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da-rulah · 5 months ago

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Rubenesque - Secondo x F! Plus Size Reader

Summary: Retirement had its perks. For Secondo, one of those was being able to spend much more time on the things he enjoyed. And there were only two things he truly enjoyed these days; art, and you. Although if you asked him, he’d insist that they were one and the same.

So how would he react when he learns that your peers are mocking your sinfully gorgeous body, and you're struggling to love yourself?

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only

Word Count: 7.8k

Warnings: Fatphobic comments, low self esteem, sensual sex, semi-public sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, p in v sex, creampie

A/N: Yes, this is self-indulgent. Sue me. And whilst it is a plus size reader fic, anybody can still enjoy Artist Secondo who enjoys his women...

Disclaimer: The painting in the header has been modified using photoshop to edit out a creepy old man. It is a Rubens painting, named "The Hermit and the Sleeping Angellica". It's important to also note, Rubens never painted any scenes for the satanic church. This is fiction for this particular story.

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | TIP JAR

Retirement had its perks. For Secondo, one of those was being able to spend much more time on the things he enjoyed. And there were only two things he truly enjoyed these days; art, and you. Although if you asked him, he’d insist that they were one and the same.

Except, you were finding it harder and harder to believe him in that regard. With the whispers of harsh siblings as you passed in the hall managing to reach your ears, you were struggling more and more to understand why you were one of Secondo’s favourite things at all. He was unaware of your harsh feelings towards yourself, let alone of the whispers in the halls. But then, now he spent most of his time in his art studio on the edge of the grounds, you weren’t surprised that he was oblivious to the going’s on in the Ministry. Now that his younger brother was running the show, he didn't have to meddle quite so much in the politics of the Clergy. He’d only get involved when they tried to undermine Terzo; something he would never stand for, no matter how much he aggravated him. The burden had been passed on, and after decades of devotion and servitude, he figured he’d earned a little respite.

His studio was his sanctuary. Few were allowed to set foot inside; the exceptions being his brothers, and you, naturally. You still remember the first time he invited you in. It had been one of your first official dates, and he’d set up a quaint little dinner by candlelight surrounded by his art and tools, showing you a piece of him so heavily guarded from the outside world, lest they think he’d gone soft.

The studio itself was rather beautiful. It had once been a greenhouse, ornate green iron housing panels of thick glass from floor to ceiling. The panes considered as walls were covered in old stained-glass patterns of every colour in the shape of intricate florals. It had belonged to Papa Primo before, but in his old age, he simply didn’t have the time to run multiple greenhouses, and chose to keep the ones he did work out of closer to the Abbey itself to save him the trouble of a long walk. But for Secondo, it was perfect.

Now out of commission, the old greenhouse had been repurposed into his own studio. Shelves of pots had been replaced by blank canvases; racks of plants now saved for his supplies. He’d added a potter’s wheel and small kiln at some point too – one of his many artistic adventures that he revisited from time to time.

But his chosen medium had always been oil paints. Despite his talents in clay sculpting, pottery, sketch work, watercolour - any and all of it - oil paints were the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Many of his paintings hung in the Ministry, amongst the art commissioned centuries ago by various painters of the Renaissance and Baroque eras. Some of these painters had been commissioned to do large pieces in Catholic places of worship too, but had been swayed by the money and a promise of a life free from judgement to paint beautifully dark imagery throughout.

Secondo’s oil paintings fit right in, his style similar to the artists he’d admired for much of his life. His subject matter varied, from beautiful scenes of sin, to intricate studies of the human form, to landscapes and still life. You adored his work, finding yourself having to rotate the canvases you hung in your quarters when he’d gift you a new one every so often.

As Secondo spent the summer evening on the finer details of a scene from the Book of Revelations, the sun had begun to illuminate the colours of the stained glass with a warmth that cascaded over the stone floors. When you’d quietly entered into the studio so as not to disturb his focus, you were struck yet again by the beauty of his hideout.

The coloured rays of light cascaded over your lover, stood at his easel without any acknowledgement of your arrival. How one man could look so dreamy, as if he’d been plucked from the most romantic of novels, was beyond you. You could only see him from behind, but it didn’t go unnoticed how his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the fabric stretching over his thick arms and solid back and tucked into his slacks. His apron was tied around his waist, pulling him in and showcasing a strong torso that Pythagoras himself would theorise about.

Secondo was an artwork you wished you could paint and immortalise yourself. But you’d have to settle for committing this to memory instead as you approached where he stood, pulling a stool from a workbench and gently setting it down beside him.

“Buonasera, amore mio,” he greeted as you sat, never taking his eyes from the canvas as his fingers handled his brush so carefully.

“That’s beautiful,” you told him honestly, eyes scanning the half-finished work of the Whore of Babylon atop her beast of seven heads.

Secondo smiled, his eyes flicking to the side to look at you briefly as he muttered a “grazie.” He continued the detail he was trying to finish, the two of you settling into comfortable silence. You hadn’t come here to chat, anyway – more to escape, than anything. You had once again heard harsh whispers of cruel siblings as you’d passed them in the halls not twenty minutes before deciding to find Secondo, and you weren’t sure you could take anymore today. You simply wanted his company.

“I may need your assistance soon, mia musa (my muse),” he announced after a few moments of quiet. “I will finish this soon, and I need some... inspiration,” he paused to smirk back at you momentarily, “for my next work.”

“What could I help with?” you asked, your tone somewhat dejected. Secondo stilled, his brow creasing as his head tilted slightly in your direction enough to be able to study you. If you’d been looking at him instead of your fingers in your lap, you’d have seen the way he squinted at you, noticing everything.

“I want to paint you, mia musa,” he explained so gently, reaching towards you to tilt your chin up to him. When he met your eyes, he knew instantly something was the matter; you never avoided his gaze like that.

“I wouldn’t make a very good subject matter...” you shook your head, standing up and wandering over to the rack of finished canvases Secondo was yet to do anything with. You looked through them, your mind elsewhere unable to really take in the art itself.

Secondo studied you from his easel, watching with concerned curiosity. Something wasn’t right; that was incredibly obvious to him. He’d known you long enough and intimately enough to know that you weren’t yourself. And it didn’t sit right with him that you were putting yourself down either.

You ran your fingertips over the tops of a particular art piece of his, feeling the texture of dried paint as your thoughts raced through every comment you’d heard through the halls since your relationship with Secondo had gone public. Such hurtful things about you and how you looked...

“At least Papa Secondo is strong - he’ll need to be...”

“I know... he could have his pick of sisters, and he chose her?”

The laughter and digs at your body rattled around in your head; so much so, that you weren’t aware that Secondo had noticed at all until two strong arms were wrapping themselves around your waist from behind you, his unusually bare palms flattening against your stomach which had you recoiling instinctively. Secondo’s hold on you loosened, his hands hovering around you instead as he tried to work out what he’d done wrong.

“Amore, I-”

“I’m uh... I’m sorry, just...” you back peddled, trying to find an excuse for how you were acting that wouldn’t result in more questions, but you had nothing. Instead, you slid out from between him and the rack in front of you, back to his easel to find something to occupy your hands and avoid further conversation. You’d come here to watch him work in silence, to avoid people yet to not feel alone. You didn’t want to talk about this and make it into a bigger deal than it was.

But Secondo watched you still, feeling oddly rejected for the first time with you. You’d never refused his touch before, never run away from him before. He could only imagine he might have said or done something wrong... Perhaps he was spending too much of his attention on his art and not on you. But that had never been an issue before – he’d always made such an effort to balance his affections.

He took a few steps towards you, slowly like he was testing the waters, but you could barely even look at him, studying his half-finished painting instead as your cheeks began to ache from holding back unshed tears.

“Have... Have I upset you, amore?” he asked cautiously, keeping his distance if that’s what you wanted. You pressed your lips together hard, taking a deep breath in and shaking your head. “You can tell me, I won’t be angry. I’d like to know so I could correct it-”

“You haven’t,” you interrupted him, still focussed on the painting as one pesky little tear dripped down your cheek. With such a keen eye for detail, he noticed immediately, and his chest tightened. He was at your side in just a few quick strides.

“Amore, what is it?” he asked, frantic but being so gentle with you as if he’d break you with a simple touch. His fingertips once again guided your chin to look at him, and when you saw the concern and fear in his eyes you could hardly hold up the dam anymore.

You tried to speak, but the words got stuck in your throat. You didn’t want him to worry, and you knew if you told him everything, he’d want names. But now the tears were flowing, it made speaking all that much harder. Secondo waited patiently, wiping at the tears as they fell with the pads of his thumbs.

“I just... I’m not sure I understand why... you’re attracted to me,” you hiccupped, your shoulders shaking, eyes trained on your feet. Secondo was taken aback... Why wouldn’t he be attracted to you?

“Amore, you... you are one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever laid eyes on, what are you talking about? Have I not been making you feel so?” he panicked, immediately thinking perhaps he had been neglecting you in some way. But surely not, he told you how beautiful you were at least once a day in some shape or form. And it wasn’t as if your sex life together had been dwindling...

“N-no, I know you are attracted to me, I just... Don’t understand why,” you sniffled, meeting his eyes. “Nobody else would-”

“Why does anybody else matter?” That stumped you. You couldn’t explain yourself without informing him of what he didn’t hear himself when he spent his days in his studio, away from the whispers. You didn’t have much choice, here...

“They... they talk,” you mumbled.

“Who?”

“The siblings. They whisper, they believe you deserve better, they don’t understand why you would pick me.”

Secondo’s face darkened, the hard lines of a lifetime of stress forming deeper crevices across his brow. He was infuriated to know that members of his own congregation could be so narrow minded, despite the decades of teachings of what beauty meant and learning to accept anybody and everybody, no matter who they are or how they looked... But above that, he was enraged at the thought they were hurting you. He would find them and tear them a new asshole – but his first and only concern was you.

“There is not a single thing about you that isn’t beautiful, amore. Do you not see it?” That only made you cry harder, because no, you didn’t see it. You had struggled with your body image for so long, and while you did your best to tell yourself you were beautiful despite your hang ups about your weight, you’d never come to love yourself in the way you intended.

“I just... I struggle to see how all this,” you gestured to your body, “is beautiful. It’s not easy when the world is constantly telling you your body is wrong,” you cried. Secondo had no idea of the years of torment you’d faced at the hands of your peers, no matter where in life you found yourself. Beauty standards had plagued you for the longest time, and it constantly chipped away at the shred of self-confidence you had.

Secondo stepped closer to you, an arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer as he wiped your tears again. “There is nothing wrong about your body, mia musa. You are un'opera d'arte (a work of art), no?”

He was doing his best to comfort you, to tell you how exquisite you were but he could tell in the way you looked away from him with a small shake of your head that you didn’t believe it. All those years of being told your body wasn’t attractive had worn you down, and now you were hearing it all over again in the one place you should be able to feel truly comfortable. Secondo wouldn’t stand for it.

The arm around your waist dropped to untie his apron, lifting it from over his head and throwing it down onto the stool he’d been working from. Then he threaded his fingers through yours, with a tight and reassuring grasp. “Come with me,” he told you, giving your hand a light tug as he stepped back. You followed him, allowing him to walk you out of the studio and through the gardens towards the Abbey. Panic washed over you, thinking he was taking you to confront the siblings in question.

“Secondo, I don’t want to talk to them-”

“That’s not where we’re going,” he assured you, “but they will be dealt with.” His protectiveness of you made your chest ache. How did this man adore you this much? You may never know.

The grounds were relatively deserted. The sun was dipping below the mountainous horizon, casting a deeper orange glow over the Ministry and signalling the end of another day. The majority of Siblings were busy with their own lives, spending their downtime in the mess hall or in their dorms. A few stragglers were walking through the halls, including a couple of the siblings who’d whispered such cruel things to you.

Secondo felt your hand squeeze his momentarily, and when he looked, he saw the look of embarrassment on your face as you walked towards them. He put two and two together very quickly when the siblings in question watched on, staring at you with amused little smiles. As Secondo marched you down the hall, his glare stuck on them and the moment they looked at his face, their smiles fell to looks of fear. Even as he walked you past where they stood, he stared with a look of thunder that chilled each of them to the bone - and rightly so.

But he kept walking, until he stopped outside the large doors to the chapel. He dropped your hand only to open the heavy door and push it open.

Inside the chapel, a handful of siblings were busy replacing candles and reordering the pew cushions as were their duties after any kind of service. At the sound of the heavy door creaking at the top of the aisle, all of their heads whipped around and stared in confusion between you and Secondo. He ushered you inside and held the door open as he turned to the siblings.

“Out,” he ordered, his face stern and in no way amused by the puzzled looked the siblings shared between them. No one moved, looking around at the jobs that were yet to be done around the chapel.

“B-but, Papa... we still have to-” one of them stuttered, Secondo’s mere presence and demeanour enough to have the poor soul on edge.

“OUT!” he yelled, startling even you who jumped beside him. The siblings didn’t argue, knowing better than to stick around and hurried out of the door past the two of you. Once the last sibling had scurried out, Secondo closed the door with a heavy slam, pulling the wooden plank down that bolted it shut from inside.

He walked around the pews towards the edge of the Chapel, stopping in front of one of the murals that had been painted centuries ago. He gazed up at it, before looking back at you and holding out his hand for you to join him. You did so with caution; not because you were scared of him, more so plagued by your own insecurity than anything. But when you approached his side and placed your hand in his, he held it so gently, guiding you closer to his side. Now stood shoulder to shoulder, you followed his gaze to the beautiful artwork on the wall that Secondo himself had worked to restore and keep in perfect condition since he was a young man.

“What do you see, when you look at this?” he asked with tenderness, leaning down but never taking his eyes off the painting, “what do you notice?”

