either, but as she met his gaze, he saw acceptance of their situation. Of the looming task ahead. Nancy’s eyes then fell on Max’s pale, still face.

“Lori should be there to monitor her. Watch her vital signs, give medications if needed, et cetera. That way, if something happens…” Her voice trembled a little. “Lori will know what to do.”

It felt like they were planning Max’s funeral. Numbness, bleakness, a resignation to the end. Lucas willed himself to remain composed. He couldn’t break down right now. Max needed him to be strong.

“We’ll have to do it soon, so you should probably find a bed here tonight. Plenty down the hall. We’ll scrounge up whatever food we can find in the kitchens. And tomorrow...go time.”

“Go get Steve and Robin,” Nancy murmured to Jonathan. “They’ll want to stay over too.”

Jonathan turned and walked through the doorway wordlessly.

“Someone needs to go get Erica when they can,” Lucas asserted to Nancy. “She’ll want to be here. But you’ll have to sneak her out. My parents will never let her go.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Nancy reassured him.

Lucas rounded on El, Mike, and Will.

“Go get some sleep,” he told them. “I’ll stay here.”

After some gentle coaxing, Will was able to convince Eleven to detach herself from Max. An arm around her, Will guided her out of the room, presumably to find her a bed down the hall. Mike didn’t move.

“Aren’t you going too?” Lucas questioned him.

Mike shook his head.

“No,” he said distantly. “I just wanna sit here for a moment.”

He walked around to the other side of the bed, letting himself fall into the chair. Mike too seemed out of tears to cry as he stared vacantly at Max.

Nancy approached the bed, her pretty hand brushing some hair back from Max’s forehead. She leaned down and pressed her lips to the clammy, pale skin.

“We’re here,” she whispered, and then sobs took hold of her. She promptly left the room, a hand over her mouth.

Lucas sank down into the chair opposite Mike. He didn’t have the strength to work up any more emotion. He was moving robotically, dazedly, numb with grief. Surrendering to the despair of it. As Lucas let his gaze flit toward his friend, he noticed with mixed warmth and sorrow that Mike’s eyes were now glassy with unshed tears. Only El or Will ever made Mike cry. As the unbearable silence sat between them – broken only by Max’s faint breathing – Mike stared bleakly at Max.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice shaking. “God, I’m sorry.”

Lucas focused his attention on pulling Max’s blankets over her more securely. He was trying to drink in her presence – what little there was left of it – while he still could. Trying to imprint her face into his memory, clinging to the feel of her skin against his.

He took Max’s hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

“Max,” he whispered. “I know you’re still in there. Somewhere.”

Lucas took a deep breath, gearing himself up.

“I know it’s all been so hard for you. For so long. And I know I can’t fix anything. Even though I want to.”

He rubbed her arm, still clenching her hand in his.

“I just want you to know…” Sobs choked him, and he struggled to keep going. “If you need to go, you can go.”

Saying these words was, without a doubt, the hardest thing he’d ever done. But they were here. Lucas leaned toward her, kissing whatever of her cheek wasn’t obscured by the oxygen mask.

“You can let go, Max…” He swallowed another sob. “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He cradled her still face in his hands, pressing kisses to her forehead. He didn’t care that Mike was sitting there. Mike must understand how Lucas felt. To have the person you love most in the world constantly slipping through your fingers, out of reach. Only this time felt like the final time.

“Lucas?” Mike’s tired, cracked voice almost startled him.

“Hm?”

“There’s something in her hand,” Mike muttered, frowning.

Lucas’ brows knit. “Huh?”

Mike beckoned him over. Lucas circled the bed, drawing up on Mike’s side to see what he was looking at. Max’s hand lay palm down on the bed, and underneath it, Lucas could see slivers of yellow and black. He reached out, lifting her wrist slightly, and he realized it was a square of fabric, patterned yellow and gray plaid. The edges were frayed, bits of the yarn tattered, like it had been torn from something.

Lucas realized at once where he had seen it before.

“It’s from her collage.”

He stood up, walking over to where the collage rested against the opposite wall. He could now see, towards the middle, a glob of dried glue, strands of the fabric stuck to it. As he peered closer, Lucas could also see lines dragging down toward the glue. As if Max had needed to scratch at the poster board to get the flannel square off. The same flannel square that now lay on the bed next to her.

“She had her collage yesterday when I left,” Mike told him as Lucas rejoined them.

Emotion flooded Lucas as he gazed down at Max. It was as if she’d sought out the flannel herself – that piece of El – and then resolved to hold onto it. As if clinging to the tread by which her life was now suspended.

Max hadn’t given up yet.

So neither would he.

#stranger things #lumax #max mayfield #lucas sinclair #max x lucas #lucas x max #steadfast sightless 16 #lumax fanfic #lumax fic #lumax fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic

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magpiefngrl · 2 years ago

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smutty dialogue game

Thank you for tagging me @tenthousandyearsx! You know, in all my years in fandom, I've never seen a "share smutty dialogue" game. I gotta admit this is very much my thing, and I'm grateful to you for coming up with it!

Rules: pick any ten fics, select some smut or pre-smut dialogue, and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, feel free to share anyway!

I didn't do ten fics. Turns out it was pretty hard for me because I tend to break up dialogue with narration, which is why the passages are all a few paragraphs long. (The first one is quite long, but it's one of my fave dialogues that I've written so indulge me).

I am sharing 7 fics: 4 drarry and 3 of other ships.

i. Hush Darling (drarry) Incubus!Draco

‘You were always reckless, Harry. Everyone else would run in the opposite direction, but no, not you. You are here, placing your faith in me, knowing full well how badly I can hurt you.’

‘But you won’t.’

Draco ignores him. His hair falls on his face, his voice husky. ‘It’ll feel good, I promise. I can give you the orgasm of a lifetime.’ He accompanies his words with a sinuous roll of his hips, setting Harry’s nerves alight. ‘I can make you writhe, and whimper, and come five times in a row while I suck the life out of you. Is that what you want, sweetheart?’

‘Is that supposed to scare me?’

Draco’s hands tighten on Harry’s wrists. ‘Don’t challenge me.’

Harry’s temper flares. ‘Then stop pushing me away. You’ve been holding back in bed ever since the first time. I could tell. You’ve been actively trying not to cause me any harm.’ Draco glares at him, and Harry glares back. ‘All I see is your fear talking.’

‘You see nothing. I take, Harry. That’s what I am. I take and take, and sometimes — sometimes it’s hard for me to stop. And you make it harder. You make me want to ravage you. I want to put my mouth on you and suck your bones dry. I want to use you up.’ Draco’s gaze is feral, his mouth a snarl. ‘All my instincts scream to take from you.’

Taking advantage of Draco’s distraction, Harry rolls them on bed and pushes Draco on the sheets. He pins him down and leans over his startled face. ‘Well, I have a lot to give.’

ii. say the word (hualian)

‘San Lang, you know how—’ Gege trails off.

‘How?’ he prods.

‘How I feel.’ A deep blush spreads on his god’s face. Hua Cheng wants to drown in it.

‘I want you to tell me exactly how you feel. Exactly what you like.’

Dianxia swallows, but he complies valiantly. ‘You know how much I want you. How much I want your—’ he swallows ‘—your cock.’

‘Do you want to sit on me?’ Hua Cheng asks.

iii. 9 ½ Days (drarry)

‘Harry…’ Harry’s hands hadn’t stopped stroking his hair, and Draco grinned, his face lit with jubilation. ‘Are you telling me you like my hair this way? Longer?’

