#Saffron Edge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bunny584 · 3 months

Text

Hard Night, Good Morning

A/N: .....i…no one look at me. Just read. Hurt/Comfort/hurt? Idk. This shit had me scream crying either way. Post Sukuna Kaisen, but the good guys won.

Art credit: Narutoss_ramen on X

Satoru remembers. His Six Eyes may have dulled to just two. And the battle scars may have faded. But the memories — the film roll featuring a life lived and still living…are all there.

Satoru remembers, but Suguru has forgotten.

His name. His home. The life he’s lived. The life he lost. The friendships, the family, the triumphs, the sins. It’s all gone because Suguru Geto died on December 24th.

At least, his soul did.

And yet, Satoru is about to buy coffee from the shell of a man he once loved. Here. Today. With a smile more beautiful than the first day of summer solstice.

Tabula Rasa. Blank Slate. A stranger he knows better than the back of his hand.

How will The Strongest…no, how will Satoru Gojo choose to know Suguru Geto in this iteration of his life?

Friends? Lovers?

Or just a patron of the handsome barista at a countryside coffee shop with the best lavender latte around.

Ignorance has a way of making things beautiful.

Exquisite, really.

Satoru’s eyes flutter closed. His angular nose nestles into an arc of plumb blossoms. Dancing in the wind. Hanging freely — generously — for everyone on its walking path to enjoy.

Has the world always been this gorgeous?

And so…quiet.

It was the first thing Satoru noticed once his Six Eyes were laid to rest. The moment Limitless buzzed inward for the very last time, all he could see was silence.

Saffron became orange.

Emerald became green.

Ursa Major became a handful of stars.

The Sun stayed the Sun. The Moon seemed so cold. And the world became so dull.

Wonderfully and peacefully dull.

Satoru was no longer tortured by hyperawareness. A double edged sword, but a sword no less. The minuscule details of a person’s skin or each drop of rainfall during a thunderstorm no longer gnawed at his sanity.

The smoke eventually settled.

The Survivors, they aptly nicknamed themselves, peeled off the armor. When the chaos dissipated and the Demon was banished to the Hell he belonged, The Survivors dispersed.

Unable to hold each other’s gaze. For fear of recognizing the monsters they had to become to earn the throne from the King of Curses.

So, Satoru found himself buying a one-way ticket to the tail end of the country.

Where the greens and oranges and yellows exist that much more peacefully. And the Sun is the Sun. But the handful of stars are solar bright and the Moon is the warmest it’s ever been for him.

And he is so damn lucky.

To have the privilege of living without the weight of being The Strongest.

To stop and smell spring on his way to partake in the latest breaking news.

A new coffee shop.

Bone dry cappuccinos. Colombian espresso. Raspberry macaroons without the threat of curses and fear and death and loss knocking around his skull.

“Good morning! Welcome in.”

What?

The chimes above the door may as well be blow horns. Tearing at the eardrums Satoru is sure are already ruined. The meaningless, polite greeting suddenly holds the gravity of an entire galaxy behind it.

But not because the words are unique.

The voice.

Satoru could be dumb, deaf and blind. He would recognize that voice under any circumstance.

As a baby? He’d know that voice signifies safety.

As a teen? That voice meant becoming a man worth respecting. With morals that would save millions.

That night? That voice meant love. In the cruelest sense of the word.

Then? That voice only spewed lies.

And now? That voice means…it means..

“Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.” Brilliant amethyst eyes melt the ice shackles around Satoru’s feet.

Royal purple. Somewhere between indigo and violet. A warm, heavy cloak when they are looking at you reverently. When they’re trusting. Bright. Honest.

But when they see you as the enemy? The other? Trying to thwart a world they’ve envisioned and worked hard for, those amethyst eyes are more lethal than scorpion venom.

“S-su…Suguru…?” His feet move forward all at once. Nearly impaling himself on the counter. Satoru’s peripheral vision isn’t as sharp, but there is a line. And yet, none of that matters.

None of it fucking matters.

The barista’s thick, inky locks are pulled up like it used to be when they were seventeen. His shoulders are as broad and muscular as they were the last night they spoke. His voice.

His voice

And his eyes. And lips. And smile. The stupid, boyish dimple cratered in his left cheek. With eyelashes long enough to support a fleet of planes taking off the runway.

It’s Suguru.

Suguru Geto.

Not an imposter. Not something so dark and blasphemous, Satoru nearly flattened the Earth to exorcise.

Just Suguru.

And he knows it to be true. Not by his eyes, because they can lie to him now. But his soul and heart would tell him otherwise.

“Suguru..” Satoru tastes a name so foreign to his lips, he nearly chokes on it.

The beautiful boy lets out a gentle chuckle. Flickering down to his name tag before returning eye contact.

“So I’m told.” He shrugs. His long span reaches over to place a porcelain espresso cup beneath the machine nozzle.

“You look like you need something strong. Hard night?”

“Y—yeah.” Say something real, idiot.

“Ahh,” Suguru rolls his plump bottom lip under his teeth. Eyebrows crawling together in genuine concern. And Satoru wishes he could swallow his heart currently beating in his throat.

“Let’s start with an espresso, then. What’s your name?”

The question alone nearly brings Satoru to his knees.

How could he not know?

It’s me, Suguru.

Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto.

Their names only being a few letters away is a testament to the relationship they shared. They’ve only ever existed as one. As sure as the Sun rising in the east and setting in the west. In lockstep like a custom made door key.

Suguru’s name is…was an integral part of his identity. Not just his vocabulary.

“Uh, Satoru.” Sweaty palms fiddle for his wallet. Anything to dull the searing pain in his chest.

“Satoru…?”

“Yes?” Arctic eyes snap up to meet violet ones. As if the barista spontaneously remembered, Satoru’s flushed lips hang open with naive hope.

But Suguru just quietly rolls the syllables of his name around one more time. Rich on the tongue, he decides. “That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks.” Disappointment weighs heavy on his shoulders.

“The espresso is on the house. What else can I make for you, Satoru?”

And his name sounds sweeter than the pastry he stumbled in here for. He would pay anything. To tuck that velvet voice in a jar and replay it on rainy days, Satoru would give anything.

“A lavender latte.” He flickers to the glass display. “And two of the Kikufuku, please.”

“Done. Have a seat.” Suguru nods at the corner table.

“Take a load off. I’ll bring your stuff over.” His lips lax into an intoxicating smile and Satoru’s world spins.

No more than two seconds after his butt hits the seat, Satoru wedges his cell between his ear and shoulder. Each unanswered ring chips away at his patience.

“Hey normie.”

“Shoko,” Satoru sighs into the speaker. Too relieved to insult her back.

“Long time no speak,” she chides. He can almost hear the pull of her cigarette sizzling against her lips.

“I know.” She’s right, but none of them are speaking right now. They all need a little time.