You studied the images in front of you; a large scene of the Garden of Eden that differed from the traditional depictions. In this scene, it was Adam who was eating the apple, the Devil’s serpent coiled around a branch above Eve’s head. It showed the truth of that long-standing story, falsely peddled and passed down through centuries. Adam had been the one to sin, and lied to protect himself. The apple had become stuck in Adam’s throat as he lied to his God, hence the anatomical term ‘Adam’s apple’ that only men are born with. Eve sat on the roots of the large tree, weeping at Adam’s betrayal. She had played no part in this sin, and yet, she was to be blamed for it; but even that was not the first injustice of a patriarchy.

“It’s... Adam’s betrayal. I see a woman scorned and forced to carry a burden of centuries of judgement,” you told him, feeling almost like a student being quizzed by her professor. You wanted to get the right answer, even if art was subjective.

“Eve looks beautiful, no?” he asked, waving his hand in her general direction.

“Of course,” you told him, her ethereal presence highlighted with gentle pastel colours, her body on display as she wept on the large tree roots in a way that could only be described as elegant. Eve was one of the first of many scapegoats throughout the teachings of the Bible, and yet, not the first woman to have been cast from the Garden of Eden. Another painting on the opposite side of the Chapel depicted that first woman; Lilith.

Secondo turned around, again guiding you by the hand to the other side of the large Chapel where her painting resided. Her scene showed her expulsion from the Garden of Eden long before Eve was created from Adam’s rib. Lilith was Adam’s equal, his first wife, born of the same soil as him. And yet, because she didn’t obey Adam, she was cast out.

Again, this was how the Bible would describe Lilith; rogue, disobedient and evil. But this was merely a patriarchal fantasy, her story twisted and moulded into a lie through generations. Truthfully, Adam believed Lilith should lie beneath him during the marital act – sex – but Lilith had disagreed, stating they were of the same soil, the same earth and were equal. She should not have to lie beneath him at all. That is what got her cast out of the Garden.

In her scene, she looks freed. There is no weeping, no remorse. She looks strong and independent, marching her way towards the fallen Angel known as Lucifer to begin her work with him; as his equal. Her painting is a triumph, and she looks as beautiful as you had always seen her.

“And what do you notice here?” Secondo asked, his tone still so calm and tranquil, how he always spoke of his beloved art.

“I... I see Lilith, marching towards her truth and forging her own identity.”

“And she looks beautiful too, does she not?”

“Well yes, of course,” you agreed without hesitation, but you were confused as to his point.

“These women – these two symbols of our very existence – do you notice what they have in common, amore mio?”

“Adam’s betrayal,” you scoffed. Secondo smirked.

“Well, sí, sí, but... I mean to look beyond the meaning of the scene itself, and look solely at them, their form.”

You looked behind you back at the painting on the other wall, scanning Eve before turning back to Lilith to find the similarities. But you were at a loss. Different hair colours, slightly different skin tones, different coloured eyes.

“I don’t follow?” you admitted, feeling a little silly for not understanding.

“You say they are beautiful, sí? And of course, hai ragione (you are right). But,” he stopped, stepping closer to the painting and reaching his fingertips out to trace the nude body of Lilith, having you look closer. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper, and said, “their bodies, amore... Do you not see?”

His fingertips continued to trace the artwork, every beautiful curve of Lilith’s figure, unashamedly thicker like her flesh would ripple if the painting came to life. Secondo looked back to you, a softness in his eyes as he watched it dawn on you. You’d never noticed before, never questioned it but now that you were looking around at all of the artwork in the chapel, you noticed more and more that the prominent women, the ones whose beauty and power are marvelled within your religion, looked like you...

Your eyes glossed over with emotion; how had you missed that? The very essence of beauty, and their bodies were nourished, full and spectacularly curvy. They were voluptuous and had always been revered throughout time as soft, feminine figures of power.

“These paintings, amore, were all commissioned by a painter known as Peter Paul Rubens. Do you know of him?” he asked, turning his back to the painting to stand in front of you, still holding your hand. You shook your head, pressing your lips together in the fight to keep your cheeks dry. “He is very famous for how he painted women. He enjoyed the larger women; more of them meant more beauty to paint. And people worshipped the women in his paintings, fawned over them. He became so famous for his portrayal of beauty, that there is a term for a thicker, healthy, beautiful woman such as you, mio dolce...”

He took a step closer to you, his free hand brushing strands of hair you’d let fall to conceal your face away behind your ear, so he could see you in all your beauty. The softness in his eyes he reserved only for you forced a stutter in your pulse, seeing the adoration he never tried to mask since the moment he’d met you when you joined the Ministry months ago.

And then he leaned forward, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to keep you gently in place while he brought his lips to your ear, and whispered, “Rubenesque...”

Your hand squeezed his in a visceral response, something you couldn’t control. Secondo lingered there, completely consuming your personal space as he was always so welcome to do.

“Dolcezza, you have been mia musa since the moment I laid eyes on you. If I could not have you, then I knew I at least needed to paint you – over and over again, if you would allow me.” As he spoke, the hand holding the back of your neck began to trail down your spine, making a beeline for your waist where he gripped a handful of your body and gently squeezed. “You instantly reminded me of all of my most treasured art pieces, an amalgamation of the strength, power and elegance of all the women in paintings I had studied for decades.”

He dropped his chin to press light kisses to just below your ear, still whispering his adoration of you as they travelled over what little skin was exposed.

“When you walked into this Ministry, I was so sure you had walked right out of a Rubens painting, that you could not possibly be real.” More kisses, his lips tickling your skin with every word in between. “That you had somehow been sent here for me alone. And then...” more kisses, his chest now pressing against you while your hand in his at your side tightened in arousal, “you indulged me... You sat for your first painting, so shy and timid with the most intoxicating pink blush to your cheeks. I tried to remain professionale, to focus on the art but... my mind wandered so freely.” Just like his hand was now. From your waist, it wound its way around your hip and down your thigh, pushing back to trail up the back of your thigh to the swell of your buttocks.

You cast your mind back to that first sitting, before Secondo had truly shown any interest in you. You assumed you were simply sitting for a painting, that he asked various people to do so throughout the Ministry. And whilst he had on the odd occasion, it was never for a piece as intimate as that...

He’d been so gentlemanly in his invitation, setting up part of his studio with a chaise longue and allowing you the time you needed to feel comfortable. He’d left you to undress and replace your clothes with a robe, shown you how he had pictured your pose and then allowed you your privacy again to disrobe and drape the chiffon fabric across you in a way that made you as comfortable as possible. There was no requirement to be completely on display – his only request had been that you were comfortable showing as much of your body as you chose.

“If I had thought before then that I wanted you, the way that I craved you after that moment, mia musa...” Secondo’s voice remained low and deep as he stepped around you, keeping his lips hovering by your ear as he took up his position behind you. He dropped your hand in his in favour of holding you steady by your waist, softly gripping at the flesh there. Naturally, you sank into him, pressing your back to his strong chest and extending your neck to allow his lips to ghost over the skin.

“It was truly a test of my self discipline to have you sit for me. But I had just been gifted the most beautiful art to work with and I was petrified to lose it if I had made my move then. And then...” His arms wrapped further around your body, strong, paint covered hands sliding around you like boa constrictors. One arm crossed over to grip the opposite hip, while the other, crossed your chest to knead gently at your breast. “You made me fall disperatamente innamorato di te (desperately in love with you.”

Your head was swimming with Secondo. All of this, you had known to some degree but to hear him truly spill confessions while his hands were all over you felt like the most erotic experience you’d ever encountered. His breath felt hot against your exposed throat, radiating through your entire body and setting it alight. All you could do was cover his hands with your own and get lost in his touch.

“I remember the first time I touched you, amore... The smallest, most innocent of touches... During your third sitting, I had to angle your chin to match the work in progress and you were so soft...” If you didn’t know any better, you would think Secondo too was lost in his imagination. And that he was, his eyes shut as he touched you, recounting those early memories with you. “Your eyes were so wide, glistening orbs of innocence and nervousness. I could stand it no more... I had to have you. I had never needed anything so much in my life, dolcezza... To taste your lips, to feel how soft you were beneath the fabric.”

You remembered the way he’d looked at you in that moment, like he was fighting for his damn life inside his head to keep away from you. He’d stared at your lips for too long, and when he’d met your eyes again and saw no hint of you backing away, he had lost his control. That was the first time Secondo had you.

The hand kneading at your breast travelled further up your chest to your neck, his thumb reaching to tilt your chin up towards him so he could look you in the eye. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, desperate to keep him close.

“Satan himself blessed me with a woman such as you, mia musa...” he breathed with hooded eyes as if he were drunk on you, and without giving you any time at all to argue or respond in any way, his lips came crashing down on yours with a lust that neither of you had ever felt for another soul in all your years.

He held you upright when he felt you melt too far into him, succumbing to his kiss with ease. You couldn’t help yourself, consumed by his very being and already so tightly wound up from his teasing touches and admission of the extent of his obsession with you. This man was as desperate for you as you were for him and it didn’t matter if you understood the reasons why or not; you simply accepted then and there that he was, that to him, you were the most beautiful creature to have graced his world.

Lips and tongues clashed together without rhyme nor reason, moans lost to each other’s mouths as you lost yourselves also. His hands roamed your body as he held you against him, his grabs a little harsher, needier now. You could feel his hard chest and soft stomach pressing tightly against your back, a bulge that had long since begun stirring nestling between the cheeks of your backside. You could feel that heat inside you building to unbearable temperatures, the need to have him doubling with each second that passed.

Using all the strength you could muster, you ripped his hands away from you just enough to spin in his arms, gripping him by his shirt and pulling him into you for another heated kiss. In an instant, his hands were back on you, fisting handfuls of your body as he pulled you tightly into him, his chest rumbling low in satisfaction.

“Secondo...” you moaned, his name coming out as a whisper against his lips.

“Sí, mia musa?” He nuzzled his nose against yours, leaving brief but frequent kisses to your lips as he waited for you to speak and tell him what you needed from him.

“Take me to bed...” you begged, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him again, “Please?”

Secondo chuckled devilishly when you asked so sweetly to dive headfirst into sin. Knowing what you were truly like when he would have his way with you, he always found it so amusing that you were so polite and demure otherwise. He revelled in the idea that it was only him who saw your untamed side.

“To bed, dolcezza?” he questioned, teasing his fingertips along the edge of your jaw until he was low enough to tilt your chin up to him. “But we worship right here, in the Chapel, no?”

The smirk that spread across his face sent a shiver of delight down your spine. Was he suggesting...?

Before you had any time to question him, he began walking backwards, gripping your hands in his to pull you along. He pulled you through the pews to the centre aisle, then began to back up towards the Sanctuary steps that lead to the Altar at the head of the Chapel. As he did, he jolted you closer, attaching his lips to yours and carefully manoeuvring you both while he stayed attached to you, keeping the burning embers of arousal stoked.

When he reached the steps he spun you around, pushing you to step up them until he sat you down on the middle step. Then he dropped to his knees on the stone as if he were about to pray at your feet. He crawled his way up the steps between your knees, forcing you to lay back as he hovered above you, his hands all over your thighs like he couldn’t bare not to touch you.

“One day, mia musa, I will paint you naked as the Dark Lord intended, laying on these steps...” he promised, his lips tickling yours as they barely grazed them, teasing you. “And I intend to draw from memory...”

With that, he pushed the hem of your habit up and over your thighs, fingertips pressing into the supple flesh as he enjoyed every inch of you. He popped the buttons that hid your chest from him, pushing the fabric from your shoulders and arms until he could drag it all from your body, helping you to shimmy from the skirt and kick it from your legs. He was wasting no time at all, attaching his lips to your collarbone and suckling marks into the skin while he worked quickly to take your underwear from you too until you were just as he’d wanted you; naked as the Dark Lord intended.

Just as his hands had roamed your skin, his lips now followed suit. Every inch of your glorious chest was being suckled at, nipped at, like a starved man. He was careful to pay close attention to your nipples, hardened not simply from arousal alone, but the slight chill in the air within the stone walls of the ancient Chapel. But with Secondo crowding you, riling your body up so, you barely noticed, heat instead continuing to burn from within.

Secondo growled into your flesh at the sound of your moans, truly worshipping you like a deity. “Tu sei fottutamente delizioso (You are fucking delicious),” he roared, ripping his lips from your body only to attach them to yours again with hunger. As he lapped his tongue into your mouth, his hand disappeared between your thighs, heading straight for your core with no hesitation. He needed more of those moans and fast, wanting to hear you sing for him. He’d take your song over the choir’s in this Chapel any day.

Just as he’d wished, you cried out into his mouth, unable to hold back as pleasure shot through your core the second his fingertips dragged over your clit. You fell back against the steps, your arms spread out either side of you onto the red carpet runner. Secondo chased you, never letting you get far away enough from him to not feel his hot mouth on you somewhere.

“Tell me, amore mio, may I indulge in the communion wine?” he asked. You had no idea what he was talking about, too lost to the pleasure his fingers were giving you to put two and two together, but you nodded anyway; you’d let him do just about anything to you, the state he’d got you in so far. “Grazie mille,” he thanked, as if you would ever truly deny him.

He pushed himself upright, only to crawl back down to the bottom step. His fingers lost contact with your core but just as quick as they had disappeared, his tongue replaced them. You couldn’t help but sing for him yet again.

He kept his eyes on you the whole time, watching as you lost yourself against the steps. At this angle, he could barely see your head thrown back over the delectable sight of your wonderful body, and it only drove him further into ferality. You would never appreciate this sight as he could, watching your body as it moved in ripples with every sensitive jolt and contraction of muscles. He could see your responses to his tongue all over, like echoes emanating from your centre.

When he inserted two of his fingers inside you to compliment the work his mouth was doing to your clit, your head jerked up, eyes meeting his. Seeing the hunger in his eyes peeking above the curve of your stomach had you clenching around his fingers, a fresh wave of arousal dripping from you. Immediately, you felt Secondo lap it up, humming at the taste while his eyes fluttered shut.