Longer. Mussed up. Falling sweaty on your cheekbones after sex. ‘It’s all right.’ Harry shrugged.

‘Just all right?!’ Draco let out a peal of laughter. Harry marvelled at how he could tuck away his pain like that, shove it somewhere out of sight. At dinner he’d been quiet and introspective, picking at his food. Now, propped next to Harry on his elbow, he preened, his expression elated. He leaned over Harry, his breath on Harry’s mouth. ‘I think you like my hair.’ A brush of lips. ‘No, you love it.’ Another brush, lingering. His hand sought Harry’s erection, and he pressed his knuckles against it, while he nosed down Harry’s jaw, his mouth seeking the tender spot under the ear. ‘And you won’t admit it.’

The luxurious massage Draco’s hand was giving Harry’s hard-on didn’t leave much room for coherent thought. Harry’s breath came laboured. ‘Fine, I admit it. I like your hair.’

iv. 'But if he wins?' (berencel)

‘I should be angry with you for keeping this,’—Ancel rubbed himself harder against Berenger’s cock— ‘away from me for so long. The best thing in your possession, and you didn’t think to gift it to me.’

Berenger huffed a laugh. He was pulling them towards the bed behind them. ‘I thought you preferred emeralds.’

‘I prefer both,’ Ancel said, falling on the bed. He quickly divested himself of his silks. ‘Don’t take this as an excuse not to give me more emeralds in the future.’

v. Sometimes a man needs (drarry)

‘You don’t date?’ Draco shifted towards him.

The atmosphere in the room changed from lazy and mellow to something with sharp edges; something rising to a crest. ‘Not recently. Relationships can be a hassle. Sometimes,’ Harry said, mouth dry, ‘sometimes a man needs a shag, nothing more, just to get it out of his system.’

Malfoy’s eyes had gone dark. ‘Sometimes a man needs just that.’

vi. Jaskier's surprise (geraskier)

‘’S fine,’ Geralt murmured between kisses. ‘We don’t have…’ he kissed Jaskier’s clavicle, ‘… to do that thing.’ He laved Jaskier’s nipple, teeth gently scraping the nub. ‘We can do… other things.’

Oh no, sir. Jaskier had bought oil specifically for this purpose. He pulled back a little and pouted. ‘But I want… that thing.’

‘Jaskier…’ Geralt growled.

Jaskier assumed his most stern expression; as stern as it could be when he had his legs still wrapped around Geralt’s hips, a cock that was leaking profusely, and flushed skin from head to toe. ‘Geralt, if you don’t take me the way I want you to, I’ll—I’ll sing to you.

vii. The Boy Who Died (drarry) Reincarnation AU

‘You’re thirty-four, but I’m now in the body of a twenty-seven-year-old. I’m much younger than you.’ He winked at Draco. ‘Better stamina.’

Draco gave him a dangerous smirk. ‘Is that a challenge?’

‘What if it is?’

Draco climbed on the bed and crawled towards Harry like a sexy blond panther. ‘You’ll live to regret those words, Potter.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘You’re all talk, Malfoy.’

Draco hovered over him. ‘You cheeky little thing. I’ll delight in fucking you raw.’

Tagging everyone who wants to do it! You, reading this right now, go ahead and do it if you want and tag me so I can see :)

#tagged #drarry #fanfic life #hualian #geraskier #berencel

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derww · 4 days ago

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gnome, im so fucking happy youve spoken about chat being a character and member, ive been thinking about for so fucking long and seeing our ideas merge and respond to each other is just so awesome. <3

for me zams chat just was a character in some way or another, even if muss less formed, from the team awesome breakup and further. yes, princezam is a very anxious and uncertain guy, but would he actually be so constatly changing without listening and wanting to please a chat divided by opinions and therefore always unhappy with him? he got his breakdown few days before the wormhole about how chat is the reason he is in such a bad position, because he wants to please everyone and he can't, and i see it. in some way, eclipse!pz chat was a second planetlord, always making him unsure and asking questions and saying to leave, and i really dont think wed got even close to the plot we got in the end without chat. i started thinking about it for the first time when writing my lifesteal retrospective (tldr i briefly and not too accurately retold plot of s4 with pz focal to nivalu, its like +- 350 pages i think) and really fast got into the point where i was not able to write princezam at all not explaining how much had chat influenced him. in my head, at some point, most active chatters even became a characters on their own, being not a hivemind, but their own personalities with a vision and way to show it, and for the while seasons they were not only influencing pz, but they formed alliances with each other, changed their opinions and ways of influencing what was happening. and many of it actually mattered in the end, and if it wont, pz wont be so angry for all the voices in his head. while he has a character and his vision, over the past month, I've been discussing how driven he really is by the narrative and the world around him, and in general, he's reactive, and chat is part of it. it is a part of a reason why i stopped writing in chat, actually.

while zam had said that hes trying not to be influienced by the chat while making his decisions now, and i believe that hes doing his best, he really still is. loved that you mentioned your and zy theories and how it was not only presented to zam but influenced him and turned out to be completely true (I owe you and zy for not wanting to believe yall, you're incredibly smart and you were right!). before chat had mentioned it, he didn't even think about it, and initially completely dismissed the idea, but continued to reason, and by the time of the conversation with mapicc he perceived it almost as an accurate fact. there is much more less impressive but still noticable moments like that, when a chatter brings quote or idea from tumblr and it influences him, and i think while the basis of the conclusion does not include any info from others streams (staring at derapchu chatters), its awesome. its not entirely fair since we are still influenced by the knowledge, but its sorta a consequence of chat being the only lifesteal character existing out of the server. we can have no body, but we surely do change things, how any important convo can change many things in a person.

i really love it, and i also think that other chats are also partially like that, even tho less formed than zams, but still obviously changing things (even just helping the streamer, with the farms, with the riddles, how is it different from having a cool teammate who cant come right now but can explain?), but it is also a reason why i actually almost stopped writing in chats. because, while i like having the chat as a character, i dont want to be part of a lifesteal that way. but its actually so, so awesome that we have all of this. technoblade had made his chat in a part of his character as something that makes him want blood and death, but he rarely heard distict voices just because of how much of them were. zam has much less of them, and important part of them grew up with his character and gets how exactly to not just discuss a lore, but to be a part of it. not-quite-a-hivemind, but definetely a character that cannot be ignored. another reminder of how much can be done at lifesteal without spilling a drop of blood (except for the blood of the chatters who had died in !lifesteal chat pvp, of course).

All About You

This is about to be the most meta analysis post of my life, but something that has fascinated me the most about lifesteal recently: chat is the 38th member.

As a live stream story, lifesteal is always going to be affected by the live audience, the streamer reading messages, talking back and forth, sometimes doing what chat wants. This is the streamer-chat dynamic. It's natural, it's part of the story.

But something that has fascinated me particularly since season 4, particularly post zam's break s5, and Particularly in s6 since I've started interacting on tumblr, is just how much chat influences the lore and how much we influence each other.

At each of these moments there was a shift in the PrinceZam streamer-chat dynamic.

Season 4 was a lot of anti-lore chatters. People who blah blah blah'ed it up whenever Zam went into a spiral about what he should do. It heightened the feeling of isolation and confusion, especially as some chatters (shoutout van) tried to gently encourage zam in his decision making, giving counter points to the negativity. Unfortunately it often just lead to more confusion as chat was split 50/50 on almost every decision.