“Sorry about that. Listen, I’ve got a question.” Satoru chews his bottom lip raw. Suguru’s back is facing him, perfecting his order.

“Don’t sound so tortured about it, shoot.” Shoko swings the door wide open and Satoru barrels through.

“When people come back from the dead, what’s the likelihood of losing all memories?”

“What?” Her tone makes his question sound so egregious he almost rethinks asking it.

Almost.

He doesn’t though. Because the raven-haired barista has flashed his Colgate smile and will be heading over in t-2 minutes. And Satoru…he needs something to hold onto. A life vest to keep him from drowning.

“C’mon Sho, how do memories work when you bring people back from the dead?” Each word is more hushed than the last. A thinly veiled attempt at hiding his insanity.

“…when did you find him?”

The second time today oxygen is taken directly from Satoru’s lungs. How did she know?

“What the hell are you—“

“How is he..?”

“Shoko, I don’t know what you’re talking—“

“He was my friend TOO, Satoru.” His best friend cuts down his silver-tongued lies for the last time.

She’s right.

It’s inhumane to brush it aside. Satoru cannot fathom the pain she had to work through when she lost Suguru. Then Satoru. And Suguru again. It’s unfair for him to be selfish with this.

“This morning.” He concedes.

The doctor mulls his answer over. Short, choppy breaths that sound more relieved than not feather through the speaker.

“Let’s talk tomorrow, my patient is here.” She ends the call before he can protest. The life vest won’t come today. Not from Shoko at least.

As always, Suguru enters with perfect timing. Balancing an espresso, latte and dessert on one forearm. He always did move with the grace of a danseur noble.

“Your treats.” In one fluid motion, a pair of steaming drinks and sweets are lined in front of him in the order they should be consumed.

He is still so thoughtful.

The leash around Satoru’s control snaps in half. His hand darts to Suguru’s forearm just as he turns to leave. His person tilts his head to the side. Quizzical. But kind. And patient. Satoru hasn’t said a word but he knows Suguru would listen to each syllable.

“Do you not…have them?” Satoru can hardly believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Have what?” Suguru probes, stepping into his grasp.

“The hard nights,” the Strongest retorts. Darting his eyes out of the window as if the two of them are in a realm they don’t belong in.

And maybe they are.

Satoru bites back a fond chuckle when Suguru makes his face. An exaggerated frown with narrowed eyes. He resembles a jaguar most in those moments, and Satoru never let him live it down.

“No,” Suguru starts, shaking his head almost regretfully. “I don’t remember enough to have a sleepless night.”

He could remember for the both of them.

Satoru would spend every minute of every hour of every day for the rest of his life infusing memories into his best friend. Whatever he wanted to know. He’ll speak from sunrise to sunset until he passed on and call it a life well lived.

“What do you…what do you mean?” Satoru pipes up, pulling the barista back when he attempts to leave again.

Suguru’s confusion melts into the warmth Satoru never found a replacement for. No one ever looked at him so tenderly. Grace and patience tailor made just for him.

“It’s a long, bizarre story,” Suguru warns.

“I have time!” Satoru sits up in his seat. Still gripping his forearm.

“We—I, I have all the time in the world now, Suguru.”

His casual laugh is anything but. Fractures in his base. A wobble at the tail end of Suguru’s name.

Satoru is anything but casual.

And Suguru knows it.

The way his eyes soften when he scans the retired sorcerer’s face. He always did read Satoru like a children’s coloring book.

“Sure, I’m on a break anyway.”

Suguru settles into the seat across from him. Meanwhile Satoru digs the pads of his fingers into his thighs. Anything to keep from reaching out and caressing those stunning features that used to keep him (and everyone else) up at night.

He was so stupid back then.

Not letting himself acknowledge the way his body reacted to Suguru. The boy had his body so well trained within the first few days of meeting him.

On any given day all Satoru wanted was to touch him. And feel him. And take him in any way Suguru was willing to give.

Even when he gave, it was not enough.

How could it be?

Suguru’s heart ran deeper than Mariana’s Trench and soared higher than Mount Everest — and it still wasn’t enough to quench Satoru’s thirst.

His visceral need. To live and breathe in the dark haired curse user with striking violet eyes.

It’ll never be enough.

“What’s on your mind, Satoru?” The barista probes. A question with the comfort of being familiar and pain of being foreign all at once.

Satoru offers a lopsided smile. His hand swiping the moisture from the back of his neck.

“Sorry. You remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Mmm,” Suguru’s smile feels nostalgic. “Was he a good person?”

The question is earnest. Almost like he’s trying to learn about himself because his mind has betrayed him.

Satoru gathers a shaky breath. Digging crescent moons into his sweaty palms.

“The best.” He won’t cry today. He refuses to.

“Principled. Moral. So right in his thinking it…” Satoru drops his gaze.

Unable to sustain eye contact with his fondest memory and biggest regret. Just sitting across from him on a sunny Sunday morning.

“Sounds like you liked him, then.” Suguru muses.

“I loved him.” I love you.

“Mmm.” Suguru’s striking lines soften in a way that reminds Satoru why he could never muster the courage to hate him. No matter how many guns were pointed at his head.

An imaginary fork pushes around their words. Like the extra time in the air would let them dry out. Suddenly become devoid of all its meaning.

“Is something wrong?” Suguru breaks the silence and startles Satoru down to the present.

“What?”

“The coffee,” Concern etched into the barista’s face. “Is there something wrong? You’re tearing up—“

Suguru’s hand lands on Satoru’s wet cheek before he has a chance to swipe the rogue tears away.

And he can’t help himself. Both hands snake around Suguru’s wrist. The life vest he’s been desperate for.

Satoru’s lids flutter shut.

And for a moment, albeit fleeting, but present nonetheless — for a moment everything is right.

Satoru and Suguru are 17 again. Riding the high of being strong, the strongest.

They were untouchable.

And Satoru was so helplessly in love.

Greens were emerald, back then. Oranges were saffron. But the Sun was Suguru. And if Satoru was the Moon then he clawed his way to dawn each night, just to get a glimpse of him.

“Sato—“

“I’m sorry. Sorry about that.” Satoru bashfully relinquishes his grip.

Despite its freedom, Suguru’s hand hovers over his cheek. Ready to act if any more tears come.

Of course, he is.

And thankfully, they don’t.

But Suguru’s concern persists. “Just…wait here, okay? I’ll go get some tissues.”

Satoru offers a feeble smile. A half nod in feigned agreement. But the millisecond he disappears around the corner, Satoru is out the door.

He promised he wouldn’t cry today.

And it wouldn’t be the first time he lied to himself.

“Gorgeous.”

Suguru buries his face into a brush of plum blossoms. His morning walk is littered with them and for some reason he feels connected to the blooms.