“S-Secondo... I...” You wanted to tell him how incredible you felt, how close you were to your undoing already but the words never came, stuck in your throat thanks to his fingers curling inside you to hit the spot he’d memorised that first time he’d slept with you.

His free arm wrapped its way around your thigh, pulling it over his shoulder to surround himself with you. He loved that feeling, being encased in your gorgeous body as he pleasured you; he’d easily lose himself there. As your moans grew louder, reverberating off the stone walls, Secondo seemed to muster more energy to barrel you towards your undoing. What was fuelling him, you weren’t sure, but you were more than grateful for it. Perhaps it was the anger from before at the comments of your peers. Maybe it was the thought of defiling you on the Sanctuary steps. Maybe he had riled himself up so damn much talking about how much he adored you, how attracted to you he was that he couldn’t help himself.

The only thing you knew for sure, was that he was making good on his word; he was worshipping you.

It took mere minutes for him to have you dangling on the edge of sanity, your moans so high pitched he knew you were about to snap. He watched you again, his eyes staring up at you. It wasn’t until you looked down at him again and made such exquisite eye contact that you snapped, too turned on to hold off anymore.

Your body convulsed as your orgasm hit you, back arching from the steps beneath you, body shaking. You gasped, lungs filling with too much air and stopping any sound from leaving your body. Your eyes rolled back into your head, completely overcome as Secondo didn’t let up. He knew better than to slow down now, letting you ride your orgasm out. He ground your hips into his face, using that delicious nose of his to his advantage until he was completely buried in you, smudging your inner thighs with his face paints.

As you came back down, your body twitching under him, he made sure to clean you up, lapping up every drop of your essence he could despite your whimpers of oversensitivity. You reached a point where your clit was just too sensitive, throbbing under his tongue, and you had to push him away from you. But you hated the idea of rejecting him in any way, and so you dragged him back up to you by his collar to smash your lips to his breathlessly. You didn’t miss the flavour on his tongue, knowing that was your essence only driving you to absolute distraction...

“You’re... wearing... too many... clothes...” you told him between kisses and deep breaths. He only grinned into your kisses.

“Mi dispiace, amore,” he apologised with a smirk, immediately rectifying the issue as he untucked his shirt from his slack, unbuttoning the buttons and throwing it to the side with your habit and underwear. You couldn’t help but lay back on your elbows on the steps, watching as he undressed, enjoying the view. Such strong arms, a solid chest, and a soft stomach, all deliciously covered in a layer of black and grey hair; arousal began to stir again within you...

“I am supposed to be worshipping you, amore mio...” he smirked, a cockiness glinting in his eyes.

“I'm not stopping you,” you teased, spreading your legs a little wider and arching an eyebrow at him in invitation. As he threw his slacks and underwear to the side, you caught him licking his lips as his eyes dragged over you, waiting for him on the steps...

Unholy shit, you were sublime, with your flushed cheeks and forehead glistening with sweat... With your beautiful curves and soft skin... He would never tire of you. Never.

He couldn’t help himself then, crawling over you and dipping his head down to initiate yet another moment of passion with a sordid kiss. It seems he was unable to keep his hands to himself, wanting nothing more than to feel you, but more importantly, to make sure you knew he wanted you. After today, all he wanted was to make you feel wanted, appreciated, fucking deified. He was certainly doing his part.

The longer he made out with you, the more you needed him... You could feel his length pressing against you and it was driving you mad being so close, yet so far from what you wanted. To encourage him, you reached your hand between the two of you, wrapping your fingers around his tip and paying particular attention to the frenum piercing of his you loved so damn much, sitting on the underside of his cock.

At your touch, his lips parted, a low hum vibrating in his throat. It was as if you were taunting a beast within him, the animal poised and ready to pounce. And pounce he would, grabbing both of your wrists and pinning them to the steps above your head.

“You want my cock, dolcezza?” he teased, his lips so close but just out of reach no matter how far forward you tried to lean. “So keen to be fucked on the Sanctuary steps, eh?”

He wouldn’t let you answer, instead shuffling so he was lined up perfectly between your legs, rolling his hips against you to coat his shaft with your essence. You could feel the ridges of his veins and that fucking piercing at they caught on your clit, still sensitive but the stimulation bearable now.

“Worship me, Papa...” you whispered the order, catching him off guard. His eyes widened for just a moment, and there was no way he could deny you...

Trapping your wrists in one of his hands, he used his free hand to guide himself to your entrance, sinking into you in one fluid motion. Secondo breathed out a long breath through his nose, humming again as your heat consumed him. You felt everything, every ridge yet again, filling you deliciously in the way his fingers never could. They were no match for his thickness and length, reaching places you’d been unaware of before him.

When every inch had sunk deep inside you, his hips pressed flush against your own, he dove into you for a deep, hungry kiss. Like he couldn’t stop himself, his hips dragged back and slammed into you, the slapping sound echoing through the Chapel. And after that, he wouldn’t relent, repeating the same motion over and over again, slamming his hips into you as he grunted his pleasure into your mouth.

Eventually he let your wrists go in favour of grabbing at your body again, kneading it like pizza dough with love and adoration. You held his head in place, whimpering into his kisses every time his cock slid inside you. He lifted your thigh to his hip, deriving a better angle to rock up and hit where you needed him.

“Sei la mia opera d'arte preferita, una cazzo di dea che prende vita, (You are my favourite artwork, a fucking Goddess come to life,)” he spewed his words quickly, his brain unable to translate to English quick enough to spill his thoughts. You understood him just fine, his confession having you clench on his length. He roared in pleasure at the feeling, barrelling toward a climax.

“S-Secondo please...” you begged, “’m gonna cum again.”

“You’d better, dolcezza. I will not leave mia musa unsatisfied on the steps, eh?” he promised, the hand that was kneading at your breast dipping down to press flat against your stomach, fingertips digging into the softness and thumb dragging over your clit again.

It didn’t take much now that he’d added more stimulation, and you were coming undone in no time at all... Your walls clenched around him so incredibly tight, body curling up into him until his face was pressed into the crook of your neck, his chest cushioned by your voluptuous body. You spluttered out a litany of curses and his name like a chant at Black Mass, filling the Chapel’s empty hall.

Everything became too much for him too, biting down on your neck and growling into it while his rhythm faltered, and his cock shot load after load of his spend deep inside you. His grip on your body tightened, pulling him closer to you as the two of you shook and convulsed from your respective orgasms, overcome with pleasure.

“Y-You are a dream, mia musa...” Secondo panted above you, removing the hair stuck to your forehead with sweat and tucking it behind your ear. “Don’t ever forget that, eh?” You could only nod, your mind still very much hazy in post-climax bliss.

“I couldn’t give any less of a fuck what the other fottuti idioti (fucking idiots) think of our relationship, you understand? You must never forget, you are the beauty standard to the greatest artists in history,” he assured you, peppering gentle kisses to your neck, your cheeks, your lips – anywhere he could.

“Including you,” you complimented with a smirk, catching his gaze with heavy eyes, drowsiness overcoming you. Secondo chuckled, shaking his head.

“Including me,” he repeated, “If you say so...”

“I do,” you told him earnestly, “Nobody has ever made me feel as beautiful as you do when you paint me, my love.” You cradled his head in your hands, fighting the urge to curl in on yourself out of shyness.

“Ah. Then I simply have to paint you more... What a shame,” he teased with playful sarcasm, a grin spanning across his very smudged face as he leaned in to plant a slow, loving kiss to your lips.

#papa emeritus #papa emeritus x reader #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus ii x reader #secondo #secondo x reader #papa secondo #papa ii #papa emeritus ii smut #papa emeritus smut #secondo smut #papa secondo smut #ghost bc #the band ghost #ghost band #ghost #the band ghost fanfic #da rulah writes #plus size reader

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lacollectionneuse1967 · 9 months ago

Text

remembering you - bonus chapter

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: theseus comes to your rescue after you've had too much to drink, but will he be able to resist your drunken advances?

fem!reader. theseus x reader.

category: smut

warnings: 18+ smut scene. drunkenness. dirty talk. unprotected penetration. light mdom/fsub.

author's note: wasn't going to continue with this fic, but i made this "bonus chapter." it's more of a smutty resolution than a full-fledged chapter, no plot all vibes--hope you all enjoy!

part one / part two / bonus chapter

The realization of love feels fatal, plummets and plants itself at the bottom of your stomach like some small death. Your heart pounds dreadfully, like you’re in danger. The soar and the swoop.

He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

Theseus. Loves. Me.

It shatters your mind. You shuffle around in the shards to formulate sentences to offer up to Mr. Bragg’s probing, you tell yourself to blink. To focus.

Mr. Bragg had shuffled you into his quiet office with a shaking anticipation, but asked you only silly, useless questions once alone. He was less talkative than you’d expected. Less forward.

It’s dim in his office. Impractically so. Only an oil lamp squats in the far corner, blooming dead orange light into the cigar-perfumed room.

The bronze hinges on his display cabinet and the dull gold knobs and hardware on all his other furniture glint, dark rays of light. Yes, the dark winks at you in this way. He’s seated far across the room. You can’t see him well, he’s half-swallowed in a cushy upholstered chair opposite yours.

“Might we turn on another lamp, sir?” You can’t see and you want to look around. You try not to shuffle in your seat.

“No, no, I can see you just fine.”

You burn with something, you don’t know what.

It’s not the general air of discomfort that’s bothering you, it’s the void, that gap of misunderstanding that you now feel between you and this man. Who is this man, really?

You’d always dismissed Mr. Bragg as a bumbling, meat-fisted man. Sweat on his brow, voice booming through the Atrium most days, spittle flying. Heavy-handed and obvious in his jokemaking and friend-making and all other matters.

You don’t know why the wet shine of his teeth in the dark now reminds you of a wolf. Could he really be what they think he is? You search for any sign of Grindelwald, of extremism or betrayal on his face, but you see only darkness and the barest outlines of his features–eyes, mouth, nose–buried in that.

“Whisky?” He smiles. You can’t see the whites of his eyes.

“What about it?”

“Ha!” It’s a dead noise in his throat. A huff. “Funny. Go on, girl. You’re allowed.”

He pours two inches of whisky into a thick French glass and has to stand to hand it to you.

You drink and try not to make a face. Crude drink, whisky. He stares unblinkingly at your throat as you swallow it, assessingly. When he stands and pours you another, you don’t protest. You gulp it down and speak quickly.

“Mr. Bragg, can I ask, how long have you been this department’s head?”

“Are you enjoying your whisky?”

“Well, yes–Mr. Bragg I was just wondering how you’re-”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying it very much. You know Mr. Martin–Paul Martin from the Courts–he could down one of my bottles in, say, half an hour?”

You breathe out a laugh and hope you don’t sound exasperated. This is going to be hard. He’s making it hard for you, and you don’t know why.

“Well, I don’t believe that, Mr. Bragg.”

Paul Martin. A Ministry judge. Your mouth works faster than your mind. The whisky sears something like acid in your stomach.

“Mr. Martin joined us around the same time you did, isn’t that right?”

A good quarter of Ministry workers had inexplicably quit sometime before last New Year. The new hires seemed to come out of thin air. You never thought of it as sinister before tonight.

The corner of Mr. Bragg’s mouth twitched. That was the wrong thing to say. You should’ve kept your cards close. The man across from you doesn’t move at all, but in your mind the alarm bells are screeching. You can’t tell if it’s just dark in the room or if the edges of your vision are smudging. Soft black curtains.

“And what is it exactly that you wanted to speak with me about, Miss Y/L/N?”

—----------------

“So, how did you do it?”

Theseus jerks irritably at the sound of Yuta’s voice to see who it is and then, once confirmed, goes back to ignoring him.

He’s still staring at the blank column of space between the pillars where you’d disappeared with the detestable Mr. Bragg, mouthing “sorry!” with this look of sweet apology on your face. Sweet. Everything you did was sweet to him.

“Is it a secret? Bastard really won’t tell us.” George Ambani Kotak slings an arm around Yuta’s shoulders and delivers his line with a mischievous lilt. There’s a bit of stray confetti on his shoulder that strangely suits him–unkempt hair, ill-fitting suit and all.

George and Yuta are the youngest Aurors in the department. Always poking fun at Theseus because they know that he was once the youngest Auror, and they know he usually likes their spirit of boyish rebellion. Keyword: Usually.

“What are you two going on about?” Theseus humors them with his attention, turning away from the space you left at last. He doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel good. It’s not about your unsaid response, he could give a damn if you loved him back. He loves you so absolutely he doesn’t want anything in return. No, it’s something else and he needs to be with you again to make it feel better.

“You think we’re pesky, don’t you?” Yuta whines in mock accusation. The young Hufflepuff has a teasing manner about him that’s almost effeminate.

“That’s because Theseus only likes hanging out with old men. Going down to the pub and talking about footy and the weather.”

“Piss off, George,” Theseus bites. He can’t quite suppress his smile. They make him feel young and old at the same time.

The Armistice ceremony is over and discordant, broken streams of people are trickling out of the Atrium now, emerging from beneath pillars and around corners, sweaty and celebratory with relief, as if at the end of a concert or performance. Mourning and remembering were a sort of duty to be carried out, too. Theseus can understand that.

When he thinks about your reticent angling away from him in the alcove, then your quiet omission, “I just wish that you would’ve remembered me,” he wants to shoot himself. Dramatics, yes, but the thought of letting you down felt worse than anything, was a shotgun blow to the chest in of itself.

“Y/N fucking Y/L/N,” George groans. “How did you do it, man? I mean, actually, what did you do?!”

“You sly fox,” Yuta mutters in agreement.

Theseus frowns at Yuta then, taken aback, understanding the exchange at last.