In season 5, after the break, there was a reset of the mod team to the team we have now (knowing most of you are here potentially reading this is weird.) These were the best chatters of s4, the ones who became highly invested in Eclipse, and lifesteal in general, and Zam in particular.

In season 5 the hivemind of the mod team getting excited about lore was hilarious to watch. Half the team reprimanded backseating of the rest of the mod team (shoutout meep), the other half lored it up (shoutout chips), everyone loved it. 'Credit to the artist' was born as direct quotes from chat made it into the character.

Read that again: Direct Quotes From Chat Made It Into The Character.

That is weird.

No longer was it simply the mind of PrinceZam forming the character of Zam, as we watched and reacted, but chat itself became an integral part of the lore (these are his amends. make him repent) forming and shaping it, right alongside Zam, into what that season became.

In particular the conversations as the Joker (specifically the Jumper yap in your president doesn't care about you) brought out comparison after comparison to past seasons of princezam as chatters brought up and compared jumper to zam season 3. This sparked a huge renaissance of past season analysis of Zam which became heavily integrated into the final months of the server, with zam to minute, with minute bringing up his own inspiration of season 3 zam, and with zam musing about how each character approaches what past seasons mean to them (concluding, iirc, that they remember it but it doesn't matter to them. tell that to s6 zam lol).

In season 6 the dynamic has shifted again. Credit to the artist has died down, usually in favor of admitting he's reading a suggestion from chat, but the back and forth conversation, reading out specific messages, from often the same few people (shoutout arch and van and citrus (hi citrus)) has flourished more than ever (also shoutout the new chatters. there's been a turnover again and a lot of new names who are consistently affecting the lore)

Right at the end of season 5 I began interacting on lstumblr and writing and reading posts. It came from the end of season conversation about The Mering essay, Barrier Blocks: a breakdown of lifesteal in 22k words about season 4 and conflict. It wasn't the first time that essay and the story of Eclipse Federation was brought up and analyzed on stream as Zam encountered head on that his darkest time on lifesteal was the defacto fan favorite story of the server.

The analysis of the chatters was being shared with the streamer and therefore, the character. These were the seeds of thinking deeply about his actions in s4 and s5 and how he actually felt about them and not just moving on and forgetting.

And then something else started happening. Maybe it happened often before, and I was just not aware of it; I do remember a few times in s5 the mod team referencing and asking zam questions about his character that they had talked about or mused over between each other on discord. So it was happening to some extent, but particularly since starting to hear your opinions and analysis about the story on tumblr, I'm seeing a new trend in s6.

The fandom stream snipe:

When someone in chat innocently brings up something I damn well know was talked about on here just the day before.

Some analysis about a previous stream. Some wishful musing about interactions we hope to see. A tidbit about a previous stream that was unresolved.

And it changes the lore just as much as Planet is known to change the lore by talking to Zam.

The two instances that got me really thinking about chat being the 38th member were recent:

After 4c betrayed there was of course a lot of discussion and the general consensus was the we would love to see another 4c and zam conversation. Especially after 4c gave kab the disc, and zam did the short confrontation of him with derap. Multiple people, I mean it was on everyone's mind, wanted another interaction.

And when the timing was good, chat struck. Or should I say, van cooked. After Zam wrote signs about kab and wondered what to do about his interactions with her, someone mentioned 4c, and the door was opened to talk about what we were all wondering about. Van delivered, nearly single handedly driving the conversation towards talking to 4c, musing that it felt unresolved. When zam got distracted by demi talking about his base, van brought the discussion back around to 4c and the rest of chat started cooking too, innocently encouraging a second conversation. And Zam /msged 4c to talk.

It would not have happened without chat.

The second was yesterday: talking about Leo potentially being a mole. I had analysis, I know zy had analysis, I think others did as well. But until chat started bringing up fandom analysis, zam and derap were not sus of Leo in the slightest. Zam was only partially suspicious about Mapicc wanting to kill Flame, but he only thought of it in terms of letting Mapicc down.

And it got me thinking; at what point are we stream sniping ourselves? It's not really stream sniping (though the 4c one gets very close) because it's based on our own analysis, and usually just based on zam's streams, or doesn't include knowledge that isn't known.

But that Leo analysis was lifesteal spoiler walled. It was, by default, something that was kept hidden from lifestealers on tumblr (though less for zam and more for anyone else), though, as a theory, is it really a spoiler? But as a theory, is it really meant to be seen by the character? Unless we were a member and wanted to tell our teammate we thought something was up?

It's an interesting conundrum. Our analysis is a hivemind of hyperfixating viewers who Think about lifesteal all the time, rewatch streams, watch everyone and know how everyone is likely to be thinking and acting, breaking it down, reading each other's analysis and cultivating a deep web of theories and hopes and dreams about this lovely server of ours.

And that holds weight. All the minds of the viewers pushing together to have an affect on the server. Honorable mentions are our opinions/analysis on lskab that ran rampant in chat for that like month, and, in the opposite direction, mer's rewatch of s4 ending in a "i wish zam could talk to vitalasy again" post which plausibly reignited the deep dive thinking about that season and then culminated in this past saturday's stream!

Would PrinceZam the character ever have wanted to talk to vitalasy nearly half as much without the love of the fandom (not just mer) for eclipse federation that persists to this very moment nearly 2 years later?

We mighteswell be a member on the server asking zam to talk to someone!

Not to give us a big head.

I'm in no way criticizing these actions. I don't have an opinion either way for when it's too much. It's part of the medium to have a chat. Lifesteal would simply not be lifesteal without the audience interaction and this influence is hardly new to the story. One could say the ls story never got started until the audience cared enough about the story as story to have an opinion on where it should go.

And it's the same with the server members: they have to care about the story enough to log on and be in the story. And then they start affecting it and the story is created.

#d.thoughts #lifesteal spoilers

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ghosts-and-blue-sweaters · 1 year ago

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🌈🌩🌥

(Help ive already forgotten the emoji... the last one is the dialogue one)

Mood. I always forget the emojis for ask games and have to go back and forth between asking and actually looking at the questions (when I send someone an ask) XD

Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP

Ooooh-hoo-hooooooo okayokay, let’s see here…

~~~

“I want a goldfish.”

Wilbur blinks, snapped out of his reverie—or perhaps it was a disassociation, actually—as he pulls his eyes away from a very loud food vendor, and towards his brother.

Tommy stares up at him, looking both expectant and pretentious.

Wilbur blinks again. “What?”

“I said I want a goldfish.” Tommy says this bluntly, with hardly any emotion at all. He says it as plainly as someone making a comment about the weather, or someone asking a question about someone else’s cat.

Wilbur’s brow furrows. “What?”

Tommy sighs. “One of those little yellow guys. Or I guess they’re orange.” He goes quiet for a moment. “Yeah, they’re orange.”

“Tommy- what fish? Where-“

Tommy points forward, and Wilbur follows until his eyes reach a little carnival game (he can’t tell what exactly the point of it is). There’s rows of tiny goldfish, each one placed in a plastic bag filled with water, lining a shelf behind the game.

Wilbur nods slowly. “Oh. Those goldfish.”

“Yes, those goldfish. They’re right in front of you. Idiot.”

Wilbur narrows his eyes.

Tommy takes a deep breath, still gazing at the fish. “I want one, Wil.”

“Okay. I’m hungry; why don’t we go get a churro?”

“Willllll!”

Wilbur sighs loudly. “What?”

“I don’t want a churro! I want a goldfish.”

“Well, alright then. You can go and get one.”

“But I have to win to get one.”

“So?”

Tommy lowers his chin. “I don’t think I’m very good at winning carnival games.”

Wilbur sighs, this time more gently than before. He knows it’s true; Tommy can’t win a carnival game to save his life. It’s usually Wilbur who plays them—or takes over playing once it becomes clear that Tommy is hopeless.

“Okay.” Wilbur glances from Tommy to the rows of fish, pausing a moment before turning back. “Look, you can at least… try, can’t you? You can do that?”

Tommy dips his chin even lower. “I’m just gonna waste money.”

“But at least you’d try,” Wilbur replies, a bit exasperatedly. “It’s fine if you waste- it’s fine if you use a little money.”

“But Techno said that we should try to save as much as possible.” Tommy says this with wide eyes that look more fitting on a young child than a fifteen year old.

Wilbur scoffs. “Who cares what Techno thinks? We’re at a carnival, Tommy. We can use as much money as we want.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah, man. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh.” Tommy blinks at the ground, taking in this new information. Then he looks up, squinting. “But I still don’t think I’d win. And then I wouldn’t get my goldfish.”

“It’s not your goldfish if you don’t even have it yet.”

“Is too!” Tommy furrows his brow at this, standing up taller. “It’s my goldfish and her name is Clementine!”

“Wh… okay.” Wilbur looks away, placing his hands on his hips as he gives a quiet shake of his head. “Fine. Whatever. Your goldfish.”

“Clementine.”

“Your goldfish,” Wilbur repeats.

Tommy nods.