Almost as if memories from a past life are clawing underwater — desperate to break the surface before the tide crashes in again.

A frustrated breath showers the soft petals grazing his nose.

It’s cruel.

Existing like this is cruel.

To live and breathe and walk next to lives rich with memories. Adorned with hope and love and loss and pain.

Yet Suguru has nothing.

He must’ve been a monster to deserve this punishment. To wake up a blank slate. The letters of his own name had to be learned.

He must’ve been awful.

The chimes above the shop door knock his thoughts loose.

It’s not totally true. Suguru does remember one thing. The only thing from that night the gods saw fit to leave in his reservoir.

The cold.

It seared through him like a sword fit for a king.

Suguru was nearly blinded by the sterile fluorescent lights. The walls leaned away from him. Accusatory. His presence bastardized the delicate line between life and death.

It was unacceptable.

And so, he paid the steep price of life after soul-death with his memories.

It’s unfair how vividly Suguru remembers the campfire eyes that were foreign and yet so inviting. Hovering over him. Salty streams splashed on his face like a summer storm.

“Suguru??” Honeyed tobacco on her voice. Sweet and stringent all at once.

“You’re awake. You’re here. God I—“ Misty mahogany eyes raked his face for another second before she landed her body into his stunned arms.

“W-who are you?” Suguru stammered into her dampened neck. Hugging her just as tight because it’s what his body told him to do.

“Someone who hates you. And loves you more than I could ever hate you.” She was hushed and pressured. Pressing angry, short kisses along his forehead. Sore with a linear cut and stitches that stung.

“You have to go.” The woman stuffed an envelope bursting with yen into his hand. Stuffing a wallet full of IDs and note cards into his other.

“What is all this?” Was the last question he squeezed out to the pretty stranger.

She hissed strict instructions on how to leave the city. Where he came to life was no longer safe. But she emptied her savings into his hands. Because if he just listened to her. If he followed her directions to a tee and make it out of city limits alive, he would be set for the next decade at the very least.

This same memory plagues Suguru’s otherwise empty mind day in and day out. He’s learned to live with the sudden flashback that catches his heart mid-beat. And holds it hostage for a minute or two.

Suguru shrugs the chills sprinting down his spine away. Circling a damp napkin along the counter. Less than a minute before the doors unlock and he can just tell today is going to be one of those—

7:00 AM on the dot.

A familiar wind chime interrupts his train of thought.

Already?

Suguru eyes land on the reason for the prompt melody.

And his souls halts where he stands.

He can’t be real.

A dream maybe? A hallucination?

He must be. The light that halos around him from crown to feet originates in Heaven. Bright enough to pierce lightyears away through earth’s insignificant clouds and blind Suguru in his tracks.

Satoru.

A celestial prince walking among the likes of him.

Wholly unworthy of witnessing something so beautiful. So above the plane of his existence. Suguru doesn’t deserve to breathe around the ethereal being, much less serve him coffee.

But he’ll count his blessings, nonetheless.

“Hard night?” Suguru forces a steady tone to his casual greeting.

He’s anything but casual.

“They always are.” Satoru’s boyish smile is the first sip of warm hot cocoa on a wintery Sunday morning.

Suguru could nibble and suck and roll the demigod’s words over his tongue all day and never grow tired of the taste.

He flips a freshly cleaned espresso mug under the machine. Mulling over the number of times he can claim “it’s on the house” before Satoru realizes he could ask Suguru for anything and it would always be on his dime.

“You don’t sleep very much do you?” The barista probes. Swallowing the elaborate rock formation that somehow materialized in his throat the second Satoru landed the Aegean Sea on him.

Those eyes stretch a million miles and Suguru would happily swim to the end of the earth to experience the entirety of them.

“No.” A sheepish smile curls up Satoru’s full baby pink lips. Baring a 10,000 kilowatt smile that nearly electrifies him to death.

Suguru settles an espresso and lavender latte in front of him. Waving away the outstretched credit card.

“You can call me, you know.” The offer tumbles out of Suguru before he had the wherewithal to edit the frivolous statement.

“What?” Satoru’s gorgeous eyes widen and Suguru digs sharp nails into his sweaty palm.

“Call me.” He’s stupidly bold.

“—When you can’t sleep. I’m not that interesting and don’t have much to by way of advice given that I only started creating memories a couple months ago. But I’m a good listener.” Suguru’s cheeks ascend in degree with each word of his sloppy rant.

“You are…” Satoru corroborates his egregious claims as if it’s truth.

How would he know if he’s any good at listening? They just met yesterday morning.

“So, call me.” Suguru shrugs his shoulders with the familiarity of someone who has known Satoru his whole life.

Before the voltaic being can protest, Suguru scribbles digits that are plastered all over his apartment walls. Spaced repetition of his own phone number for fear that his memory would decide to rip away the little he is currently storing.

Time freezes while Satoru studies the scribbled numbers. His lips form that devastatingly beautiful blue smile more brilliant than his eyes. With the depth of twenty seas combined.

“Yeah, okay.” The angel captures Suguru gaze. “I’ll call.”

And for the first time his new mind can recall, Suguru is dismantled piece by piece. His insides turned over by the searing pain that is disappointment. Because when he watched the mercurial boy leave the shop. And make the same right turn he did yesterday — Suguru’s heart knew.

The phone wouldn’t ring.

And the call would never come.

“Couldn’t exactly have him walking around Shibuya, with everything—“

“I know, but Shoko we can’t…”

Satoru’s voice stalls and he hovers on frustrated feet. Less than 10 paces from facing the love of his life on a Tuesday morning like his world hasn’t been turned upside down.

“We can’t just abandon him here. Alone. Confused. I won’t—“

“What do you want me to do Satoru?” Shoko interjects. Her frustration is palpable, yes, but the point is valid.

Satoru drags in more liters of air than he knew possible. Letting it all out like storm winds in a category 5 hurricane.

“I don’t..I don’t know but I won’t leave him like this, Shoko. I can’t.” His voice couldn’t convince a fly with how shaky it is.

But thankfully, Shoko can read him like a children’s book. She always could.

“Let’s talk about this in person. How soon can you get here?”

“I’ll be on the next flight out.” Satoru perks up. Urgency crashing into him like rip tides.

He eyes the dark-haired barista through the window pane. Adjusting his eyes before fully taking in the boy of his dreams.

And nightmares.

Suguru is vibrant.

In a way that hurts so good you can’t help but come back for seconds. And thirds. Fourths, fifths, whatever scraps he would be willing to give you’d get on your knees and beg for.

Satoru would. Any day.

“Hard night?” The former sorcerer calls out.

“Yeah, but..” Suguru looks up and Satoru relaxes into a lovesick smile. “Good morning.”

A few seconds of wonderfully familiar silence falls between the boys. Suguru flips the espresso cup into place like he was born to do anything.