“Do you fancy Y/N or something?” He still feels at a loss. They must have seen him talking to you earlier.

George looks at Theseus like he’s stupid. Then again, George looks at everyone like they’re stupid. Not a Ravenclaw thing, Theseus doesn’t like stereotypes, just a George thing.

“Everyone likes Y/N, are you kidding me? But the girl is impenetrable.”

“Office siren,” Yuta chirps in.

“According to Ana, half the sports and games department has been trying to get at her all month. We came to the conclusion that she’s probably secretly engaged. Or maybe it’s an Unspeakable thing, who knows? Oh, Merlin, Rawlings is going to be fuming when he finds out about this, he’s been trying to chat her up at lunch for weeks–”

“So what’s your deal anyway? You and her?” Yuta interrupts, physically putting up a hand to silence George. George blinks at the appendage in offense.

Theseus is stunned anew. Flustered, even.

“She… She’s just my friend,” he says firmly. Defensively, maybe. “I care about her a lot.”

There’s a beat before the two boys react. Theseus wants to give you the space to respond to his confession, to define this, before involving anyone else. He hopes Yuta and George can sense that. Or at least sense his protectiveness and uncertainty.

“But why you?!” Yuta grimaces at last.

George bellows at that, heartily. “Oh, Yuta, young Romeo, you had your chance back when-”

Theseus drones out the two’s bickering, but the sound of it makes him inexplicably happy. The unease in his ribcage dissipates and lifts, though not completely. Theseus feels proud to love you. Grateful that, by some miracle, you let him.

He doesn’t care about any meeting you might have. He’s coming to see you, now.

The conviction thumps in his chest like a second heart.

He turns to leave without a farewell.

—-------------

‘This is good,’ you’d told yourself courageously after the first swooning burn of drunkenness sailed through your body, hard and fast and seeping. ‘I feel more confident to ask him what I need to. I’m not unsettled anymore.’

But there was no coherent justification anymore. You were piteously, dangerously drunk.

All you could do was sway upright in the chair and try to aim your gaze towards that warm spot in the dark you were sure concealed his figure.

Oh, god, he was talking about something. You hadn’t noticed, hoped he wasn’t asking you anything.

“-girl like you, no?”

The clipped end of his sentence did nothing for you. You feel sick, want to keel over and hold your head between your knees until the room stops moving. Your skin is buzzing. Living takes on a liquid quality, you feel like you are slipping warmly and smoothly from one moment to the next.

“What? Sorry.”

The dark shape of Mr. Bragg moves then, solidifies as he comes to sit next to you.

“Oh, ho!” He tuts. “Can’t handle your drink, Y/L/N?”

You squint up at him.

In truth, no. This is more than you can handle, and you didn’t really drink to begin with aside from the rare glass of wine paired with dinner.

“It’s…” your retort trails off, you can’t remember why you’d opened your mouth in the first place.

You feel yourself careen towards his thigh, his lap, he is seated on the arm of your big chair now. You slump against him pitifully. You are hardly there. You don’t know if it’s natural, the sharp decline from bubbly and light and talkative to this–sleep. Losing control of your limbs.

Oh, god. Fuck.

Some fucking investigation. You don’t know what would be worse, if he were really betraying the Ministry, an enemy agent, or if he just wanted to take advantage of you.

“M’sorry,” you slur against him and strain to raise yourself back up, unsuccessfully. Everything tastes bad. Even the air that rushes out of your nostrils when you exhale is pricked with the astringent sweet-rot of alcohol. Bitter and syrupy.

You want to jolt up at the feel of his hand on your back, petting you almost, but you can only manage a low judder. You don’t know how long it’s been or what time it is, but you’re going to pass out, you realize, and Mr. Bragg is touching you.

“Don’t,” you hiss, with sudden clarity. “Don’t touch me-”

The bang bang of his office door being knocked on isn’t even enough to raise you. You’re slumped over the side of the chair. Mr. Bragg, however, stands, alertly.

“Not now!” He shouts.

Every second that passes you feel yourself slip away. Light and sound comes and goes. You’re going to be sick.

The doorknob clatters against its own deadbolt.

“I said not now–”

The door clicks and crashes open, magicked unlocked no doubt.

You can only make out Mr. Bragg’s outline. He’s standing, his body conveniently angled in a feeble attempt to block you from the intruder’s view. You don’t need to see to know who it is.

You’re too fucked to smile.

Theseus just stares. Seethes. Burns, not like paper being eaten up, but without end.

“I cans–you have to-” Your nonsensical, drunken slur is enough to break his stillness.

“What’s going on here?!”

Something bridles and puffs up in Mr. Bragg, he clenches his fists and goes red in the face.

“You have no right to-”

Theseus pushes him to the floor with a single hard shove. Mr. Bragg topples over like a beetle.

He doesn’t care about him. He’s an Auror, he’ll deal with Bragg later.

You feel his hands on you, your body sings with affection. He’s trying to help you up by the arm but you’re trying to fall into him.

“Sweetheart, try and stand up,” he says, voice hushed and insistent. He seems like a real Auror now, authoritative and caring. “I think he put something in your cup.”

Your head lolls but you try to obey and make yourself helpful. Fuck, it’s hard. You thought it would help, standing up, but you feel more and more inebriated by the second.

“No,” you shake your head and stumble out of the black office into humiliatingly bright light. The word comes out as a desperate moan, a heave. You feel sick again. You have to concentrate on not slurring your words. “It’s just. I-I don’t really drink, Theseus. Likeatall...”

You stare at your stumbling feet, so strange looking. How strange it is to be drunk and seeing the drab, red Ministry carpets. To be like this and at work.

Theseus is looking around, concerned at the spectacle of the two of you, at how bad it looked, maybe, you don’t know. You just want him to stop looking around and look at you instead. You need his attention, in a babylike and indulgent way. Look at me, look at me.

“Let’s go, darling,” he mutters. “I’ll take you home.”

You gather up words and intent, trying your hardest to formulate a response; it’s then that you black out completely.

--------------------

Mercy, Theseus finds himself thinking, cursing, again. He doesn’t know how many times he’s thought this plea since you came into his life again. God, you made him think it the first night he met you, asking for a kiss, your eyes dark and bright at once, a star-shattered night.

He knows he can’t hold anything you do against you now, though. You’re truly, shockingly, appallingly and hilariously drunk. Your eyes have that sheen, so he knows you won’t remember any of it, that you’re blacked out.

“Please,” he begs you. His arms burn, though he’d never let on. A block back you’d rolled your ankle, hard on the cobblestone, so he is carrying you now, which wouldn’t be difficult if you weren’t thrashing about so much. “Y/N, please tell me where you live.”

“Why?” You cry, frowning at him. Petulant. Bratty. But sweet, sweet like everything you did. He wants to give you what you want, like always. It’s half for show, but he puts on his policeman voice to deny you.

“You’re in no state to be outside your house. I need to get you safe and home to your sister,” he explains dutifully.

The two of you had gotten enough disapproving stares from passing Muggles.

The mention of your sister does seem to jog some essential parts of your brain into sluggish action. You furrow your brow, thinking over something.

Cute.

“No, noooooo,” you whine. “My sister–oh, my landlady! They can’t see me like this, Theseus. I’ll be put out. Isn’t there some spell or-”

He shakes his head silently before realizing that you’re too drunk to notice, he has to speak aloud to get your attention.

“No, no,” he insists. “It’s too tricky a thing to remove alcohol from the bloodstream with a spell. Too dangerous. If I had a potion, maybe a bezoar elixir, I could do it, but this… It’s best to go to sleep.”

“Nooooooo,” you cry again, throwing your head back.

An old woman on the other side of the road frowns at you, openly.

“Fine! Fine,” he hisses, adjusting your flailing form in his aching arms. “I’ll take you to my flat.”

You hiccup and then start babbling indistinctly again. His face burns at the feel of you in his arms, your cheek against his chest.

This was not how he thought he’d find you today. Usually so put together all the time. So withheld and resilient.

Sedated complacency and confused, excitable thrashing seem to be your only two modes now, so this needy, talky drunkenness is something he welcomes–a middleground. Besides, half of what you mumble is nonsense.

It is worse when he can make out the nonsense. It is worse when he kicks open the door to his apartment and deposits you onto his couch.

Theseus drops down on the opposite end of the large couch, exhausted, legs spread, head thrown to the side. Carrying you all this way winded him. Nearly dislocated a shoulder.

It shocks him nearly upright when he sees you trying to crawl towards him.

“Y/N,” he grumbles. He pinches his eyes shut quickly to rid you from his vision, but it’s burned in his memory. You crawling towards him on all fours. Fucking hell.

“Go to sleep,” his eyes are still shut when he says it.

“Theseus,” you don’t sound drunk. Your lips are spit-slick. You sound sultry. Demanding. “I want.. I want-”

“See? You can’t even talk properly, love. Go to bed.” He conceals the panic well enough. He doesn’t want to deny you. If you wanna fall all over him, he wants to let you. But he knows this isn’t right, isn’t respectable.

You stop descending on him like a beautiful punishment and sit back with your legs crossed, just a cushion away from him. You don’t look or sound as drunk as you did before but he knows you are, you’d never act like this if there wasn’t alcohol in your bloodstream.

You tilt your head at him and, for him, it’s torturous.

“Okay. Come to bed with me then?” You sing-song. There’s a ditzy, woozy quality to your voice that wasn’t there before. Hadn’t ever been there. If you didn’t still smell like whisky he wouldn’t be able to resist your advances at all.

“No, no, no,” Theseus stands suddenly, speaking more to himself than you. He paces back and forth across his living room, troubled. This was insane. He shouldn’t have brought you here. He couldn’t say no to you. He knew it wasn’t within his power to.

Clothes falling off your shoulders. Looking at him all dizzy and blissed out. Pupils blown, lips wet.

You hiccup. He wants to tease you for it, but the next words out of your mouth make him choke.

“I-I wish you wore glasses,” you laugh dreamily. “I wanna make you keep them on so I can see them go all crooked when I fuck you.”

His whole body reacts. Throbs. He hisses painfully through his teeth. Tries to shut his eyes again but it’s futile. He could hate you for what you’re doing to him, actually detest you.

“Y/N, please stop talking.”

“Mmm, I thought that-”

“Stop. Talking.”

You giggle again and roll over on the couch, delighted, throwing your arms up above you.

Then, mercy, mercy, you’re trying (clumsily, unsuccessfully, what should be unsexily but it’s not to him, it’s absolutely not) to take off your clothes, pull off your top and tug off your tights. You whine in frustration when you can’t manage it.

You fall back in defeat. He can see you’re past the point of proactivity now. So long as he stays across the room he isn’t in danger. You couldn’t stumble over to him if you tried.

“Help me.” You order with a pout.

“No,” he smiles now, corner of his mouth curling, feeling confident and safe. Settles into the wooden chair at his small, square dining table and looks at you, amused. He’s still hard. “You really should listen to me, Y/N.” He says, a bit hotly.

There’s fondness, but also a sort of angry, disciplinarian edge to his tone.

“I know! I already knowwww,” you retort, grouchily despite the fact that you’re agreeing with him. Oh, the drunken mind…

He should leave. He should carry you to his bedroom and then lock you in there until you sober up or pass out. He flexes his hand at the thought. No, he doesn’t trust himself to touch you now. He hates this, not being able to touch you. He loves you and he hates it.

He’s saying the words, spitefully, before he can stop himself.

“Did you know that your voice gets all high pitched right before you come? It’s cute, actually.”

His voice is a flat line, hard and unforgiving. He’s snappy and harsh and, when you moan softly at his words, he gets up and leaves you alone in his apartment.

“I need to go on a walk. Go to sleep. Don’t move.”

The front door slams shut before you can even attempt to crawl your way over to him.

—-----------------------

You’re awake for several minutes before you can bring yourself to crack open your eyelids. It’s all pounding blackness in your head–a nightclub full of dementors. You’d laugh at the thought if everything didn’t hurt.

Your mouth tastes awful. You don’t know where you are.

“Theseus?” you mutter, rolling over in the very large, very foreign bed, opening your eyes at last.

There’s a small, purple bottle that’s labeled J. Pippin’s Hangover Remedy on the bedside table but even that makes your stomach turn. The thought of drinking any flavored liquid sends a shudder down your spine.

You sit up and force yourself to take a pitiful swig anyway and chase it with the glass of water set there for you. The more you take in the scenery–the neat, cozy room, the water and potion, the newly bought women’s clothes laid out for you at the end of the bed–the more humiliation colors your cheeks.

“Oh, no,” you whine aloud, burying your face in your hands. The last thing you remember is the Armistice ceremony and then Theseus helping you tumble out of Mr. Bragg’s dark office in a whisky-flavored haze. This had to be Theseus’s bedroom.

Which meant….

You’re only wearing your tights and a camisole. Braving the hallway in your half-undressed state, you slip into the bathroom. There’s a toothbrush there too, which you snatch up greedily, eager to rid your mouth of this foul, boozy taste. After a quick, sobering shower and five too-long minutes of scrutinizing your flushed face in the mirror you walk cautiously out into the living room. You put on one of his shirts and boxer shorts rather than the clothes he’d bought and laid out for you. Your hair is damp and dripping, but smells clean and like his soap, like him.

Through the windows, it's a cool and silver morning, the earliest light of day has that nascent, colorless quality. The dark hardwood floors of his apartment are quiet underfoot, and all things are still. Today feels new and clean and you’re hopeful he’ll forgive you.

What did you do last night? What did you say to him? You were so embarrassed, you just hoped that he’d still want you. That he wouldn't take back what he said about loving you.

Theseus looks so funny with his arm jutting out from under him, his bare legs hanging crooked over the edge of the couch. You stifle a laugh despite yourself.

It’s then, smiling at his sleeping form fondly, that you know. You’ve always felt it before, but now you know it. The certainty resting in your heart strengthens and glows.