~~~

Share something funny/cracky from your WIP

Hehehehe, I very much enjoy writing humor >:)

~~~

Tommy stares right back at him. "Your hair looks stupid."

Wilbur scowls, using his hands to muss up his hair, which is springing out in every direction. "Shut up."

Tommy huffs. Wilbur was right, though; the sun really is shining, streaming through the window and making everything look all bright and yellow. It hurts a little bit to look at, but Tommy likes it anyway. It's a lot better than storm clouds. Those just suck. And they piss.

"Hey Wilbur, do you ever think about how storm clouds, just... piss? Like, that's all they do?"

"No."

Tommy furrows his brow. "Well then you're not a critical thinker."

"What the heck does that mean, Tommy," Wilbur sighs, digging through the drawer in the nightstand.

Tommy shrugs. "I don't know. You should- you should ask the storm clouds."

He says the last part in a laugh, and Wilbur's mouth twitches. "Just get ready, Tommy."

~~~

Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP

OOOOOH! Hmm.......

~~~

"Wil?"

Wilbur starts, pulling his hands away and casting bleary ears on his father, standing in front of him. Phil looks worried. "You okay, mate?"

"I-" Wilbur closes his mouth, then opens it, shaking his head. "I don't-"

"You look pale. You- you're hungry, aren't you?"

"Yes." Sometimes Wilbur hates the things that come out of his mouth.

"Well, here you go. Another bowl of soup." Phil sets a bowl onto the table, a plain wooden one. One that won't break.

Wilbur swallows.

"I can get you some crackers if you want," Phil continues. "Or a glass of- actually, you need some water. Wait one second."

Phil leaves without another word, folded wings casting shadows as he walks. Wilbur looks down at the wooden bowl, filled with soup. Carrot, potato, broth. It smells delicious. Absolutely wonderful.

Wilbur looks away.

"Here you go," Phil chirps, walking back in with a cup of water in his hand, which he sets down next to the bowl, sliding them both towards Wilbur's seat. "I've already eaten, but I'll keep you company if you want me to. Even... Wil?"

Wilbur chews on his lip, looking away from the soup, away from the table, away from Phil. He feels sick. He's so hungry. He feels sick.

"Wilbur? Is everything okay? I can leave if you want; I don't have to stay." A pause. "Mate?"

"I'm not hungry anymore," Wilbur strains, pushing the bowl of soup away.

"Wh... that doesn't... you were just hungry, Wil."

"I- I don't... want it."

Phil blinks. "Yes you freaking do."

"Phil, please, just-!" Wilbur turns, slamming his fist onto the table and making himself jump with the loudness of it. "I don't- I don't really need... I don't-"

"This isn't because you broke the bowl, is it?"

Wilbur presses his lips together.

Phil sighs. "Wilbur, listen: I don't give a crap about that bowl. Okay? I really don't. When I heard glass shattering, the only thing that crossed my mind was whether you'd gotten hurt or not. I could not care less about a stupid piece of dish-ware, alright?"

A moment passes without any words spoken.

Phil leans closer. "You believe me, right?"

"I don't- I don't know." Wilbur puts his elbows back on the table, setting his chin on his hands. "I'm just so sorry, Phil."

"It's okay."

"I'm so sorry I broke it."

"It's o- hey, stop beating yourself up about this, okay? I don't freaking care."

"I know, I know, I'm just- I'm still so... I'm so..." Wilbur's chest heaves as he stutters in a breath, shaking his head back and forth. He looks at the bowl of soup, steam no longer rising from its surface. Cold. It's cold now, lying abandoned on the table. Then he looks at Phil; the hybrid is leaning forward, brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. A strand of blond hair drifts in front of his face. Phil doesn't swipe it away.

Wilbur begins to smile, which horrifies him only a little. "I feel sick. And it's because of a bowl of soup."

"Sick? Is-is-is your- here, let me feel-"

"Not that kind of sick." Wilbur lets out a chuckle, humorless and cold. Phil freezes, halfway between rising out of his chair. "It's a different kind, Phil. Gosh, I feel so terrible. I'm so-"

Wilbur's breath hitches. His smile falls off his face as suddenly as it had appeared. "I'm so broken."

Phil sits back down, slowly. "Hey. Wil. Look at me."

"I'm so broken," Wilbur repeats, staring at the table as he shakes his head, hands pressed against his cheeks. "I'm so broken, Phil. I can't- I break a dish and almost have a panic attack. That's not- normal, Phil. I don't- I don't-"

"Hey, hey. Calm down. You're okay."

"I'm not okay! Don't you hear me?" Wilbur pulls his hands away, resting his palms on the table as he makes eye contact with his father. Phil gazes at him evenly, expression carefully controlled. Wilbur breathes in roughly. "I'm broken. I'm just like the bowl, I-I-I fell apart, and now I'm just scattered pieces, and they're too small to be put back together. Don't you... I'm broken, Phil. And I don't- I don't want to be, I don't..."

Wilbur shuts his eyes tight. "I don't want to be broken. I really don't want to be broken, but I am, and I don't... want to, Phil."

#that first snippet… like. the entire story became so dang long lol #it’s thousands of words #LITERALLY THE PROMPT WAS CRIME BOYS AT A CARNIVAL #THAT WAS IT #VERY SIMPLE #A ONE AND DONE ONE-SHOT #BUT THEN #I HAD TO COME UP WITH A WHOLE FREAKIN AU FOR IT #WITH BACKSTORY AND DRAMA AND FAMILIES #NOW IT HAS THE POTENTIAL TO BE A WHOLE NOVEL 😭#it has been super fun to work on—if not a bit of a mess #I feel like I’ve gone in so many directions for it lol #the second one is from my CRIME BOYS MODERN AU WHICH I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON SINCE FREAKING SEPTEMBER #IT’S OVER 20 THOUSAND WORDS AND NOT DONE YET #DEAR GOSH #the last one is from a story I started working on a while ago but then lost inspiration :’0 #I really like what I’ve got for it though #it’s very feelsy #anyways :)#hope you enjoyed!!#ask #ask game answers #story snippet

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 7 months ago

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Can you do a grumpy ii in spin check or smth? He deserves more loving. Thx!

This also has interactions with other members. Hope you will like it!

Code: cranky little man

“Code: cranky little man. Help.” was the message you received from IV about an hour after the rehearsal had started. And quite frankly you weren’t all that surprised considering that II was already grouchy in the morning before he left. Meaning that you had practically dragged him out of bed, bribing him with homemade dinner once he got back.

“What have you done now” you fired back, knowing that as much as they loved each other they also had a passion for pissing each other off. “I’m offended that you’re blaming me”, was all IV responded with before another notification dinged. This time a picture of your boyfriend with his face first on his drums graced your screen. A slight chuckle slipped past your lips as you quietly saved the image. “Leave my eepy baby alone”, you typed back quickly. Shaking your head you reached for one of II old shirts before throwing little things you might need into your purse.

“Maria, Joseph, and the donkey”, III raised his arms in the air when you made it to the studio thirty minutes later, “The savior is here”. You cackled, placing bags with food and drinks to the side, “Forgot the halo boys, my apologies”, you snickered. “I smell food”, IV practically chirped rubbing his palms together, before digging through the options available. “Hey, share”, you pointed a finger at him, making him lift his hands in surrender, “Yes, Mom”.

You just shook your head at him before grabbing the biggest cup of coffee planet Earth had seen, “Four shots, no sugar”, you muttered, setting the drink next to Vessel who reached out an arm to pull you into a side hug. “You’re the best”, he mused before turning back to the sheets with lyrics.“Bringing offerings like a good girl”, IV whistled, popping another fry into his mouth. “Oj, pipe it down”, II grunted stepping back into the room.