Anything he touches is artisan. That hasn’t changed in this new universe they exist in.

“You never called, Satoru.” His voice is sweeter than whipped cream. Satoru gnaws on his cheeks to keep from choking on his desire.

“I know.”

“I would’ve come.”

“I know.” And the traitorous tears well up without his consent again.

“Okay, okay.” Suguru is hushed. As if a decibel too loud would break Satoru’s dam.

Beautiful boy.

His dam broke the night Suguru left him on the sidewalk for righteous ideals and the people who would follow them.

It hasn’t been repaired since.

“Lavender latte and something sweet. Back table?” Suguru whispers the order to himself and Satoru’s heart breaks.

“To go, actually.”

The sudden change in routine startles Suguru still. “Oh.”

Satoru rolls his abused lips under his teeth. Shuffling on his feet because it would take nothing for him to stay. And play this new game of life with his soulmate like the rest of it never happened.

He would swallow the pain of his past everyday if Suguru so much as looks at him a certain way.

“Why are you leaving?” Suguru’s brows crawl together in a way that’s so earnest. Satoru could fall to his knees.

“I um…I know a doctor. She’s smart. And m-maybe she can help get your memories back..”

“A doctor?”

Suguru probes quicker than Satoru expected. Given that his response sounded insane to even his own ears.

“Honey brown eyes and hair…” The barista speaks to his hands as if he’s reading from cue cards.

“Satoru this is going to sound crazy.”

Suguru’s eyes light up and Satoru falls deeper in love. Like it’s the logical next step. An obvious response.

“But I feel…did we—did we know each other?”

Those gorgeous, amethyst eyes unravel the heavy chains around Satoru’s heart.

You knew each other.

Loved each other.

Fought for, gave to, sacrificed it all for each other.

Satoru unravels at his battered seams. Only able to hold the facade of a lopsided smile for a few more moments.

“It’s a long, bizarre story.” It hurts to laugh.

“Tell me,” the barista can’t hide his excitement.

“We..we have time now. You mentioned it the other day, Satoru.”

This boy will be the death of him. In every lifetime he’s reborn in.

Satoru doesn’t even try to slap away the hot salty shower lining his sleep deprived eyes.

“An infinity.” He nods. “So don’t…don’t forget about me, Suguru.”

The sun shines through his romantic smile. The stupid, boyish dimple cratered in his left cheek.

“How could I?” Suguru hands over the latte and espresso in to-go cups.

Blissfully unaware that he has already forgotten Satoru once.

And he forgives him. He’s forgiven the special grade for much worse without question.

And Satoru will continue to forgive him.

The memories may be gone.

The curtain may be closed on their first novel together. But if there’s anything Satoru has come to love it’s time.

The Gods saw it fit to give them a little more time and Satoru would rather die than squander it.

“You’re unforgettable, Satoru!” Suguru calls out, just as he exits the small town coffee shop.

Yeah, well.

Maybe in this new lifetime, he will be.

320 notes · View notes

trashogram · 1 month

Note

hi pookie i’m the one who asked for spare smut, anything hazbin/HB (especially luci) is much appreciated 🫶

I’m sorry for the late response. And that it’s not the best ❤️

—*—

“You… don’t have to…” Lucifer trailed off with a nervous chuckle.

His face was flush with dark gold, like saffron against his abnormal pallor. It was adorable, almost enough to make you break character.

You looked up at him from between his legs, hoping your expression was coy as your hands massaged the top of his thighs.

“But I want to.” You assured him, hands sliding toward his center.

Lucifer keened as he was released from the confines of his trousers. He’d been hard since arriving at your summons (what you had jokingly decided to refer to as your calls for him to come up and make love to you). The sound of your voice had a Pavlovian Effect on him that not even the fires of your shoddy apartment furnace could limpen.

Your hand wrapped around him, palm already slick. “I’ve wanted to for a while.”

Lucifer choked. “H-have you?”

The smile that curved your lips was sinful. You kissed the tip of his cock, leaking before you had laid a finger on him. A strangled sound erupted from the King’s throat as you continued down the length of him in lieu of responding.

The Devil vibrated in his seat, claws sinking into the arms of the chair that you had backed him into. Try as he might, Lucifer couldn’t bring himself to stifle the pathetic sounds you stroked out of him. He could hear himself whining like a dog.

Your concentrated expression was mesmerizing, only outdone by the slip of your tongue. You lapped at his cock curiously, seeing the strain of Lucifer’s thighs as he seized up from the corner of your eye.

It was challenging to not stop and soothe him with affection. Hell’s King was not simply receptive, he was incredibly theatrical. His reaction to just a smidgeon of attention was always loud in some fashion. You couldn’t let it distract you.

Without warning, you wrapped your lips around him and sucked.

“FfffuCk!” Lucifer yelped, head falling back.

The brim of his hat slid down, covering half of his flushed face. The laugh you couldn’t push back came out muffled, sensation forcing Lucifer to buck up, sliding further down your throat.

You gagged, hands clutching at the fabric of his pants. He was short in stature, but Lucifer wasn’t lacking beneath the belt. It took a moment to stay the wild beat of your heart and remember to breathe through your nose.

Lucifer was still groaning in between croons of your name, over and over. The sound, melodic even in his desperation, went straight to your cunt. You shifted on your knees to address the sticking of your own panties, all while letting saliva pool in your mouth. Drool ran down your chin as you edged downward to take more of him in, as much as you could, before pulling off.

Your lover trembled as he tried to raise the brim of his hat, pupils blown wide.

He straightened, grabbing for you.

“Up, up, up!” He hurried, heedless of your confusion. You couldn’t ask questions as you were hauled up from the floor and sat on Lucifer’s lap. He fumbled to push your panties aside and impale you on his cock, leaving you no time to gasp before he was shoving you down to the hilt.

Lucifer held your hips in a vice, pounding into you madly until stars burst before your eyes.

“‘M sorry! I didn’t think I’d make it! I didn't - couldn't — you’re mouth ‘s too good! S’good — FU-CKing SH — ahhhh baby! Angel! I n-nn-eed t’ cum-mm ins—!!!” Lucifer spluttered. “Mijn liefje! Nire Zerua! T-tafadhali! ¡Déjame llenarte!”

Your mouth opened in a soundless scream as heat surged through your core, thick cum painting your fluttering walls.

Claws ran through your hair as the Devil gently pulled your head down and into his neck. He’s slumped into the chair, still breathing heavily as he hugged your still winded, shaking form to him.

#lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel x reader #Hazbin hotel #HCY

117 notes · View notes

fullofbees · 3 months

Text

😸💚 anon requested: Hello!! Could I possibly ask for Satan with prompt 55? Maybe with fem!MC who is shy and sweet? I cannot stop thinking about the dynamic of opposites interacting with each other!