You stand before him and tug his extended hand. He opens his eyes in innocent confusion.

“What–Y/N-”

“Come to bed with me.”

He stares up at you uncomprehendingly, gaze bleary but fond. He’s so handsome it hurts.

“Come on,” you laugh. “It’s still early. We can still sleep well.”

His oversized form on the small couch sits up. You want to run your hands through his hair, press your hands against the hard expanse of his chest and push him back down again.

“Are you sure?” He asks calmly.

“Come,” you repeat. This time when you pull him by the hand he lets you lead him.

You fall into his bed together and he brings you into him, so impossibly naturally, like muscle memory. You feel your face blush but pay it no attention, you feel so warm and safe in the cradle of his body at last.

You have to tell him. Have to tell him how you feel.

You turn to face Theseus, still cradled in his arms, but the sight of him stoppers your throat.

“I–” You make a noise like choking. There’s a bright red mark down the side of his neck. “Theseus, your neck! What happened?”

He smiles softly at your face, contented and amused.

“I’m sorry to break this to you Y/N, but you might have raked your teeth down the side of my neck last night while I was trying to carry you to my bed.”

You are undisguisably mortified. You gawk at him.

“It’s okay, Y/N!” He laughs reassuringly. “It’s fine, really. Despite you torturing me all night trying to get me to sleep with you, I stood my ground. Nothing happened.”

“Torturing you?!” Your eyes are blown wide and you can’t seem to close your mouth, except to wince. “Oh, Theseus, my behavior–I’m so humiliated, you have to forgive me–”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, all levity in his voice gone, only sincerity. He clasps your hands between your body and his, and you lean into the feeling.

When you still can’t look at him, red-faced and flustered, he leans forward so suddenly you nearly start back.

Theseus licks the column of your neck in a long line, punctuating it with a nip of his teeth that makes you gasp.

“There,” he leans back and smirks at his handiwork. “Got you back. You can stop being sorry for antagonizing me now.”

Your heart is pounding, blood roaring in your ears.

“Besides,” he adds, once it’s clear you’re done being mortified. “I admit that I even find your cruelty endearing. I’ve always hated meanness, but it doesn’t matter with you at all. That’s how I know I’ve been corrupted.”

You let yourself laugh at that. It’s so nice, being in bed with him. Wearing his clothes. Despite the context of how you got there, you feel at peace.

“So,” he starts. “What do you remember?”

You shake your head and purse your lips.

“Mr. Bragg’s office. I tried to question him, it was a mission of mine. He’s not what he seems, Theseus. Mr. Bragg, Mr. Martin, I don’t know who else–they’re real threats to the Ministry.”

Theseus nods solemnly, taking it in.

“Okay, what else?”

You try to remember but the night comes back in fleeting scenes and flickering sensations.

“You kept calling me sweet.” You whisper.

“That’s all then?” He doesn’t contest it.

“But I’m not sweet,” you insist, weakly. “Everyone says I’m not. I wish I was, but I’m not a sweet girl.”

“No,” Theseus grabs your hand again and rubs circles into it with his thumb. “You’re not sweet. You’re kind. It’s a stronger quality, Y/N. One with more conviction and spirit. Trust me.”

You make a face at him, one meant to inspire pity.

“I’m not sweet?”

Theseus exhales through his nose in a huff, baffled, disarmed. Of course you would focus on that part of what he said. He flicks the tip of your nose with his finger and it makes you scrunch up your face. He’s staring at you so lovingly that it makes your teeth ache.

“You taste sweet enough to me.”

And then his mouth is on yours, hot and warm and wanting. Hungrier than you thought he was. You could never gauge how much he wanted you, how badly. It took you off-guard then, the first time you met him in his office, and it shocks you now.

You’re racing to kiss him back with equal fervor. Your skin alights with pleasure every place that his skin meets yours, you come to life under those hands of his.

Will it cease, this awestruck response he elicits? You want to one day get used to Theseus, to the wonder of him in front of you, so you can think straight around him. So you can enjoy him in a measured and rational way without praying on him like a star, without the winded pleasure of disbelief.

You whine when he pulls away from your mouth, but it’s quickly silenced by the feeling of his hands sliding under your shirt and over your breasts, squeezing and massaging them. Your nipples are so sensitive that his fingertips feel almost unbearably good. Painfully good.

“You have no idea the hell you put me through last night.”

“I’m sorry,” you moan.

“I’m not.”

He takes your mouth with his again. The way he kisses you now feels like fucking in of itself, his tongue pressing in and in to your mouth, it feels like him showing what he wants to do to you.

One of his hands drops from your chest and slips under the waistline of the pair of boxers you're wearing. His shirt, his boxers.

“Gonna make me fuck you while you wear my clothes, princess?”

You don’t know how he possesses the superpower of making you blush like a schoolgirl while his hands are quite literally down your pants. The display of shyness seems futile.

He was so gentlemanly at work and in life. You didn’t know such words were capable of leaving his lips, but god they sounded good to you.

“Off,” you manage. “Take them off.”

Theseus obliges you, hands big and warm as they gently lift the hem of your shirt over your head. He helps you shimmy out of the boxer shorts too. His hands move over all that bare skin with reverence, stroking and petting and grasping.

“You’re beautiful-”

“I love you,” the words rush out at once, urgent. You need him to know, they need to be said.

He looks stunned, leans back with a jerk and stares into your eyes with scrutiny and wonder. You don’t break his gaze.

“Do you really?” He says, breathlessly.

“Yes,” and your eyes are welling with tears, you don’t know why. “I love you, Theseus.”

“God,” he groans, pressing you to him in an embrace so engulfing it makes you gasp. His hand snakes around the back of your head, his other arm wraps around your torso–a man, overcome. “I love you so much, Y/N.”

It’s different when he starts to touch you again. Slower. Devout. He stares dead into your eyes with a concentration unmatched when he slips his fingers into you at last, his own eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and lust. It takes everything in you not to look away, the look in his eyes is so burning with desire it alone could be your ruin, make you come undone.

You feel yourself pulse around him, aching and squeezing around his hand. He curls his index slightly upwards so perfectly that every fuck of his fingers, every pump has you moaning raggedly. Your whole body saying yes, yes, yes to the tempo he’s set.

But you don’t want to come like this.

You start shaking your head before you can get any words out.

He’s watching you so intently he doesn’t need any words to read you.

“What is it?” There’s no teasing to his tone anymore, no condescension. He’s all caring dedication. When he slides his fingers out they’re soaked. “You want my cock?”

You nod, feeling strangely drunk again.

He rolls his still-clothed hips against your bare, slick core experimentally and you moan loudly, inappropriately and unabashedly loudly.

It makes him smile.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. So good. What do you want, baby? How do you want me?”

You can’t even think around him, you don’t know what possesses you to say what you do.

“From the back. I want you to take me from behind.”

Theseus’s eyes flash with something dark. His lips part and for a moment you think he’s going to deny you. He did like looking at your face, watching your reactions…

But then he’s getting up onto his knees and flipping you onto your stomach, roughly. The mattress heaves beneath the two of you.

You start to get up on all fours when his hand pushes you down hard, by the small of your back. Your body presses flat into the mattress with a gasp.

“Theseus-”

He straddles your thighs with his so you can’t even spread your legs when he presses his dick into your tight hole.

You whine and moan at the sensation of being stretched open by him. You can’t move at all trapped under his weight, you can’t even lift your hips–you can just bury your head and take it. He rocks his hips experimentally and, when you moan wantonly again, he leans down, bending his body over yours to nip the back of your ear with his teeth before pounding into you.

You know he just told you he loved you but, god, he was drilling you like he hated you, hand on the back of your neck, his pace relentless, pulling out completely before slamming back into you bruisingly. Your walls try to clamp down to slow his speed but it only makes it feel better, him splitting you open from behind.

You hear him groan at the feel of your walls constricting and fluttering around him. You orgasm suddenly and with a muffled whine, wishing you could roll your hips back into the feeling, but you’re still pinned beneath him, quivering and overstimulated.

Dazed, you distantly remember last time you slept with him and cry brokenly. You don’t want that, him pulling out to come in his hand.

“Theseus, I-” you know you’re incoherent, blabbering. Face half-shoved into his pillow. “Please come inside me. I-I want to feel it when-”

“Fuck,” he hisses. The sound of your voice has him coming hard, you feel it shoot warm into your pussy. His pace slows, rocking his half-hard cock a few more times into you before pulls out with a shaky breath at last.

“Y/N,” Theseus turns you back over. His hands are searching, gentle. When he sees your expression, blissful and fucked-out, he smiles, stroking your face.

“God,” he groans, low, collapsing back down beside you. “I could stay in this bed with you forever.”

You hold onto his hand and bring it up to your mouth to kiss it, body still thrumming with pleasure.

After a while, he speaks again.

“Is.. Was that okay?” He asks, and it silences you, learns into something heavier like pain. “I just want to make sure that you’re not… inebriated anymore, not confused…”

“I was never confused,” you murmur, shaking your head softly. “I meant everything I said yesterday night, though I can’t remember what.”

You realize with a start that you have to be honest now, or you’ll cry.

“It’s bad,” you continue. “I can’t ever pretend to feel something I don’t.”

“You pretended not to know me,” Theseus whispers the words into the pillow beside your head, like he’s setting them down next to you. His voice is too gentle and fond to be an accusation, but you still feel caught, like you’re in trouble.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me anyway. And… I was scared.”

“Of what, darling?”

Darling. This man would be the death of you. You’d give him anything he asked for.

"Um," you bite your bottom lip hard, trying to ground yourself with the sharp reprimand of pain. Darling, he called you darling. "I guess, um, I was happy with how you see me now. That when I asked you to kiss me, you did this time. I didn't want to confuse you, I didn't want to do anything that might make it stop. You wanting me, I mean."

You don't feel terribly eloquent or coherent, but he's nodding encouragingly, understandingly.

He nudges your nose with his to get you to meet his eyes, and it makes you smile like you're just remembering how to. He reintroduces joy into your life like an old friend. Like a family member, it comes so naturally to him.

"I don't wanna scare you away either, Y/N. I told you I love you because I couldn't help it, the same way I touched you in my office because I couldn't help it. But I wanna make you mine in every way that I can."

You raise a brow, prompting him to clarify.

"Like what, you wanna...?" You can't finish the sentence, you need to hear him say it.

“I want to marry you, naturally.” Saying the words knocks something loose in him. The strength of his desire is deafening, like downed wine burning low in his stomach, roaring in his ears.

You laugh and he doesn’t understand or care why, he just knows the sound is angelic and smiles with stupid joy in response.

"Oh, you," you sigh. "Theseus, you could have anyone. Anyone."

You don't mean to sound so bittersweet, so distant and reminiscing. He is handsome and strong and good, without even trying, he just is. He is charismatic and confident. The whole room falls into his orbit, is pulled into his gravity when he enters.

It's not that you have nothing in common, but everything you love about him is everything that keeps him apart from you.

He shakes his head, dazed with happiness.

"There's only ever been you. It's always been you."

"I love you too," your eyes prick with tears. "I love you, Theseus. I'm sorry I didn't tell you who I was, that I hid from you, that I didn't say it earlier. But I've loved you since I was a girl, even if I can't believe that you love me, I can still-"

"Y/N," he interrupts you, hushed and urgent. "I feel like it was very hard for you to love me. You seemed so conflicted and confused and pained, especially at the beginning. But, for me, loving you has been like breathing. This,” he raises your clasped hands between you. “This is easy. It’s who I am.”

When you close your eyes and drift off into a light, midday sleep, there are no clouds in the horizon of your mind, no dreams of war, only a small but glowing peace.

taglist: @hotwheelsenthusiasthic @milasmithsblog @msauthor @asyouwish-fromcabin3 @karashawsblog

#theseus scamander #fantastic beasts #theseus scamander x reader #theseus x reader #hp fanfic #fbawtft

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asexualsinner · 3 months ago

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Ghoul Hair Headcanons

This wouldn't leave my brain until I put it out into the world

Dewdrop/Sodo

Pin straight corn blonde that goes to his mid back

Very thin

Dry and damaged from his fire transition (Cumulus bullies him into letting her put oils and serums in it to help. He won't admit that he likes it)

Will wash his hair everyday/every time he takes a shower. This is sometimes multiple times a day. (Cumulus and Rain cry in despair)

Cowlick at the front part. Annoys the shit out of him when it dries funny

Let's his hair air dry after a shower

His hair used to be normally oily pre fire transition from the ministry's lake but noticed that if he swims for long periods of time his hair will be greasy and gross

Leaves hair EVERYWHERE. In the shower, on the furniture, clothes, you.