“What are you doing here?”, a slight frown crossed his features. Not the kind that suggested that you were unwanted there. More a surprised one, since you both had agreed that your personal life should be separate from the band's life. “Thought I would pop in to surprise you”, you smiled at him but he only tilted his head to the side, clearly not buying any of it.

“Okay, maybe I got a code red from someone”, you admitted with a slight shrug. “Fucking snitches”, II muttered under his breath before reaching out for you. Wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You could feel the tension in his body even from such a small action. “What’s wrong?”, you whispered, leaning in to press a loving kiss on his neck. “Nothing”, he shook his head but just glared at him, “Yeah, you are lying through your teeth”.

II stayed ridged for a moment. Running through his thoughts in his head before letting out a sigh, “Just not my day, nothing sounds good”. You hummed at his words, running a hand up and down his back.“How’s your wrist?”, you asked so casually and the slight shock on your boyfriend’s face was understandable. “How did you…”, he cut himself off with a shake of a head.

“I’ll tape it for ya, come on”, you tapped his back a couple of times before pulling away and reaching for your bag. “You were rubbing it this morning…”, you pointed out, reaching for his hand. “That’s what she said”, III snickered, of course making IV laugh as well. “You’ll be eating drumsticks lads”, II grunted shooting them an annoyed look. But you just snickered alongside them, carefully taping the tender wrist.

“How does this feel?”, you looked up, making sure you hadn’t wrapped it too tight. “Good, a lot better”, II agreed with a sigh, “Thanks, bub”, his free hand rubbed the back of your thigh. “You’re more than welcome”, you mussed, leaning in to kiss his lips a couple of times. “Sit with me while i play”, he mumbled against your lips, both hands pulling you deeper into him as he held onto your hips. “I don’t want to bother you or the boys”, you muttered. “As if you could”, he needed forward pressing his head into your chest.

#sleep token x reader #sleep token x you #sleep token imagine #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token ii x reader #sleep token ii imagine #sleep token ii x you

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gaskarth-omg · 6 years ago

Text

so i’m supposed to be going to megacon this weekend (tbh mostly to see Ty) but his panel is saturday (he has photo ops both days) and most of the other stuff is going on sunday (like a panel with some people from smallville) and my little sister wants to see Tana from youtube on Sunday. i wanna go saturday to see Ty’s panel and she wants to go sunday to see Tana but i also wanna see the smallville cast sunday too and we can only go one of the days and have to agree on one.....and idk what to do. help!!!!

#ty is having a photo op sunday so if we went that day i’d still see him but not to the extent of watching a panel #plus the photo ops ive heard are really quick like you dont get to really talk to them much #im so stressed bc i have to buy my ticket asap since it’s this weekend #i dont wanna muss his panel saturday but also wanna see the smallville cast sunday and ugh!!!! i wanna go both days #jennie rambles

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hourcat · 2 years ago

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I’m the sleepy sex anon and omg yes!! That fic you linked is actually one of my all time favourites 😭💕💕💕

I can’t believe you’re even considering writing more sleepy sex piarles 🥺

My heart is so full i could kiss you right now 😘

Ily 🥰

HI HI thank you for sending this requestttttt <3 to be totally honest i think i may have tried too hard on this one BUT ive been wrestling w/it for a couple days and i think its time to just...let it go. bestie i hope u enjoy this. i love u sm. thank u for reading my writing. im kissing u right back.

(word count: 4,871) (NSFW)

Charles is still asleep when Pierre returns to bed after his morning shower.

Which—honestly, Pierre had kind of predicted. It's summer break. They get a chance to breathe, to settle, to go at their own pace instead of frantically running behind their respective teams; it's been a long first half of the season, and he knows the second half won't be much better. So this is important time for them: rest, recovery, relaxation.

Pierre just can't sleep for shit.

Even after a night of drinking, or of keeping Charles up til the early morning hours wringing him dry of pleasure, Pierre seems to always be awake by 6 and alert by 7.

It kind of sucks, more often than not, because if there is one person in the world who's practically built for lounging, it's Charles.

It definitely sucks right now, because Pierre, fresh out of the shower, had gotten a little worked up under the hot water and had been hoping, against all hope, that Charles would be generally awake enough to start their morning off a little rough. If the way he's drooling and snoring softly into his pillow is anything to go by, Pierre's wish has fallen on deaf ears.

"Fuck," he mumbles, rubbing at his half-hard cock from under the towel wrapped around his waist. There's nothing on their agenda for today, really—it's raining this morning, although that isn't exactly an unwelcome thing since it's been so hot lately, so any attempts at beachgoing are, for the time being, tabled. Going out for breakfast is always a hassle because people have been recognizing him lately, and Pierre loves his fans but he knows he can't jeopardize the secrecy of his relationship with Charles by trying to be a normal twenty-something with his boyfriend.

So, technically, he could jerk off this morning waiting for Charles to wake up and not have any real interruptions to their wide-open schedule. He shrugs at the thought as if someone else suggested it to him. In bed, Charles has rolled over onto his stomach, face smushed entirely into the pillow.

He's sweet like this. Pierre wants to pet him, coo to him like he's some little woodland creature that Pierre has taken home. He sinks onto the mattress slowly, so he doesn't jostle his sleepy boyfriend too much, and combs a hand gently through Charles' sleep-mussed hair.

"Mon cheri," he hums quietly. Charles, still out cold, makes a little noise at the contact. Pierre chuckles to himself, wordlessly continues to tussle at his hair again.

And then—

"Mmm, Pierrot." Pierre watches, captivated, as Charles grinds into the mattress. He's not subtle about it—in fact, Pierre is pretty sure he'd done this awake the other day, when they were messing around with a new toy he'd indulgently purchased on the road. Then, at least, Pierre could tell what was going through his pretty boy's head.

Now? He's kind of dumbstruck, watching Charles begin to rub off on the mattress beneath him. The fog of lust is starting to cloud his brain again. Before he knows it, he’s moving on autopilot, falling into step with whatever game his slumbering boyfriend is trying to play without him.

"Mmm, Charlito," he purrs, continuing to pet at his sleeping partner. "Does this feel nice?" Charles moans in his sleep, grinding into the sheets more noticeably. Just to check, Pierre uses his free hand to lift the blankets just a little—and, yes, of course, he can see that Charles is half-hard right now, just from this.

"Fucking hell," Pierre breathes. The idea of jerking off by himself is suddenly not as appealing as having the real thing right beside him, clearly worked up and clearly having a sex dream about him. He tightens his fingers in Charles' hair and tugs, gentle, until another noise sputters from his mouth. This time, as he whimpers, Pierre watches the way his eyelids flutter open slowly, hazy and the most perfect shade of green he could ever imagine.

"Pierre," he half-greets, half-whines. His hips are still on their slow grind. "Mmmgm?"