CW: Fingering (F receiving)

»»----------► F!Reader

Though his room is nothing but a towering maze of books only lit by candlelight, you find it oddly comforting; as long as you manage to not trip on any of his "to read" piles.

You found the tome you were looking for, a hefty treatise on rare herbs and their magical uses. Carefully, you find your way back to Satan, descending the spiral staircase with the book in tow.

"I was worried you had gotten lost," says the demon as you plop down on his bed with a small "oof."

Dust is sent flying to the floor as you wipe your hand across the cracking leather cover, "We should make a map of your room."

Satan crinkles his nose at the idea, "I already have a system in place."

"I know," you say as you open the book in your lap, carefully flipping through the pages until you get to the table of contents, "I'd like to learn your system. I'm a visual learner, so I think a map would help."

The Avatar of Wrath mumbles grumpily, "Fine. I'll draw one later..." Yet he is already reddening, a delicate blush blooming across his cheeks. He buries his face in his book, though he peers at you over its edge, "Are you going back to your room now that you have what you sought?"

"Can I stay with you?" You ask without hesitation. The implication of your question makes you flush with your own embarrassment, so you hold up the tome as defense, "I mean - uh, this book is so old! And I don't want to risk damaging it. Better if I read it here, right?"

Satan, with a knowing smile and demon strength, wraps an arm around your waist and drags you to sit in his lap. He encourages you to lean into him, back pressed firmly to his chest as he makes himself comfortable, "Yes. Stay."

Fire rushes to your face and to your core. His room always smells of books, a blend of fresh ink on virgin paper and the irreplicable vintages of pages older than time itself. Now Satan's scent comes into the fore; notes of amber, rose, and cedar from his cologne, the simple yet clean smell of detergent that clings to his shirt - it's intoxicating.

You shove the insane notion that you're turned on merely by his scent away. Even if arousal is building between your thighs, you try to distract yourself with the reason you came here in the first place. Finding the chapter you need, you begin the harrowing ordeal of reading about shadow saffron.

But you can't settle down; the author's writing is dry, the pulsing need you feel is becoming uncomfortable, leaving you to fidget in Satan's lap.

The arm around your waist tightens, "Stay still."

"I'm sorry, I just need to adjust--," You sheepishly answer, going to stand up.

Satan's hand shifts lower, fingers splayed across your lower stomach as he stops you. Within a second, he pulls you back to his lap and onto his hardening cock that strains against the confines of his jeans.

"Stay. Still." He warns, his hand now caressing your thigh.

Your voice is caught in your throat, brain short-circuiting at how quickly the situation has changed. It is not unwelcome - Satan's hand is warm as he guides your legs apart. Teasing fingers run along your inner thigh, always stopping shy of your core.

The tome is clutched to your chest, your only anchor to the real world as Satan decides to take you on a fantastical adventure.

"The princess whines under the delicate touch of her knight. He's been her faithful servant, her ardent protector, always carefully watching. His love for her has transcended his role; the city could burn down around him; all he needed was her."

His breath tickles your ear as he reads from the book perched in his free hand. Has he been reading Amour Courtois smut this entire time?

Satan's hand undoes the button on your pants, "He always told himself that he would never let it get to this point. No knight could ever marry a lady of her status; it was pointless to want for something so clearly forbidden."

You softly whine when his hand slips past the hem of your panties, gathering your growing wetness on his fingers as he leisurely drags them across your slit.

"Yet here she was, bare on the bed of the inn, proclaiming her own devotion and need for him. As his fingers made quick work of her clit, he began to palm himself through his own pants. Love that borders on possession is as dangerous as it is arousing; it is damning for them both."

Two fingers easily slide into your cunt, and you have to bite your lip to keep your moan from ringing out. Satan presses a reassuring kiss to your temple.

"Still, he can't help the growing need to own her completely like she owns him. Commanding a princess would surely mean his head, but still, it slips off his tongue: "Only I get to touch you like this, okay?"

•••✦ ❤ ✦••• Submit A Request | Read on AO3 •••✦ ❤ ✦•••

A/N: I based Satan's scent off of this cologne that I keep meaning to buy 👀

#fullofbeeswrite #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me satan smut #obey me smut #obey me satan x reader #obey me satan x mc

129 notes · View notes

the-goddess-of-mischief-writing · 9 months

Text

Phantom pain

Summary; Price said he would be back before Christmas, but you didn't think it would be like this.

Pairing: Cpt. John Price x reader (sunshine!universe)

Rating: Mature

CHAPTER NO/ONESHOT: Onehsot

Word; 9k

Warnings; angst, injury, copious amount of fluff

Author; @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing

A/N: Surprise update everyone! I've been feeling so festive this year, there's so much snow and everything's just so cosy, so this chapter comes as a little hurt to feel-good thing on the third of advent. If you don't celebrate Christmas or don't like the festive period, I simply hope that you have a great December nonetheless��

SUNSHINE UNIVERSE MASTERLIST

It had been a slow morning. Despite snow greeting you on the ground and in the air, you'd felt warm huddled in your jacket and the thought of cosying into one of the plush armchairs at your coffee shop. It had been serene; not many ventured outside in this weather. Yet, you'd smiled behind the lapel of your jacket when something other than cloudy skies and rain doused everything in a hue of grey.

You'd been in such a good mood that when you returned home with some pastries to go, saffron and caramel the main components in the golden danishes and tarts, you started a deep cleaning of your flat.

With the least Christmasy of Christmas songs playing from your speakers, you put up some festive lights, the warm glow softening every hard edge.

Although, while you're balancing on your stool, using some double-sided sticky tape to fasten a string of light behind your curtains, the music from your speakers is cut off by your phone ringing. You didn't think twice about heading to your phone, believing it was Marissa or one of your other friends. Yet, you stall when spotting the caller I.D. lighting up your screen.

Two weeks. John said his deployment would last two weeks. Of course, you would've been happy if he returned home earlier on any other occasion. But something made your stomach twist and your brows furrow when John now was calling less than a week and a half after he left.

"John?" You ask tentatively after answering the call and putting it on speaker.

"Sorry, lass, probably not the John ya wanted". Your heart fucking drops, your face falling in record time when it's a Scottish accent and not the easily recognisable British variant greeting you.

"J-Johnny?" Your voice breaks halfway through, unable not to. Even tears managed to well in the short seconds you realise what this call might be.

"Hey, easy, Price is alive and kickin'-"

"Oh god", you choke out the words, dropping to the couch behind you as you'd remained standing since you answered, for some reason. The tears that collected in the corner of your eyes trail down your cheeks upon your eyes shutting, more so from the sudden burst of relief than the fear that brought them.

"Fuck, you scared me, Johnny".

"Should've started with that", he excuses with a slight, strained chuckle before he clears his throat. "But... still callin' for a reason".

"Yeah, gathered that much", you return, wiping away your tears with your shirt sleeve.