Uses everyone else's shampoo and conditioner bc he's too lazy to get his own

Will wear it up in a spider clip when practicing

Doesn't like people touching it, will let the other ghouls braid/style it on occasions or if they give him their best puppy dog eyes long enough

Somehow manages to not have bed head. Wakes up and his hair is fine. The pack considers this the 8th wonder of the world

Gets annoyed when his hair gets caught in his mask/balaclava bc he was too lazy to either tie it up himself or let one of the others do it for him preshow

Rain

Wavy hair that curls up just under his ears, blackish almost dark blue in certain light

Hair defies logic, will curl/wave in patterns that don't make sense

Uses 837+ products in it to make it glossy and soft after swimming (screams internally after Dew leaves barely a squirt of shampoo left in the shower and doesn't replace it)

Sleeps with a silk pillowcase

Will pin his hair back with pearl barrettes that papa gifted him

BEDHEAD. The WORST BEDHEAD out of all the ghouls. Wakes up looking like he lost a fight with a moose

Will let anyone run their fingers through it/brush it/style it. He will make you wash your hands beforehand though

Dries it using a cotton T-shirt. Usually the one he was wearing pre-shower

Washes his hair every 3-5 days

Mountain

Brown 3b curly mullet/Mohawk

Shaves the sides bc he finds the hair tickling his ears and horns annoying

Usually has leaves or flowers caught in his hair

Bangs cover his eyes

Cowlick at the crown of his head

Oil? Seums? Who is she, bc Mountain has never heard of her

His horns make headbands impossible so he will use bobby pins to keep his bangs out of the way while in the greenhouse or practicing

Bobby pins are everywhere. In the greenhouse, the practice room, living room, kitchen, EVERYWHERE

Consequently knows how to lockpick doors with said Bobby pins. No he will not tell you how he knows how to do this

Wraps his hair in silk handkerchiefs to sleep

Will wash his hair once a week if he remembers

Shakes his hair out like a dog to dry unless one of the others corner him with the Dyson hair dryer. (He won't admit that he hates the sound it makes)

Will throw in leave in conditioner overnight

Let's Phantom and Aurora put in cute clips that he forgets about

Once showed up to practice with a head full of colorful butterfly clips bc he forgot about them. Copia didn't say anything, wanted to see how long it would take Mount to notice while head banging. He didn't notice the entire practice until one flew off and hit his drum set

Swiss

Dark brownish black locs, sometimes will braid in colors if he's feeling like it. Mostly dark colors like burgundy or purple. Has been convinced to do gold before tours by the others

JEWELRY!!! LOTS of metal rings, cuffs and jewels. Loves being the shiniest thing in the room

Has as many if not more hair care products than Rain. Takes care to make sure his hair doesn't get damaged and is healthy

Sleeps with a silk bonnet to protect his hair

Has done fun style like space buns with his locs but will usually leave it down or in a top knot

Will wash it every 7-10 days or so unless it gets super dirty

Will take care of the rest of the packs hair, is the pack mom about it

Dew/Sodo frustrates the HELL out of him. What do you mean you don't use conditioner??

Will chew on the cuffs like a fidget toy

Takes great pride in his hair, will spend forever in the bathroom if you let him

If his hair isn't cooperating with him, that's it for the day you will not see him

Has injured himself/others while practicing from all the metal in his hair while headbanging/throwing himself around (was forced to wear a cone of shame during the rest of that practice)

Phantom/Aeon

Very wavy almost curly black hair with white streak on the left side

Hair thins out and curls around his shoulders with whispy bangs

Wolf cut girlie ✨

Soft and fluffy, loves to have his scalp scratched and hair played with. Will absolutely fall asleep while it's being done

Has tinted his hair with purple bc he likes the aesthetic

The others have found him in the bathroom at 3am with scissors bc he saw a trend on TikTok and wanted to try it (he was banned from scissors for 3 months)

Swiss cried when he saw it in the morning (what did you do??)

Forgets to wash his hair but is still better than Mountain about it

Washes every 5-7 days

Originally would use a towel to dry until he found the Dyson and now is a menace

Will chew on his hair until it's brought to his attention

Headbands, headbands, HEADBANDS! LOVES THEM.

Has demon horns ones, cat ear ones, regular ones, even those zig zag ones that hurt he doesn't care he loves them

Will use whatever's in the bathroom but prefers softer smelling products

Hates hairspray with a passion

Doesn't sleep with any special pillow cases, etc

Double cowlick where his bags sit and at the crown

Gets really REALLY bad knots at the base of his skull. Will cry when Swiss or Cumulus has to brush them out

Aether

Strawberry blonde short hair and shaved on the sides

Slicked back fade, likes the greaser look from the 50s

Do not touch this man's hair

Not only is it slicked back with 50lbs of product he will also bite you

Has sideburns

Somehow still uses 3-in-1 despite being picky about how his hair looks

Will sing into the hair dryer while using it

Hair is dry, not damaged but definitely not hydrated/healthy enough

Doesn't wear any accessories except for a beanie in the winter

Looks like a peacock in the morning, hair is just everywhere. Sticks up in every direction when he wakes up

Washes it everyday due to the product he puts in it

Fell asleep on the tour bus once and there was a grease spot left from his hair gel

Uses hair pomade that smells like vanilla and sandalwood

Goes through a jar of pomade every two days. The ministry's budget is crying, shaking in their boots bc of this ghouls usage of hair gel

Is a walking fire hazard from the gel

Cumulus

4b curl pattern, rocks the afro with bangs

Natural color is a dark reddish brown but dyes it fun colors like sky blue

Loves to tie it up with a cute designed handkerchief or bun, etc

Will accessorize with butterfly clips or spiral hair wyrms/Jewels

Washes it once a week but uses hair oils/serums daily

Bullies Dew/Sodo into letting her care for his hair

Is the go to for hair advice after Swiss

Uses a silk bonnet and silk pillowcase to sleep

Will use a cotton T-shirt to dry it/scrunch it and then finishes with the dyson

Second biggest hair shedder after Dew/Sodo

Will style it like Rosie the Riveter for practice

Doesn't like it when people touch her hair unless they ask first

Even then the answer may be no

Likes floral scented shampoo/conditioner

Aurora

Straight flat hair with choppy bags

THICCCC hair, goes to the bottom of her shoulder blades

Platinum blonde but dyed underneath

Enjoys the shocked gasps she gets when she pulls her hair up to show the rainbow underneath

Doesn't hold a curl for the life of her, she's tried

Usually keeps her hair down, will do a low ponytail for practice

Twin braids on sides framing her face

Likes playing with the others hair since hers doesn't hold different styles well

No cowlicks but her hair knots horrendously. After show care includes at least two other ghouls trying to help her unknot her hair from her balaclava

Washes it once a week,prefers cinnamon scented soaps

Super greasy if she uses too much product

Is in love with the Dyson hair dryer, fights with Aether on who gets to use it as a mic

Cirrus

Thin, straight dark black hair to her mid back

Twinning with Dew/Sodo except she takes care of her hair ✨

Shorted whispy hair framing her face

Her hair looks blue in certain light, almost like an oil slick

Split ends? Couldn't be her

Favorite shampoo scent is mint

Will spend hours combing her hair

Prefers combs over brushes

Doesn't get bad bed head but her hair is super static-y.

Will wear twin braids when practicing or pin the braids to her head with clips

Hair always looks super elegant

Like Aurora her hair can't hold a curl

Doesn't use anything special to sleep with

Will wash every 3-5 days

Uses serums as needed but her hair is super hydrated

Very soft

Prefers not to be touched but will allow certain ghouls to braid it if asked

Is the one who bought the Dyson hair dryer, is super amused by everyone's feral reactions to it.

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probablyasocialecologist · 3 months ago

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In November 2023, news broke that a number of Western energy companies, including British Petroleum (BP), were granted gas exploration licences in occupied Palestinian waters by the Israeli Ministry of Energy. While it will take years before these sites are converted into reliable sources of gas, activist groups in the US and Britain have protested these business deals, brokered in the shadow of an ongoing genocide. The motivation for Israel’s genocidal, Western-backed siege on Gaza cannot be reduced to the exploitation of its marine gas fields. The ongoing genocide should be understood as part of the logic of US imperialism and its proxy state which enacts its interests in the region: the Zionist settler colonial project, which seeks to ethnically cleanse all of historic Palestine, seize natural resources, and use and export its fuel supplies for the consolidation of its military and economic power. Indeed, our protests against BP’s gas licences are not in isolation. Like other activist groups in Turkey and Colombia, we campaign against energy companies partnering with Israeli businesses to supply fuel to Israel. For this reason, we situate BP’s gas licence within its larger role in fuelling Israel. BP is the operator and largest shareholder of the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) oil pipeline, which is supplying Israel with 28% of its oil during its genocide. In this investigation we explore BP’s colonial history and the supply chain of the BTC pipeline. We also delve into the social licences that facilitate BP’s operations abroad. Social licences are a commercial and metaphorical concept describing corporations' process of acquiring public approval as an added layer of legitimacy for their ongoing profit-driven, colonial business practices. Focusing on the BTC pipeline reveals how Zionist settler-colonialism is central to the continued extraction of oil in the Middle East, and global uneven accumulation, where wealth is concentrated in the Global North. The liberation of Palestine and regional anti-Zionist resistance must therefore be central to the larger struggle against capitalism and for a just transition. Organising from the imperial core against the Zionist occupation of Palestine then becomes about much more than just holding the perpetrators of genocide to account. It is part of the bigger fight against imperialism – which exterminates populations and ecologies for the continued flow of value to the Global North.

9 September 2024

#fossil fuels #bp #zionism #israel #palestine #energy

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theoneofshame · 6 months ago

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I had a thought.

Harry and Voldemort as parallels. Harry and Voldemort as opposites. As mirroring halves to a whole.

If Harry is a representation of death, then Voldemort is life.

Harry is Chaos incarnate - wild, untamable, and destructive. Even when building towards a better future he destroys the status quo, shakes the foundations of society until there's nothing but rubble left of what is, to make way for what can be. He's glaciers melting, volcanoes erupting, oil spilling out soil's veins; explosions of a nuclear family, in a ministry, in a school - primary successions with only the hardiest as pioneers. Bygones of all that was; the old must be killed to make way for the new. He's Death, as scorched earth flayed bare.

Voldemort is domineering Order and control; neat lines and plans strangled into perfect conformity. Reducing the sociopolitical climate to bones and reusing the carcass to better house his image - recycled from previous Lords to instill his will over a populace so pliant with the way of things. Even the unmaking of the world's fabric is done constructively and with careful considerings, to refasten the cosmos into a bow with its own entrails. He's Life, continuously cycling, with rot as the fertilizer.

#harrymort #tmrhp #tomarrymort #voldemort #tomarry #harry potter #this concept is worming a hole in my brain #just the juxtaposition of expectations is so juicy #while staying true to both characters #Harry is a gremlin and I want him to break more things #Voldemort recycles shit ideas bc it's bad for the (political) climate

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autumnleaves1991-blog · 7 months ago

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My Home Is You Part 2/3

A/N: Enjoy. Leave a comment, like, or reblog if you've enjoyed it. Thank you to @kingliam2019 for requesting. And @jellybeanstacey0519 & @mrsyixingunicorn10 for asking about a taglist and commenting on the last part.

Fandom: The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

Pairing: Gus March-Phillips x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, Nazi's, canon typical violence, possible spoilers for the movie, and mentions of sexual assault.

Part One Part Three

“So are you two fucking?” Freddy sits across from you, pointing between you and Gus.

“Freddy!” Gus shouts, outraged as you spit tea across the table, staining the map.

“What?! It’s a valid question!” Freddy grins, crossing his arms over his chest. You cough, trying to catch your breath while Gus pats your back trying to clear your airway. “It’s a small boat,” he continues, despite the incredulous looks from both you and Gus. “And it’s obvious you’re sleeping together, but what I want to know is if you’re fucking?”

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Henry shakes his head and quickly grabs the back of Freddys coat to drag him up the stairs to the deck, his vocal protests growing quiet at he moves further away.

“Here,” you glance up and see Appleyard holding out a glass of water, “Freddy doesn’t have a filter.”

“It’s alright,” you sip slowly at the water, “he’s right, it is a small boat.” You glance at Gus, “filled with intelligent men that are bound to notice I’ve been sleeping in bed with you since the day I arrived.”

“But just sleeping,” Gus brushes a finger over your cheek, before a grin spreads across his cheeks like a cheshire cat. “I’m a lady, and I will not have my virtue questioned,” he holds a hand to his chest in fake modesty, “it’s a struggle, Apple, day and night I have to keep this daring rogue off me.”

“Me?” you ask, faking outrage, “virtue my ass,” you reach a hand out to Apple, “the lady doth protests but everytime I have her moaning into the pillow that protest falls on deaf ears.” Apple looks between you both with a grin shaking his head and rolling his eyes before you both fall into each other with laughter.

“I think you might have met your match,” Apple crosses his arms over his chest, “and a part of me is alarmed as well as pleased.”

“BOSS!” Henry shouts from above, and you rush to the deck, “it’s a British destroyer,” he points off through the fog.

“Do you think they’ve spotted us?” you ask, eyes going wide, “can we hide in the fog?”

“I can’t outrun that, darlin’,” Freddy frowns.

“And if we’ve seen them,” Gus lowers the spyglass, “they’ve surely seen us.”

“What do we do?” you stand beside him and he tugs off his coat, putting it around your shivering shoulders before placing his arm around your waist.

“Well,” he looks around at the other men, “we play the part. We are swedish fisherman, let’s be swedish fisherman.”

The boys work like a well-oiled machine as they quickly remove any guns, explosives, or otherwise unsavory items below deck and hide them away. The destroyer looms closer and the sway of the waves does nothing to quell the unease in your belly. “Time to move, Little Lamb,” Anders, holds his hand out for you and you grab it, sliding your hands into the sleeves of Gus’s coat as he lowers you below deck and hides you away. “Stay put,” he smiles softly, “everything will be okay.”

Gus comes down the stairs, pressing a hand to Anders's shoulder as he moves past him back up to the deck. “You all settled then?” Gus asks, coming to stand before you, you nod silently, “good,” he looks around, “good. We’re going to be fine. I promised you remember?”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he grabs your arm, tugging you closer before lowering his mouth to your ear, his mustache scratches against your cheek and his breath hot against your neck leaves you trembling.

His voice is low, deep, and etched with promise, “I don’t,” he whispers pressing his lips to your neck for a moment before quickly retreating up the stairs. You fall back against the wall, your breath coming out hard and fast as you quickly pull the wall shut, disappearing from view. The skin of your neck burns like a brand from his kiss, and you press your palm to it and close your eyes remembering every moment like a cinema reel.

The waves kick up as the ship moves alongside the small fishing vessel and you can hear snippets of the conversation. Your blood churning cold when Gus replies using his normal voice, not the accent he’d been practicing moments before. Suddenly you hear your name shouted from above and push the wall back, running up the stairs, “What’s happening?!”