Pierre chuckles softly despite himself, shifting so that the towel barely clinging to his body has fallen off in the places it needs to. He watches as Charles sees this. The pretty green of his eyes is beginning to get swallowed. "Good morning," he whispers, delicately rearranging himself over the sheets. "You sleep good?"

Charles nods a little, clearly more than half asleep. He's barely conscious, really: Pierre thinks the hand in his hair might be the only thing keeping him from falling back into the pillow. "Mmmmmmgh." Definitely not the response of a man fully awake and coherent.

"You sounded like you were having a good dream," Pierre murmurs, scooting a little closer. The warmth radiating off Charles is crazy. "Like you were enjoying yourself, cheri."

He's awake enough to blush at least. The low whine that comes out at Pierre's words is followed by another, more-conscious movement of his hips. "Yeah," he manages in his sleepy drawl. Charles' first real word of the day. Pierre's brain is startlingly awake in contrast; his dick is throbbing it's so hard, he has to fight every instinct not to beg Charles here and now to wake up so he can get inside, burrow deep in him the way he can never get enough of on mornings like these.

"Yeah," Pierre echoes, tucking even closer. The head of his cock bumps against Charles' thigh through the thin sheets, and he can see by the way the color in his cheeks gets darker that he'd noticed.

"Mmmm, Pierrot," he moans softly, hips jerking a little again.

"Does that feel good, Cha?" He's really burning up all of his self-control here and now, huh, in the first hour of being truly awake. There's nothing he wants more than to rub up against Charles until he rolls over and spreads out the way he always does when he's so good with Pierre. The restraint he's clinging to is quickly dissipating.

"Mm," Charles nods, breathy. When he speaks again, his voice has gone a little higher, thready with pleasure. "Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats back. It's not even 8, he doesn't have to be good at talking dirty right now. Charles doesn't even seem to mind; he ruts into the sheets again at Pierre's utterance, mindless in the way he's trying to get off before even being fully awake. "Easy, calamar, easy—" he rests his free hand on Charles' lower back over the sheets and gets a slightly-louder noise in response. "Hey, let me—can—do you want—?" Do you want to fuck is the question, but Pierre doesn't need to actually finish his sentence. Even in sleep, Charles knows how his mind works. Hell, considering the fact that they're both this turned on so early, it's like they have the same brain.

Beneath his hand, Charles squirms. "Mmmmmgh," he answers after a beat, entirely unhelpful.

Pierre huffs a laugh, although he's so turned on it's a little less than funny right now. "Bebe, that is not an answer." He shifts, sucking in a sharp breath at the way Charles' hot skin feels even through the sheets against his shaft.

"Mmm, Pierre," he starts, and there are the words. "Yes, I—if you do the work, yeah." He grinds down again. "I am so tired, I don't understand how you can be so awake right now."

Pierre hums, satisfied, and shifts even closer so that he's nose to nose with his boyfriend for a moment. "You have no idea how you look right now," he says lowly. "You could wake the dead." He earns a whine in response. "I will take care of you, cheri, I promise." Pierre drops a gentle kiss to his nose, then one to the not-smushed cheek currently in view. "Roll over for me, love? I want to see your pretty face."

Charles makes a breathy little noise at his words. “This does not count as you doing all the work, you know,” he mumbles, although there’s a little smile curling on his face. Pierre just thwacks him in the shoulder gently. Charles whines again, but eventually obliges Pierre’s request—he’s graceless as he rolls over, drool dried at the corner of his mouth to make him look all the more disheveled. Pierre can only chuckle at the sight, even with the way his cock is hard enough to start aching a little at this point. When he peels the sheet away from over his boyfriend, he gets another whine. “Cold,” Charles mumbles.

Pierre just tsks at him, pushing up from his sprawled-out position to get a proper look. “Pushy,” he murmurs, and Charles chokes on a little laugh as Pierre ducks down to catch him in a kiss. It’s easy like always; Charles opens for him immediately, even half-awake at best like this, and Pierre takes no time in using it to his advantage. His boyfriend hadn’t been exaggerating about not wanting to do the work—Pierre is entirely in control, tongue in Charles’ mouth, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, swallowing down every little noise that comes out of him. Charles hasn’t even lifted his arms from where they’re laid up in bed; it’s all Pierre, it’s entirely Pierre.

Which. He won’t complain about by any means, really. Charles putting up a fight is always fun, and Pierre does love to wrestle, but a loose, pliant Charles does just as much for him. “I was thinking about you,” he mumbles against the younger’s mouth, breath coming sharper than he’d wanted it to. “In the shower.” Charles moans at the little confession. Pierre swallows it whole with the next kiss, exchanging it with a low, pleased noise of his own. “Thought about how—how loose you are, like this, sleepy and careless and ready for me.”

“Pierre,” he gets in return, and Pierre grins against Charles’ mouth, the short little huffs of breath indicating that Charles is a little more awake than he’s letting on.

“Charles,” he replies, dotting one last kiss to Charles’ now-reddened lip before shifting to get to work. “Are you loose for me, calamar?”

“Mmmm,” Charles breathes. He doesn’t seem capable of forming any words, really, just these lovely little noises and Pierre’s name. (Again, not that he’s complaining—it’s like music, a symphony composed just for Pierre, every sound he’s ever loved strung together and spilling from his best friend’s mouth all at once.) Pierre brushes his hand against Charles’ cheek, traces the swell of his pretty lip with a finger that Charles, intuitively, sucks into his mouth. He’s not mouthy with it, no: just allows Pierre’s finger to sit on his tongue for a few beats, pressing into it just enough to get it slick with saliva.

Satisfied, Pierre eases it back out; the accompanying noise is wet and filthy, forcing him to swallow down the muted noise of pleasure now curled in his throat, ready to come roaring out just from the way Charles looks like this. “Good boy,” he murmurs, using his thumb to pet affectionately at the curve of Charles’ cheek. His face gets pink at the praise. For a half-second, Pierre flies out of his body and watches the way Charles settles more heavily into the bed beneath him—the way his legs spread a little more, the way he arches his neck just so in a way that gives Pierre all the access he needs. He keeps blinking his slow, sleepy blink, and he’s just.

He's just.

Pierre is going to use lube, of course, but he’s a little bit out of his mind with the way Charles is just going with everything right now, so entirely boneless that Pierre might think he’s already been fucked to completion today. He’s got to just—with a low noise, he slips his saliva-slick finger into Charles’ hole, more exploratory than insistent. How loose is he still? Pierre had fucked him pretty good last night, but there’s no guaranteeing he’d stayed that stretched overnight, especially with his tendency to stress-dream. They’re about a week into summer, Pierre thinks he’s done a good enough job at keeping his boyfriend’s mind off of their mutually-aggravating job, but he can’t know for certain.

It takes all of one finger to figure out, though, that he’s doing that off-track job of his well. Charles is almost exactly how Pierre had left him last night; all but gaping, loose enough that Pierre could probably lube his cock up and slide in without too much work at all. Charles likes it like that, sometimes—rushed and heavy, frantic in a way that doesn’t quite allow him to swallow Pierre up inside him the way he’ll do if given the opportunity. He can’t fight the groan of pleasure that claws its way from his throat at this discovery.