"Captain got downed durin' the mission, nasty shot in the shoulder".

"What?" Your motion stills when you register what Johnny said, gaze falling to stare at the call-time ticking away tauntingly slow.

"Last time I saw him, he was in the infirmary and had just returned from a quick surgery".

"But is he alright?" You bring your phone closer to your face as if it somehow would make Johnny feel how you pressed for an answer.

"Huffin' and groanin' 'bout it but fine otherwise. He wanted me to call ya, knowin' the pain-meds he was forced to take wouldn't help him give good 'nough explanation of things".

"Okay, okay", you mumble. He's alive. Hurt but alive.

"He'll need to stay a while. But ya can come to see him if ya want".

"I can?"

"'Course, we'll be able to get ya a visitin' pass".

"Oh, thank you, Johnny", you breathe out.

"Nothin' to thank, lass. Can't stand the Captain's grousin' anymore". You chuckle half-heartedly at that. "I'll send you the details 'bout the visit and some information that's needed".

"Yes, yes, absolutely". You nodded along even if the Scot couldn't see the motion. "Send it over, and I'll fill out whatever's needed".

You don't know how much of a shit show things had turned into for them to return home early. Although, it must have been bad if not only John didn't go unharmed from it, but even Johnny seemed to have seen better days.

It was hard not to notice his roughened-up look when he met you by the army base's outer perimeter about two hours later. There were a few cuts and bruises littering his face, and even though the Scot didn't hesitate to bring you into a comforting hug as you jumped out of your car, you noted the slight wince he waved off as a 'bruised everything'.

Even if you'd been shaken after ending the call with Johnny, you attempted to calm down, telling yourself 'John's fine' before leaving your flat. Yet, those nerves flared right up when you entered the small visitors' centre beside the road. Thankfully, the very man who'd given you the news of John seemed to notice that the military surroundings were vastly unfamiliar and unnerving for someone not used to them, especially considering why you were here.

Johnny kept close the entire time, helping you with the needed papers for the visitor's pass by pointing to where your signature was required, even if he talked familiarly with the armed guards all the while.

You took deep breaths to steady yourself numerous times, feeling the Scot's attention fall on you each time he noted the same unease he previously only caught over the phone. You knew you weren't succeeding in hiding your nerves. Nevertheless, between being in a strongly off-limits zone for usual civilians and the fact you wouldn't be here if John wasn't in a hospital bed, you don't think Johnny or any of the other soldiers blamed you for it.

When everything was finally signed and read through, Johnny scribbled his signature on the dotted line beside yours on the last page.

With the I.D. around your neck, you exited the smaller building and jumped into your car again, only now the Scot hitched a ride back with you.

Your fingers rapped against the steering wheel once you were let through the gates and rolled forwards, teeth worrying your lower lip, eyes trained on the main compound further ahead.

"Lass", your eyes had swiftly adverted to Johnny, noticing his eyes shifting to your hands. You stopped with a tight lipped smile, your gaze having adverted forward again. "Price is roughened up but fine. He's been through much worse".

"I know", you sighed, having to hold yourself from going back to biting your lip. You'd seen John's scars, some on worryingly critical places on his abdomen. "But I haven't been there to see that...", you mumbled, eyes fixed on the parking lot ahead.

You and Soap didn't share much chatter as you parked, nor more than needed as he guided you through the building closest to the parking lot. However, he offered a reassuring squeeze of your shoulder when he saw you hesitate in the elevator upon reaching the medical wing.

A327. That was the room John apparently was in.

You looked at each door you passed, waiting for the right one.

324. 325. 326.

Your heart thudded hard in your chest as you finally reached 327.

With hands intertwining hands, fingers wringing each other, you merely stand rooted before the door. All of a sudden hesitant to step inside.

"He's gonna be fine, lass". Johnny's comment makes you look up at him. A gentler smile than usual meets you, causing you to release the breath you didn't know you held as you nod. "Let's get ya to meet him". The Scot gives you an encouraging smile as he opens the door, motioning for you to enter.

John's already facing your way when you step into the room that nearly shines white and beige. But your gaze only briefly meets his before it drops, flittering over his form.

He rests beneath multiple blankets that reach his stomach, his upper body clad in a soft white t-shirt that doesn't look like his own. Your jaw clenches when you spot his arm in a sling, stabilising it against his chest. As your eyes trail further upwards, a distressed sound bubbles up in your throat upon spotting the bandages peeking from beneath the left sleeve.

"John-", you don't manage to say anything more before you stutter to a stop, chest heaving on a sharp inhale.

"C'mere, love", his voice is hoarse, strained, barely more than a grating sound, but you move forward as on command.

You can't help how your mouth purses at how tired he looks, the hint of pain in his eyes so evident when you stop beside the bed.

"M'fine", John raises the arm of his healthy side, even so, he winces, eyes shutting tightly for a brief moment before they open again.

"Don't lie, I see that you're not", you murmur as you take hold of the hand that tried to reach your face, allowing his upper arm to drop and rest along the bed, instead meeting him halfway by bending down to kiss his knuckles.

John exhales deeply, eyelids fluttering close, the crease between his brows never smoothening. God, it hurts to see him like this.

You step closer, the side of the bed pressing into your thigh, planting a kiss at the very centre of the furrow. When you look down at John again, his features have softened, but his eyes still have a troubled look when that blue gaze meets yours.

"I'll leave ya two to it". You look over your shoulder, sending Johnny a look of gratitude.

"Thank you, Soap", John says. The Scot only nods in return, giving you a last look before he exits.

Once you're alone with John, you exhale almost painfully before gazing down at him.

"You don't know how scared I got when Johnny called", you admit. This time, John pulls your hand rather than face towards him, tipping his head forward to plant a firm kiss against your knuckles. "Thought-"

"Sit down, love". Upon catching your distress, John pats the side of his bed with a gentle voice. Although his attempt does little to ease your nerves, seeing how the slight move of his legs sideways to give you space only makes his features twist.

"Not a chance", you protest with a shake of your head, fearful of accidentally hurting him more. Instead, you glance around the room, finding a pair of chairs along the wall.

John doesn't hold you back as you release him and move towards them, but you guess it's more because he can't then don't want to.

You pull the chair along and put it as close to the hospital bed as possible, not hesitating to lean over the low metal railing at the side to hold John's hand again after sitting down, your other hand settling on his forearm, rubbing soothing motions.

You gaze up at the blue-eyed man, those pretty eyes of his duller than usual, exhaustion shining in its own faded might. His brown hair is one of the few darker accents in the room; the screen of the heartbeat monitor is the other source. Yet, it's matted, fallen to its own will against his forehead rather than styled into something casual by his fingers running through it and pushing it backwards.

Leaning forwards, your card your hand through John's hair, not nearly correcting it to how he usually does, but better nonetheless.