“Help Freddy with the sail,” Henry shouts, everyone moving as quickly as possible, “we need to get the hell out of here.”

You don’t question, doing everything you can to get the boat moving. Finally, everyone but Henry stops, watching the destroyer set off bombs into the water. “U-boat,” Gus replies, coming to stand beside you, holding onto your waist as the ship rocks from the tumultuous waves. The sea becomes quiet, nothing but the whip of the wind as you move further and further away. “Bullseye,” Gus whispers, “I think they got him.”

“But let’s keep going Hayzy,” Freddy shouts, “don’t want to take any chances.”

The rest of the day passes in silence as you all take in the close call. And as night descends and dinner passes no one says a word when Gus climbs into his bunk behind you, pulling you close to his chest, hearing him hum a sweet song in your ear as you drift off to another nightmareless sleep.

The next few days pass without incident as you move closer and closer to the target. Each of the boys has taken to passing the time by teaching you what they do best; Freddy spending hours giving you the ins and outs of explosives, Henry teaching you everything you need to know to man the boat if need be, Apple pouring over maps and documents while discussing strategy, and Lassen, the Danish Hammer, teaching you hand to hand combat so you never have to become a victim again.

“You’ve been busy,” Gus sits down beside you, handing you his water, as you catch your breath from Anders newest lesson; how to breakout of a chokehold.

“I like it,” you smile, water splashing down your chin, “I feel like I can take on the world.”

He grins, brushing the water off your chin with his thumb before putting it in his mouth. Your mouth goes dry as he licks his lips with a wide smile. “Not fair,” you stick your tongue out at him, and he lets out a booming laugh, similar to the first time you heard him back at the Garrison.

“Do you think it’s been easy for me?” he teases, “seeing Lassen’s hands all over you.” His eyes darken, “maybe I should take over the lessons?”

“No,” you shake your head, “then I would learn nothing.”

He scoffs, “I happen to be an excellent teacher.”

“I’m sure,” you replace the top of the water, handing it back to him and standing. You stretch, reaching your hands over your head, his eyes widening as he takes in the sliver of exposed skin between your shirt and pants you borrowed from the boys. You grin, leaning over him and putting a hand on his shoulder before whispering in his ear, “I’ve been sleeping with you for ten days, Gus, and I know for a fact you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

You pull back with a grin and his mouth gaps open and closed like a fish before he grins, “tease. I’m a good girl.” Gus stays there watching through the rest of the lesson, encouraging and giving feedback. It’s a unique feeling to be around men that not only respect you but also encourage you to fight and learn when it seems the rest of society want to see you as a housewife with a home full of children and a hot meal on the table.

“Alright, Lassen, you’ve hogged her attention for long enough,” Gus stands brushing off his pants.

“Me?” Anders laughs, “I think you should look in the mirror my friend, see who is really hogging all of her attention.”

Gus ignores him holding out a hand for you, “come along, darling, it’s time you learn how to shoot.” You take his hand and he leads you to the front of the boat where he’s arranged a variety of weapons.

“Now what is your experience with guns?” Gus asks, leaning against the table with his arms crossed.

“Well,” you sigh, “I did end up a prison in a Nazi garrison, so the experience has been less than good.

His smile drops and he nods before turning back to the table and lifting a simple handgun. “Okay, we start small,” he lifts the gun, “this is a colt .45, small but deadly, it can be easily concealed. To fire, you remove the safety, set your stance, aim, and fire.”

“Sounds simple enough,” you nod, reaching a hand out for the gun. “First thing, how do I remove the safety?” He spends the next 15 minutes going every minute detail about the weapon until you feel confident you could repeat it back to him.

“Now, stance is very important when learning how to shoot. Because weapons kick back, and if you’re not standing correctly it will knock you on your butt.” He moves behind you, placing his hands on your hips, and raising them the sides of your body and out towards your arm. His mustache tickles your cheek, and he relaxes against you. “Now, steady on the target,” he gestures to the bottle sitting on the edge of the boat, “take a deep breath.” His body moves with your own, each of you taking a deep breath before he whispers in your ear, “Fire.”

The gun kicks back and he holds you steady, the bottle blasting into pieces and shattering into the sea. “Bullseye,” you can hear the smile in his voice as he lowers the gun and replaces it on the table, his body still pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he turns you slowly, your eyes rising to meet his.

He’s close, his lips but a breath away, “Gus,” you whisper, “I…I want.”

“What do you want, darling? Say the word and it’s yours,” he smiles softly, his thumbs tracing patterns on your hips. He leans forward, pressing his lips to your cheek, then the other before hovering over your lips, “Tell me, darling. What do you want?”

Your heart thunders in your chest, so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife and you can feel the slick between your legs, anticipation for his kiss, his touch building till it’s a raging inferno inside. “I want-”

“BOSS! An urgent message on the wireless!” Freddy shouts and you can’t help the word that slips out of your lips.

“Fuck!” Gus lets out a laugh, pressing a kiss to your forehead before quickly turning towards the stairs.

“Don’t worry darling,” he tosses over his shoulder, “we will continue this conversation later.”

You stand there for a moment composing yourself, the sea doing little to quench the heat from his touch. Never in a million years did you think you’d crave a mans touch like this especially after what happened in that camp. There is a deep seated fear that that experience would tarnish every future encounter, but with Gus, it’s so easy. Everytime he touches you it’s like all the bad fades away, and all that’s left is him.

“I need to get my damn head on straight,” you whisper to the wind before turning to follow him below deck. The boys are standing around the wireless, clenched jaws all around. “What happened?” you ask coming to stand beside Gus and see the message on the notepad. “What does this all mean? Tin of corned beef?”

“It’s code,” he mumbles, wiping a hand on his face, “it means they moved up the sailing date by three days and the port is now filled with more soldiers than any of us were anticipating. Hayzy,” he looks up at the boy, “can you get us there in 12 days?”

“Not the way we’re going,” he shakes his head, “we’ll need to cut through German occupied sea, otherwise we’ll never make it in time.”

“Do what you must,” Gus nods, watching as he retreats upstairs to change course. “Heron says he has a contact who might be able to give us some backup. We need more men if we’re going to live through this.”

“Even then,” Apple sits down across from him, “we can’t take on an entire army.”

“Trust Heron,” Gus leans back in his chair, “he gave us coordinates to meet him. We will make our way there and see what he has to say. This mission,” he licks his lips, “is vital to the British. If we fail, then Britain will fall to German occupation.”

“What are you trying to say?” Apple asks with a groan.

“I’m saying Gentlemen, and Lady,” he nods his head at you, “failure is not an option.”

The boys sit there in silence processing the news before returning to their duties. Gus sits in his chair, his shoulders slumped like they weigh a hundred pounds each. “What can I do?” you stand behind him, massaging his shoulders. He moans, closing his eyes and leaning his head back into your waist.

“I don’t know if we’ll survive this, darling,” he says the words quietly so only you can hear. His voice is heavy with the pressure. “The odds are stacked against us and I’m not a gambling man but if I was, I’m not sure I would bet on us.”

“Don’t say that,” you push his arms out of the way and sit in his lap, his eyes snapping open as he wraps you in his arms and into his chest. “I saw the way you took down that Garrison,” you wrap your arms around his neck and rub the hair at the nape of his neck. “There is not a team alive like yours. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

“You put too much faith in me, darling,” he says with a sad smile.

“And you don’t put enough.” His forehead presses to your own and you cradle him to your chest, running your fingers through his hair. “You have to come back alive, Gus. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You’d move on,” he mumbles into your chest, “you’re beautiful, smart, and sharp as a whip. Men would be falling over their feet to marry you.”

“Well that’s just too damn bad!” he lifts his head at your outburst, you hold onto either side of his face, and smile, “because all I want is you. All I need is you, Gus March-Phillips.”

It’s like two magnets, colliding together, his lips press to yours with a hunger deep inside. His lips are warm and soft and you feel his tongue seek out your own as he deepens the kiss. He tastes like tea and those ginger biscuits he loves so much and you feel yourself getting drunk on the taste of him. “Shit,” he pulls back with a groan, pressing his forehead to your own, “I didn’t think it would feel like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He pulls back with a smile, “Perfection.”

The next twelve days pass in a blur. Each day is filled with training, preparation, and endless amounts of kisses. The boys tease every time you sit down for a meal and Gus pulls you into his lap and presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t fuck in my bed,” Freddy shouts one night over a meal and you kick him under the table, feeling Gus chuckle behind you. “Ouch! What the hell?! Some damsel in distress she turned out to be!”

“Anders has been teaching me to fight,” you spit back, “I could easily kick your ass.”

“My little lamb has become a tiger!” Anders shouts gleefully.

“She sure is,” Gus remarks with pride, “that’s my girl.” You lean back in his arms as the others playfully spit out insults back and forth like brothers. Gus joins in occasionally and makes you laugh so hard your belly aches.

“All joking aside,” Apple wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes, “we arrive at the coordinates tomorrow. Heron should be there with his contact.”

“He’ll be there,” Gus nods, looking at the men around the room. “We have a big day ahead of us men, let’s get some sleep. Apple, you take first watch.”

“Yes, boss,” he nods, going up the stairs.

“Come on, love,” Gus moves you to stand and drags you over to his bunk. The others quietly moving around the room and cleaning up from dinner. He tucks you into his bunk before placing a quick kiss to your lips, “I’m not tired, I’m going to sit up with Apple. I’ll be back later.”

“Okay,” you tug him down for another kiss, “don’t stay up to late.”

“I haven’t married you yet and you’re already nagging me,” he teases pressing another kiss to your lips, “I promise I’ll be back soon.”

You watch his back retreat up the stairs, closing your eyes and snuggling down into his sheets. Suddenly your eyes pop open and you gasp, he said yet.

#the ministry of ungentlemanly warfare #Gus March Phillips x reader #gus march phillips #Female Reader #Autumn Writes #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill character fanfiction

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demiurgeua · 1 year ago

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Україна повернула контроль над буровими платформами у Чорному морі

У березні 2014 року, під час російської інтервенції до Криму, підрозділами збройних сил рф було захоплено українські бурові платформи «Петро Годованець» і «Україна» (відомі як «вишки Бойка»), що належать державному акціонерному товариству «Чорноморнафтогаз». Вишки на той час знаходилися у територіальних водах України на Одеському газовому родовищі. Були захоплені також самопідіймальні бурові…

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#Black Sea #Drilling platform #Бурова платформа #ГУР #ГУР МО #Головне управління розвідки #ЗСУ #Збройні Сили України #Міністерство оборони України #Російське вторгнення в Україну #Російсько-українська війна #Чорне море #Gas #Main Directorate of Intelligence #Ministry of Defense of Ukraine #Oil #Russo-Ukrainian War

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lumi-klovstad-games · 7 months ago

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Why are the Helldivers 2 loading screens so good

This is a verr advanced tip. Not sure you rookies have the experience needed to really get this one.

I had no idea!

THOSE GIANT BONES CLEARLY CAME FROM A CREATURE THAT HATED FREEDOM AND THE UNIVERSE IS BETTER OFF WITHOUT IT, CADET

Really this is just solid advice for all of life's problems.

I AIN'T NO COWARD SARGE

The tenth turned out to be a goddamn COMMUNIST so we had him executed in the town square.

Heavy is the burden of Democracy Distribution.

'Nuff said!

Any man, woman, or child over 7 who panics will be shot so that the children under 6 will learn appropriate Super Earth-approved levels of courage.

Super Earth cares deeply for the mental well-being of ALL our citizens. Now back to the land of fire tornadoes filled with bugs the size of skyscrapers that spit metal and flesh eating acid.

Don't drink and dive, either.

I reported the ship's cook just this morning for not using enough cooking oil. He claimed it was because we were low on supply, but clearly he was an Automaton Sympathizer.

It can't be addictive if you don't live long enough to become an addict, right?

Would the Ministry of Truth lie to you? Of course not! Truth is literally in their name!

Gotta stay strong trooper. DEMOCRACY NEEDS YOU.

No permits needed for swallowing though.

Or as we vets in the service like to call it, "Colonial Diplomacy".

This tip written by Death Captain Steve "Three Fingers" Jameson.

#helldivers #helldivers 2 #super earth #automatons #terminids

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buffetlicious · 3 months ago

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The Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋节), a Chinese celebratory season observed by many East and Southeast Asians, has begun. Held on the 15th day of the eighth lunar month, which is in the middle of autumn, the festival marks the end of the season’s harvest and is a time to appreciate the moon at its fullest and brightest. Besides feasting eyes on the moon and lanterns of different shapes and sizes, Mooncakes (月饼), a rich pastry with all sorts of fillings, are undoubtedly the main highlight of the festival and are traditionally shared among family and friends.

The Cantonese Mooncake (广式月饼) is the most commonly found traditional mooncake in Singapore. Its fillings consist of lotus seed or red bean paste and usually include one, two or four salted duck egg yolks. Many would also be familiar with the snow skin variant that was created in Hong Kong in the 1960s as a healthier alternative to traditional baked mooncakes. The fillings and a ball of dough are traditionally pressed into a wooden mould, which embosses intricate wordings of the pastry shop’s name or stuffing on top of the pastry.

A mooncake with various flavours such as rich, savoury-sweet and peppery, the Hainanese Mooncake (海南月饼), also known as Su Yan Bing (酥盐饼) is traditionally filled with ingredients such as fried shallots, lard, salt, white pepper, rose-flavoured white sugar, sesame seeds, melon seeds and dried wild tangerine skin peel. The filling is encased in a thin crust made with flour, salt and lard.

The Hakka Mooncake (客家月饼) is also called Yu Gao (月糕) and is a flat, snow-white disc that is typically made with cooked glutinous rice flour and sugar, giving it a crumbly and powdery texture. It is usually embellished with more intricate designs, often with animals and flowers. Although it doesn’t usually contain any fillings, some come with candied winter melon, desiccated coconut and sesame seeds mixed with glutinous rice flour, sugar, margarine and water.