“Charles,” he says through his teeth, “you are so fucking—”

“I dreamed about you,” Charles interrupts, voice still weighed down from sleep. He clenches around Pierre’s one finger for a hot second, sending a spiral of insanity up Pierre’s spine and directly into the front of his brain. His cock throbs. Whatever praise that had been on his tongue dies immediately. Fuck. “You were so, your hands, you kept me open when you—” Like he’s reliving the dream all over again, Charles moans pitifully.

Pierre can’t believe he didn’t already grab the fucking lube so he doesn’t have to miss out on Charles’ heat for a single second. Unfortunately, it’s on his side of the bed, which means there is ground to cover that will require him to leave here. Stupid stupid stupid. “What did I do, cheri,” he whispers, then catches Charles in a biting kiss for a hot second just to alleviate himself of the guilt that comes a second later when he slips his finger out, clumsily leaning across the mattress to get a hand on the bottle he’s after. “Tell me what I did to keep you so—open.” He closes his fingers around the bottle and immediately returns to where Charles is now squirming more actively, one knee tucked up towards his chest.

He's so ready he’s not even making Pierre do this part. Fuck.

“You—Pierre, your mouth was so, it was—” he cuts off with a sharp whine as Pierre, with a properly-lubed finger, presses back in and languidly crooks it forward. “Pierrot, oh my god—”

“I fucked you with my tongue, eh?” He’d probably be more effective in talking back if he weren’t so ready to get to his favorite part of all this, feeling how hot and tight Charles is for him every single time, even when he’s worked open all the way. If he were more poetic, he’d call them puzzle pieces; perfectly fitted, designed to be slotted together always. “I am sure you loved that, Charlito, you are very noisy when I eat you out like a fucking girl—” He slides a second prepped finger in and scissors lazily, wrangling another noise out of Charles’ now-parted mouth. The dried drool of sleep has been glossed over by the wet drool of mindless arousal, dribbling down his chin ever-so-slightly. "Fuck, I don't even have to—" Adding a third finger goes so quick Pierre almost swallows his tongue. Charles is ready. He's ready, he's half-awake and writhing under Pierre's touch and he's ready to get fucked after being awake not even, what, ten minutes? "Charles, fucking hell—"

"'m ready," Charles whines like he can read Pierre's mind. "I—Pierrot, I am ready, I need you—"

"Shhh, sweetheart," he purrs, leaning forward so that Charles' leg can properly hook over his shoulder. When he finally pulls his fingers from Charles' hole, his boyfriend whines pitifully, just this side of bratty. (Pierre's second favorite part, a very close second, is that little sound—petulant Charles, how demanding he can be when he's not all-the-way full all the time. Toys can only do so much.) "Easy, cher, easy, I'm going to take care of you." Pierre rubs at the back of Charles' other thigh like he's trying to soothe a wounded animal. He responds easily, leg lifting so Pierre has an improved angle, and ducks forward for one last kiss, one that's definitely less of a kiss and more of a clumsy-mouth-collision. "Are you ready for me, sleepyhead?"

Charles rubs his cheek against Pierre's, catlike. "Yeah," he manages faintly. It may be the best Pierre will get—he can tell already that Charles is lost in the experience from the way his eyes, lidded from sleep, have now gotten even heavier from the way Pierre has finger-fucked him open. He’s saturated with pleasure. He doesn’t even have to look to know that his dick is weeping precome just from how blissed out he is. (A little tingle crawls up his spine at that—at the reminder that, yes, Pierre is the one who gets to have him like this. Who gets to do this to him, who makes him feel this good.)

"Good boy," the Frenchman repeats, nuzzling at Charles gently. And, with one final kiss nestled at the faint crease of his boyfriend’s dimple, Pierre finally gets what he’s been after all morning.

“Pierre—” Charles’ voice is high and thready as Pierre eases in, slow like always even despite his ceaseless desire to thrust right in all the way. Charles can handle it, he’s done it before—but this morning, Pierre wants to keep Charles the way he is right now. Easy. Pliant. Sleepy. “Pierre, oh my god, Pierre—”

“You are taking me so good, cheri,” Pierre murmurs, rubbing at the meat of Charles’ thigh soothingly. “So good, sweetheart, you are so—fuck you are so tight, even with all that work we did, yeah?” Charles seems to be beyond words; he nods, eyes screwed shut, lips parted so pretty Pierre wishes his phone were closer so he could capture the moment. “You feel so good, Charles, fuck. Fuck, cher, fuck—” every second has Pierre closer to bottoming out, and Charles’ voice keeps breaking with every bit of Pierre he’s taking in.

“Pierre,” he manages with a soft whimper. His arm finally lifts from where it’s been draped across Pierre’s pillow, fingers sinking into the flesh of Pierre’s shoulder. Even with dull nails he can feel it like a branding iron. “I want all of it, all—please, oh my god, Pierre—” The words have broken off into half-formed noises as Pierre finally, finally bottoms out inside him. He’s dizzy with it, to be honest—there’s no getting used to how good Charles feels, like he’s made for Pierre and Pierre alone. They’ve done this a thousand times before, Pierre has had Charles a thousand different ways, and yet: he’ll never be used to this. Not ever.

“There we go,” he finally says, unable to keep the grunt of pleasure out of his voice as Charles clenches around him tight. “Fuck, there we are, calamar, all in. You have all of me, sweetheart, you did so good.” He thumbs at Charles’ cheek again with the hand not currently keeping him balanced, humming quietly at the way Charles leans into it even here and now. “How do you feel, mon cheri.”

Charles moans, the sound so familiar to the noises he’d been making in his sleep not too long ago. “Full,” he whispers, eyes still shut tight. The fingers dug into Pierre’s shoulder press even harder for a beat. Then: “Feels right.”

Pierre laughs lowly, ducking forward to kiss the place his thumb had been attending to. “Yeah?”

Charles nods, a quick and dramatic little thing. He looks a little silly. Pierre would laugh if he weren’t buried so god damn deep in him. “I feel—” He inhales sharply as Pierre has to re-balance on the mattress and jostles them a little. “I want to be like this always.”

The words are quiet but slap Pierre across the face open-handed. “You do, huh,” he says after a moment, aiming for teasing but knowing he’s missed the mark from the way his voice has gone ragged around the edges. He really isn’t going to last long at all the way things are going now. There’s no recovering from Charles’ lust-driven earnestness, especially now that he’s got his eyes open again. They’re so dark. Pierre knows he could get lost in them if he’s not careful.

“Fuck me, Pierrot,” the Monegasque breathes, lashes fluttering, and Pierre can’t do anything but oblige, drilling a singular thrust to send Charles skittering beneath him. The sob that wrenches from his throat is anything but soft. Pretty boy, pretty boy. Pierre sinks into him again, presses a clumsy kiss to Charles’ begging mouth, catches his teeth just right to draw another stuttering whine from somewhere at the back of his throat.

“Charlito,” he gasps as Charles meets his next thrust. “I am not going to—you—fuck, stay down, sweetheart, let me—”

Charles’ moan cuts him off. “Touch me, touch me,” he’s begging between shuddering gasp-sobs. Still clinging to Pierre’s shoulder with one hand, he rests the other over Pierre’s hand and lingers only for a moment before closing loosely around his wrist. “Pierre, please, please Pierre.”