Your gaze flitters to meet his when you settle back in your seat, noting the smile adorning his lips.

"Happy to see you again, love". Not daring to test your voice, you kiss his knuckles in return. This time, you're positioned low enough that John's hand goes to cup your face when you lean away again, brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek. "Even if it could've been under better circumstances".

You don't notice it until John's thumb paints a streak of wetness over your skin, but he redirects a stray tear rather than letting it follow its natural path.

"You're here. That's what matters". You squeeze John's wrist, leaning away to wipe your cheeks yourself, offering him a smile with a breathed chuckle.

"Was never not close to return". John wraps his hand over yours, letting them drop to the bed as he reflects your smile. "Shoddy shot whoever they were, used a handgun in close combat and still missed the brachial artery and brachial plexus", John releases one of those huff-chuckles of his. You shake your head, having no idea what difference it would make if whoever shot him hadn't missed those points, only that it probably would've been a lot worse.

"What- what went wrong?" Your gaze flickers to his injured side.

A heaved sigh escapes him before he speaks.

"Mission was bumpy from the start but went fine". You knew he let confidential details out, but you didn’t want to know anything apart from what happened to him. "Needed to wait out exfil in an abandoned buildin'. Remained remarkably silent until we got the call to move to the pick-up point. Got ambushed, absolute shitshow". He shakes his head with a grunt.

"How's the others?" You'd seen two of the four men, though Ghost and Kyle's absence suddenly irked you upon hearing what John told you.

"Bruised but none too badly". John ran his thumb over your hand. A low, partly amused, partly exasperated huff escaped him as he continued. "My turn to take the brunt for the team, it seemed".

Even if you could've wished for a better outcome for John, at least none of the others had gotten off worse.

You suck your lower lip between your teeth as you really try to take in his state, trying, only try again to find your words. Seeing John like this almost feels wrong.

You'd witnessed his soft side, but this wasn't soft. This is hurt. He wasn't sluggish as when you managed to keep him in bed rather than rise with the birds on the occasional weekend. This was exhaustion, one he tried to hide, but the lines on his face exposed nonetheless.

Barely anything could've pulled your attention from John as you tried to find your words, any consolidation that wouldn't sound like pity. And yet, when a knock sounded from the door, soon after swinging open, both your and John's eyes are pulled to the entrance.

When you spit the woman striding into the room, your brows jump up.

"Kate? Didn't think you would be here". Upon noticing you sitting by John's side, the American woman stalled, the computer beneath her arm pulled in front of her.

"I was involved in the mission the boys went on". She juts her chin towards the man at your side. "Mind if I speak to him?" Her tone wasn't stern, nothing hinting at malice or desire to break you and John up. Still, it didn't really sound like she asked.

You looked from Kate to John, not really stunned compared to feeling how a bubble unexpectedly broke. "Oh, yes, of course, I'll wait outside".

Considering how neither stopped you as you stood, John only squeezing your hand before letting go, you took it as an affirmation this wasn't a conversation you had any clearance to be present for and that one way or another would've happened either way.

Even so, Kate offers you a kind smile as you pass her on the way out. Yet, you note the blonde woman's features looked tighter than on the night of the party, without a doubt due to the predicament making John end up in a hospital bed.

When the door falls shut behind you, you lean against the wall just to the left of the entrance. It's silent to a degree you would guess the room John's in is semi, if not entirely, sound-proofed. Considering it isn't an emergency wing, you wouldn't disregard the possibility.

You sigh, eyes falling close. What a fucking day.

You don't know how long you stand like that, but you're only dragged out from whatever trance you entered once you catch the elevator stopping on your floor and the steps coming closer soon after. Considering you'd anticipated a nurse or the like, your brows rise when the pristinely white surroundings suddenly stand in stark contrast to the person dressed in dark army clothing.

"Heard from Soap you would be around". You smile as you push off the wall, meeting Kyle as he closes the distance between you. "How are you holding up?" The question brushes past your shoulder as he brings you in for a hug before keeping you within arm's distance, studying what must be your tired features.

"As good as can be". You smile in return. The young Brit rubs your upper arms reassuringly as he nods, seeming content with your answer as his arms drop to his sides. "You here to visit John?"

"I was, got some gaps in my schedule", Kyle confirms before cocking his head. "But I guess I'll have to wait, considering you're not there with him".

”Kate is paying him a visit”. He looks at the door with a furrowed brow before his attention tracks back to you and it smoothens. ”If you wanna greet him, maybe you have enough authority to”. Kyle only shakes his head.

”If Laswell wanted to talk to him first, there’s a reason. The rest of us will know in due time. Hopefully, he ain't such a grouse by then”. He shrugs, and you can't stop your laugh. This time, it's not half-hearted nor forced.

"All of you laying it on thick about how grumpy he is".

"He isn't such a charmer when things don't go his way and he isn't surrounded by pretty faces". You swat Kyle on the arm as he sends you a look. "Only telling you the truth, not all of us get special treatment".

"Yeah, yeah, alright", he nudges your shoulder with his knuckles before stepping backwards.

"Send the Cap'n my regards, have to be on my way".

"Will do. Have a good day, Kyle". He gives you a nod of goodbye in return as he turns on his heel, heading back to the elevator he came from a few minutes ago. You offer him a last wave before the door closes.

Alone again, you look at the clock on the wall. But, considering you have no recollection of when you exited the room, you can't tell how much time has passed since Kate arrived, only guessing it must be at least a dozen.

You scan the corridor, finding sporadic rows of chairs along the wall, similar to the ones in John's room. Not knowing how long John and Kate's unofficial meeting would continue, you move to one of the seats across from where you'd stood, fishing up your phone to make time pass faster as you sit down.

Taking note this time, you know another ten minutes have passed before the door opposite you opens and pulls your eyes from your screen.

You slip your phone into your pocket as you push up from the seat and head towards Kate, Even though she’s keeping the door open with one hand on the handle, you barely catch the end of John's sentence before it ends.

Just as you reach her side, Kate's attention trails from John to you, giving you space to enter by stepping out of the room. Flashing her a brief smile, you move forward but suddenly gets halted when her hand slips around your upper arm.

"It's good to see the Captain's got someone with him", her voice is lowered, only for you to catch.

Your lips tug upwards in a genuine smile. Without really knowing how to answer that, you offer Kate a nod and a small 'thank you' in return.

The smile she reciprocates with is much less strained this time around. "Take care of him now".

"I will". And with that, she nods goodbye, heading down the hallway while you re-enter the room.

"Spoke with Kyle". You begin while closing the door behind you. "He says hello". You forward his message to avoid forgetting.

When your eyes fall upon John, whom you barely catch an answer from, at least not more than a hum, you notice how he's sunken deeper into the bed.