Easily distinguishable by the red stamp of Chinese characters on the top of the crust and its white disc-shaped pastry which resembles a bright moon, the Hokkien Mooncake (福建月饼) consists of a dry and sweet filling that is made of candied winter melon, tangerine peel, melon seeds, sugar, and cooked with lard or peanut oil. A less common type is a savoury version with minced meat filling. Once known as Scholar Cakes (状元糕), they were given to those who took part in the Imperial examinations. Today, it is given as a symbol of good luck to those who are about to sit for their exams.

Many would be familiar with the Teochew Mooncakes (潮州月饼). It has a crispy, spiral-layered crust that crumbles easily. It originated from the Chaoshan (潮汕) area in Guangdong Province and typically consists of yam paste and a salted duck egg yolk. Other traditional versions of the Teochew mooncake are still made by old school bakeries in Singapore. For example, La Bia (朥饼 or lard biscuit), where ‘La’ refers to pork oil, has a thinner, flaky crust with a thick mung bean or red bean filling. There are also alternative fillings including red bean, mung bean or lotus seed paste. There is also a steamed version of the typically baked Teochew mooncake, called La Gao (朥糕). It can either be served plain or with a mung bean filling.

A Snow Skin Mooncake (冰皮月饼) variant was created in Hong Kong in the 1960s as a healthier alternative to traditional baked mooncakes. Similar to mochi, its crust is made of glutinous rice flour and varies in colour, based on the flavours used. And unlike traditional mooncakes, these are best served cold!

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Mooncake information and drawings courtesy of Ministry of Culture, Community and Youth.

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fredwkong · 1 year ago

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Virgo Season: Daniel

Daniel knew that he was a good man. He’d grown up in a small community in Appalachia, gone to seminary, and started his own ministry in the same community he’d grown up in. One of his sermons, on the evils of liberalism and city life, had gone “viral,” whatever that meant, and Daniel had been overjoyed to receive an invitation to Pastor Blanco’s conference at the Astra Hotel.

Not since seminary had Daniel felt like he was among so many like-minded people. So many good points had been made during just the first week, Daniel had taken enough notes to write a whole year of sermons. Sure, a few people seemed to have left the conference before they were scheduled to, but that just meant that there was more attention left for those who remained, in Daniel’s opinion.

He was immeasurably grateful for the attention he had received thus far. Daniel knew he had a tendency to be a bit more of a follower than a leader, but the speakers, even Pastor Blanco, didn’t seem to mind Daniel’s puppyish, incessant questions and agreement. They encouraged him in a way that Daniel had never felt encouraged before.

Still, there was something about this hotel. Since arriving, Daniel had been plagued by… thoughts that he thought he’d long since rid himself of. He had long, long ago quashed his vanity, or so he’d believed. But suddenly, he was once again catching glimpses of his shapeless body in mirrors, ill-fitting suits doing him no favours. He knew that he should be respected for his mind and his ideas, not for his body, but Daniel’s great vice was that he had always wanted both.

Back in his misspent youth, while struggling with his faith, Daniel had imagined himself with acres of thick, hairless muscle, shining with oil on a stage. Now, in the Astra Hotel, he found himself remembering those moments, and his penis, whose desires he had managed to overcome for over a decade, was responding.

These images kept on coming upon him without warning. He was talking to a hard right lawyer in line to be a federal judge, when he caught a glimpse of his unremarkable body in a nearby mirror and he lost his train of thought, nearly swallowing his tongue as he imagined his reflection shredding his shirt with thick muscle.

One evening, it all became too much. Daniel got down on his knees in his hotel room and began to pray for deliverance from these upsetting images.

He was barely through when he heard a dripping sound coming from his bathroom. It was regular, but not the plink of water hitting porcelain. It was a thicker sound, from large, viscous drops of… something. Daniel went to check on it.

Instead of water, some thick, amber fluid was emerging from the shower head. Each drop pearled up as if from nothing, stretched slowly down, and dropped, splatting onto the shower floor. It had already formed a thick, gooey pile, but was too thick to flow easily into the drain.

Daniel lost his breath. He must be witnessing some kind of a miracle at work. Without hesitation, he stepped into the shower stall and reached his hand out for the next drop as it fell.

The instant it touched his palm, he felt an overwhelming sensation fill him. It was the same as when he thought about muscles. His brain filled with images of himself, but thick, smooth, sexy. Totally in command. His penis hardened in his pants.

This must be some kind of a temptation. Daniel tried to pull his hand away. “No—“ he gasped.

Without warning, the shower turned on, and a torrent of amber goo covered Daniel from head to toe. Every bit of skin it touched lit up with the same erotic pleasure as his hand had, making him writhe in ecstasy.

The coating of goo dissolved Daniel’s clothing, leaving him naked but for the inch-thick coating all over him. It quickly flooded every crevice of his body, and Daniel shuddered as he felt the animate fluid fill up his urethra and anus, even filling up his mouth, nose, and ears. His cock shuddered harder and harder in time with his racing heart, stimulated by the gently flowing goo.

Daniel’s mind filled with images of naked, muscular men, but this time they weren’t only shining with sweat. No, what he now understood he had been missing all his life was this thick, viscous coating all over his body. This was what he truly desired.

As this thought penetrated his soul, Daniel felt a tingle as the goo began to be absorbed into his skin. His muscles began to twitch, jerk, and inflate as more and more thick, amber liquid sank into him. His shoulders widened, his pecs plumped up, and his waist slimmed down as the goo brought Daniel’s body perfectly in line with the fantasy he had held in his mind for so many years.

Finally, just as Daniel thought his mind would break from the pleasure he was experiencing, the remaining layer of thick liquid slackened its grip and sloughed off of him. Suddenly as mobile as water, it drained away, leaving Daniel gasping for air and coughing up the last remnants.

He stepped out of the shower stall and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked… perfect. Like a young bodybuilding god, his body was bulky, yet perfectly aesthetic and totally smooth. He didn’t even have any stubble anywhere below his eyebrows. With each motion, his pumped up muscles and thickened, longer cock bounced, producing a sensation that had Daniel biting back a groan.

The sight of his body and the sensation of his new muscles moving had Daniel suddenly on the edge of an urgent, intense orgasm, his first in years. Before he could stop himself, he was shooting all over the tiles, feeling his muscles spasm more in a way that created a pleasurable feedback loop. As the aftershocks faded away, Daniel found himself looking, puzzled, at the copious load on the floor. Why was the creamy white of his semen tinged with a hint of orange?

Unable to find any clothes to fit him, Daniel fell into bed and was almost immediately unconscious.

The next morning proved that his transformation was no dream. Daniel admired his sweat-sheened muscles at the mirror, unable to tear his eyes away. Somehow, he discovered that his clothes had changed to suit his new body. Along with some business casual clothes, all in 4-way stretch fabrics, was a ton of gym gear, including more types of jockstraps than Daniel had ever imagined existed in the world. Pulling on a jock before his suit pants, Daniel found his thick cock hardening uncontrollably.

None of the other attendees seemed to notice Daniel’s incredible transformation. Or, perhaps, they thought he was a different Appalachian pastor, now with an incredible gym-built body that filled all his clothes nearly to bursting. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself, Daniel felt his cock thicken and ooze slick precum into his jock. It was such a turn-on to know that, unknown to all of these stuffy, stuck-up neoconservatives, Daniel was turning himself on and gently edging himself to the thought of his own body.

Somehow, all these talks that had seemed so interesting just yesterday were sliding from Daniel’s attention. How many different ways were there to say “I fucking hate everyone”? As his eyes drifted around the conference room, Daniel’s attention was suddenly caught by a guy whose attention was equally drifting. He was cute, dark-skinned and smooth-faced, and wearing… a leather baseball cap?

Daniel couldn’t imagine how someone so clearly different from everyone else was in here, and drawing absolutely no attention to himself. During the next break, he caught the guy’s eye and nodded out the door.

From the hall, he watched as the little mixed race twink—why was that word in his head?—started to follow, and then paused, his eyes widening at the sound of another attendee saying something. Probably something homophobic. The guy turned around and headed back to his seat.

Oh well. The conference wasn’t worth Daniel’s time. He may as well head back to his room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Daniel could hear the shower dripping again. As quietly as he could with his big new feet, he stalked into the bathroom to see another splatter of amber goo beginning to form on the shower floor.

Did he want more? Daniel could tell he’d changed. Not just his body, but his mind, too. His faith still felt firm, but different somehow. Temptation didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. If he changed more, he might lose all will to resist.

As he finished that thought, Daniel realised that he’d stepped into the shower without knowing it. He watched, as if in slow motion, as his big, meaty hand reached out for the next drop of pleasurable, life-changing goo.

He whited out as his clothes dissolved into the thick layer of goop this time, feeling himself cum at least twice as amber fluid sank into his skin again. Long after it had all drained away, Dan regained consciousness on all fours, moaning and thrusting like a whore as another load drained out of his low-hanging balls. The layer of cum on the porcelain had a distinct amber colour, but Dan reasoned that it could be the last of the goo draining from his big cock.

Stepping out of the shower, Dan admired his thick muscles, now covered in a layer of dark tattoos. His ass looked phenomenal, framed by bars of black and a scatter of other designs. He licked his lips, looking at himself, and felt some kind of a spurt deep in his hole.

A moment later, his asshole clenched, and Dan watched in the mirror as a bit of amber-tinged slick emerged from between his cheeks, dripping down his thick, hairless legs. Leaning down, still keeping his eyes on the flex and bend of his perfect, tatted body, Dan scooped up a bit of the natural lube and brought his finger to his slick hole.

The push of his thick finger into his ass felt incredible, and before long Dan was lying on the rumpled hotel bed, grunting and groaning as he thrust his fingers into his hungry hole. He came again, and collapsed on top of his fresh, copious load, almost immediately unconscious.

The following morning, all Dan’s suits and business casual clothes were gone. Instead, all he had were some more gym gear and a couple of leather jackets.

The thought of sitting in a conference hall full of stuffy suits who’d look at him like the dirt on their shoes made Dan roll his eyes, so he skipped his planned talks and headed to the hotel gym. It felt good to put his perfect new body through its paces. Just like he’d always imagined, pushing and pulling heavy weights was an incredible rush, at least on par with a good group prayer session. Although, every time he imagined prayer, Dan found himself thinking of EDM beats and grinding against other naked, sweaty male bodies. His tattoos would look so good stretching and warping under the strobes.

Near the end of his session, while Dan was doing a couple of sprints and watching his bare chest flex and bounce in the mirrors, the gym door opened. When he slowed down a few minutes later, Dan spotted the twink from yesterday, his skin distinctly olive-coloured today, and covered in a rubber suit—a gimp suit, said something in the back of Dan’s mind—from his neck down.

Sweat dripping from his overhanging pecs, Dan walked up to the twink, who was warming up on the bikes. Clearly, a gym session in a gimp suit was hard work, judging from the sheen of sweat already coating his pretty face and dripping from his curly dark hair.

“Hey man,” Dan said, enjoying his smooth new voice. “C’mon up to my room after, yeah?” He told the twink where to go, and the kid nodded. Looking into his eyes, Dan had a sudden image of a much older man, the lawyer with whom he had been speaking the other day. Somehow, this submissive, kinky twink had the same eyes as that self-obsessed, white-haired old man.

Come to think of it, Dan hadn’t seen that man for a couple of days, even before his own transformation had begun.

Back in his room, Dan was laying out lube and condoms—since when had he had those?—when he heard the tell-tale drip from the bathroom again. Once again, drops of amber goop were pooling next to the drain.

There was no hesitation this time. Feeling a spurt of orange-tinged precum drool out of his jockstrap, Dan stepped into the shower stall and spread his bare, tattooed arms, waiting for the pleasurable wave of fluid to fill him up.

Either moments or hours later, Dan returned to himself, coughing up the last of the viscous ooze on the shower floor. His hands, on the porcelain beneath him, looked distinctly black-skinned.

Without even looking in the mirror, Dan knew he was a Black man. Not only could he see how the dark brown tint was no longer from mere tattoos, but there seemed to be something different in the way he moved as he rose to his feet and stepped out of the shower. Not to mention the big, thick, Black cock insistently dripping amber precum onto the floor.

Next to the tools he had laid out, Dan found a black leather harness that set off his hairless brown pecs perfectly. He pulled on a jockstrap, too, enjoying the feeling of leaking through it instantly. As he admired himself in the wall mirror, feeling up his smooth Black muscles, there was a tentative knock at the door.

The twink stared up in awe as Dan opened the door, and didn’t resist as Dan pulled him in by the front of his rubber suit. He mewled pitifully, his bulge pulsing with need, as Dan stood him in the shower and drained the stream of musky sweat mixed with copious precum that had been pooling in the suit. His shiny gloved hands helped pull the suit down below his waist, and he took Dan’s cock like a natural, shuddering through a handsfree orgasm as Dan filled him up with a thick load of amber goo.

“Got you hooked, now,” Dan told the twinky gimp as his new toy cleaned off his oozing Black cock. “Hope you like worshipping at your new temple.”

The twink nodded desperately, and Dan grinned down at him. Life was good, and he couldn’t wait to fuck more of the guys he’d been desperately following around a few days ago. Next time, he’d make sure to face his mirror, so he could get a good look at his perfect body as it shone with exertion and filled up his worshippers with his addictive cum.

Click here to see all of Virgo Season.

If you feel inspired, write a story set at the Astra Hotel and post it @ me to join in. Help me celebrate my birthday by turning more conference attendees into geared up gay kinksters.

#male transformation #mental change #muscle tf #reality change #male tf #race change #black tf #leather tf #rubber tf #dom tf #virgo season #all fwkong

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