A wrecked laugh spills out of Pierre’s mouth, somehow. “Eager,” he says, the rest of his thought utterly lost on his tongue at the way Charles continues to work with him thrust for thrust. He’s definitely awake now. “Yes, cher, yes, I—touch you, yes, fuck, of course,” so inelegant and clumsy as the words come out. Charles moans at them anyway, tightens his grip on Pierre’s wrist. “I have you, I have you.”

“Please,” he repeats, nodding frantically. He doesn’t release his hold on Pierre. (Maybe he’s not planning on it. The idea makes him dizzy again.)

He’s normally more controlled than this—although, lately, he’s been making that excuse to himself a lot when it comes to Charles, the way he’s been out of his mind every moment he gets alone with his best friend. There’s something gnawing at his gut, something he can’t quite shake: the fear that Charles will realize who he is, what he is, and see Pierre for what he actually is under the years and years of fond memories.

But he’s not going to psychoanalyze himself now, not as Charles has started bucking into the hand currently loose around the hilt of his cock.

“Pierrot,” he choke-sobs, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth like a waterfall. Charles is entirely lost in this, entirely; head thrown back, chest heaving, looking like an absolute painting of lust incarnate. Pierre is the one in control, here, doing all the work even if Charles is now trying to meet him halfway on it. It’s a very Charles thing of him to do, really—unable to fully let go even when he says he wants otherwise.

Admittedly, seeing Charles nestled in bed had triggered something in Pierre’s brain—something quiet. Something domestic. Something private. A summer just for them, not Instagram or anybody else’s eyes.

Fucking Charles until he’s wild might be a bit of an obstacle to this.

So he figures he’ll just have to take matters into his own hands. “Easy,” Pierre murmurs, slowing his thrusts but keeping the force behind them as best as he can. Charles keeps clinging to him. “Easy, Charles, I—” he shushes instinctively, thumbing at his boyfriend’s cheek again. “I have you, I promise.” His free hand wanders through Charles’ sleep-flattened hair, tsking quietly. “Be good for me, mon amour.”

Charles, to his credit, seems to settle at Pierre’s touch and words, especially as Pierre’s nails scrape a little at his scalp. The way his eyes roll a little at the sensation makes something warm in Pierre’s gut curl. “Pierrot,” Charles repeats, voice low and hoarse.

“Charles,” he answers with a soft look. “Close your eyes, cher. You trust me, yes?”

Charles’ eyes flutter closed immediately. “Always,” he answers.

“Then let me make you feel good.”

Charles moans softly, and Pierre can see the way he visibly relaxes again, once more pliant and sleep-soft. A surge of affection swells in his chest at the sight. He’s known Charles for most of his life—knows that he gets so quickly worked up about so many things, knows that he holds on to things even when he says he doesn’t. So to get Charles settled so quickly again like this… “Okay,” his boyfriend whispers.

“Okay,” Pierre echoes, then steals a fleeting kiss from Charles’ just-open lips. “Okay, cheri. Okay.” He closes his hand around Charles’ cock, strokes him once slowly. “There we go,” he says, distantly hearing how he sounds—choked, hoarse, barely hanging on by a thread. “What do you want, bebe.”

Charles whimpers. “You,” he answers, and Pierre hears this clear as day, like his lips are pressed right to Pierre’s earlobe. And—well—they might be, they really might be; Pierre can barely tell where he ends and Charles begins, which also feels like it’sbeen happening more these days. The lines have always been blurred for as long as Pierre can remember, but this—this is new, almost. Maybe it’s just summer.

Maybe it’s just Pierre realizing that he’s capable of wanting things outside of the track.

He’s been moving on autopilot, he realizes vaguely, as the noises of pleasure spilling out of Charles finally register in his ears once again. He’s quick to lock back into the task at hand, of course, working to align his hip and hand movements so that Charles is being barraged with the sensations the way he loves. Pierre, he’s begging, Pierre Pierre Pierre like it’s the only thing he knows how to say, and it’s—

“Fuck,” he groans, the resurgence of his self-control collapsing at the way Charles’ voice breaks on his name. “Charles, fuck, I am going to—”

“Please,” he interrupts, already sure of what Pierre is going to say as he thrusts up into Pierre’s hand. “Please, I am—yes, Pierre, I need—I want to feel you—”

That’s it. Graceless, he comes still buried deep in Charles, body once again completely disconnected from his mind as he thrusts helplessly. Pierre burrows into Charles’ shoulder as he lets go, mouth open and breathing wet against the freckled expanse of skin he loves so dearly. Charles, of course, comes right after him, streaking his stomach and Pierre’s still-working-him-through-it hand and even towards the glittering silver chain sitting heavy around his neck, but Pierre doesn’t move from where he’s slotted himself. He still feels like he’s wading through his own desires—like somehow, fucking a half-asleep Charles in his apartment in his Milan apartment has unlocked something new within him, something complicated and heavy and easy all at once.

And, well, maybe it has.

He’s still breathing heavy, a little dizzy from coming down so quickly from his high with so little air getting to his brain from his spot. Pierre slowly lifts off of him—face first, then hand, then cock, all departures that draw little noises of disappointment from Charles as he’s exposed once again to the cool air conditioning of his apartment.

Charles, who is so effortlessly beautiful like this, filthy with sweat and cum and blissfully riding the little aftershocks of his own orgasm. The sheets look sharp against his tanned skin. He does look like a painting, everything about him—Pierre’s eyes flicker over his body and see, with a little overstimulated pang of hunger, that his own cum is leaking from Charles’ puckered hole. He moves like a man possessed—still working on autopilot, Pierre’s action feels instinctive, to use two fingers and press the filthy mess back inside him. “Mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Charles whines again at the contact. His breath is warm and strong against Pierre’s cheek.

“Yours,” he murmurs against Pierre’s lips, voice shredded. He lifts a hand to rake through Pierre’s hair. “Yours always.”

Pierre hums, the weight of the morning suddenly heavy on his limbs. He collapses beside Charles, whose eyes are glittery and once again heavy looking with sleep. “I hope I lived up to your dream,” Pierre says after a beat, reaching over to touch Charles’ glowing skin again.

Charles chuckles softly. “Eh,” he answers, trademark catlike grin splitting his face in two. With a soft grunt, he scoots closer to Pierre (like they were even really that far apart) to rest gently on his shoulder, nuzzling him once again. “Perhaps I will dream of you again, Pierrot, and you can try once more.”

Pierre snorts softly. “You are insatiable,” he murmurs, unable to keep from pressing a formless kiss to Charles’ head. He gets a muffled noise in response. “Maybe I will, huh.”

“Mmmmmgh” is the response he gets.

Pierre’s never been one to nap—especially not this early in the day—but with Charles’ weight tucked into his side, pleasure still covering him like a blanket, maybe he’ll consider it.

The shower’s not going anywhere, after all.

#piarles #pierrecharles #10 x 16 #fic #prompt #ok literally im never writing smut again i swear i am exclusively sticking to normal soft not insane things #if u read this. forgive me. my brain worms just decided to up and leave me all at once #ask reply #Anonymous

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