"You tired?" You retake your place in the armchair as he hums again. As John scoots closer to your side and stretches his hand towards you, you settle your elbow on the bed and intertwine your hands again.

"Laswell was worried, wanted to check in and inform me some things that needed finishin' could wait". The pauses between his words were prolonged, and the pronunciation drawled as he briefed you on his conversation with Kate. "Should finish them, though", he grunted, trying to sit up straight against the pillows, but you settled a hand on his stomach.

"You need to rest, John. If Kate said things could wait, trust her". He stilled, looking back at you with slow, almost drowsy blinks.

"Fine", he agreed, settling into the bed again.

As he sighed, eyes fluttering close, you felt something bleed from your body, making your upper body relax forwards, head settling on the verge between John’s hip and his lower stomach. Feeling the weight, his eyes flutter open, head tilting forward as he gazes at you.

"Mm, talk to me, love, what you've been up to".

"Not much, really. I worked and met up with some friends. Oh, Marissa and I went on a little investment spree for Christmas".

"Investment?" John humours in a low voice, the twitch in his mouth unable to pull his lips into a complete smile compared to only tilting the edges upwards.

"If they're going to be reused yearly, that's an investment". He chuckles deeply, and you release a chuckle of your own.

You continue talking about what you've done in the week and a half you've been apart. Some Christmas baking, putting up decorations as of today, noting how most things out of the ordinary related to the holiday season.

Gradually, you notice how John's eyes fall close. Even so, he's still invested in the conversation with few-worded responses. But even those soon become nods and hums when his hand relaxes in yours. As you move to gently trail your fingers up and down his forearm, all while continuing to talk, the soothing motions make him heave a sigh.

Soon enough, the only sounds he lets out are the breaths escaping his parted lips, his softened breathing followed by the rhythmic movement of his chest.

You trail off in your sentence with a small smile, watching John's sleeping features. No furrow pulls his brows together, no involuntary twinge in his features letting on his pain. He looks at ease, and it finally settles your nerves as well.

In stark contrast to how you notice John's consciousness slipping, you don't detect yours slowly doing the same.

Your movements up and down his skin slowly grow shorter, from trailing between his wrist to the crook in his arm to only rubbing the spot your hand eventually stills on. The tension in your neck releases from the claws of whatever emotions had built throughout the tumultuous day, your head feeling heavier as it rests against his stomach. There's a fine line between when your blinking turns from slow to prolonged, even slimmer to when you can pinpoint your last conscious thought.

You're not the first to wake up. John's the one who stirs when a knock sounds from the door.

If not for the pain in his shoulder, despite being suppressed, he wouldn't blink his eyes so blearily and feel his mind sluggishly awake compared to what's expected of someone like him. Even so, his senses are sharper than yours as he notes your form slumped over the bed and your head resting on him, serene features remaining much like your steady breaths bleeding through the blankets.

His eyes trails to the door, releasing a low sound that must have sounded like a grunt to whoever was on the other side, but he couldn't care. The door swings open, Soap stepping through it much like he'd done a few hours earlier, but then with you by his side.

Now, the Sctosman closes the door behind him gently upon noting your sleeping form before his attention settles on John.

As Soap steps further into the room, John's eyes flit down to your sleeping form before rising again. With a swift look at the clock, he knows what the Sergeant is probably here for. He softly settles his hand upon your head.

You don’t remember falling asleep, only that John did, so when you’re roused from a dreamless nap by a hand cradling your scalp, you feel groggy when sitting up straight all too suddenly.

You blink repeatedly as your vision focuses again, finding John looking at you, his hand sliding down to the back of your head and down your arm.

"Sleep well?"

"Mhm". You roll your head, twitching at the twinge in your neck from your not-so-ergonomic sleeping position.

"Not the comfiest spot for ya". The Scottish accent catches you off-guard, as last you checked, only you and John were in the room.

You turn around, spotting the very Scot who'd spoken. "Oh, hi, Johnny".

"Hey, lass", he chuckles in return. "Just came ’bout to inform ya there’s a room waitin' if ya want to stay the night".

Your brows lift, eyes shifting to John, who's already watching you. "You don’t need to. I’ll be holed up here either way".

"It will just be less travel tomorrow", you shrug, turning back to Soap as you confirm you'll stay.

"Come on then, lass, visitin' hours are over soon". He opened the door slightly as he spoke, showing you he would guide you to your room for the night. You nodded, shifting out of your seat to stand, not without looking down at John.

"Go, get some proper sleep", he nudges your hip. You give him a brief smile before bending down, pressing your lips against his. They're chapped, but their plush warmth is soft. As you part from him, you mumble a 'goodnight' against him, an equally low 'goodnight, love' murmured against your lips, warming you further before you pull away.

You place the chair back where it's meant before fetching your things from beside the bed and offer John a last parting smile and a 'see you tomorrow'.

Just before you pass through the door, you look back at John, offering him a small wave, one he answers with a warm smile.

"You really turn the Captain into a love-sick man", Johnny's comment comes seconds after the door closes. You turn to him, seeing the amused look he sends you.

"Oh, shut up". You swat Johnny's arm, making him bark out a chuckle.

"Ain't nothin' bad, lass", he mused, nudging you back with his elbow.

The Scotsman lead you to another part of the compound, a freestanding building just across the one you exited, at the other side of the parking lot.

It had begun snowing. Fat constellations of powdery white fall through the air as you trudge through what's already covering the ground. You flick up the lapel of your coat, burrowing your nose in the fabric as you protect your eyes from the snowflakes desiring to stick to your lashes.

When you entere the building you'd been heading toward, the warmth inside was a welcoming change, and you shrug away the snow that had yet to melt into the dark fabric enveloping you.

This time around, there was no need to sign papers as upon your arrival, Johnny simply led you straight to the room appointed for you, handing you the key when stopping outside the door. As you entered, you were surprised, not knowing what you'd anticipated, but certainly not a space similar to a hotel room.

A low whistle pulls your eyes to Johnny. "Aye, not bad", his eyes rove over the room before settling on you.

"Much better than I thought", you agree, stepping inside, shrugging the bag off your shoulder, and simply putting it on the floor.

"Didn't think we would put ya in the barracks, did ya?"

"Never experienced military hospitality before, but didn't expect much", you shrug, smiling in return as you turn to face him.

He shakes his head. "That's the thanks", he quips, yet his grin deceives him. "I'll see ya in the mornin', lass".

"Johnny!" He halts in the step he'd begun to take, watching you with raised brows. "Just, thank you for... everything today". His fingers rap against the door handle as he shifts the weight on his feet.

"Knew it probably would be tough for ya and that Price probably hadn’t even thought ‘bout having ya visit here yet. S’jus' wanted to make it as smooth as possible for the both of ya. Know he would've done the same for the rest of us", he shrugs with a gentle smile. Johnny's consideration warming your heart.

"Thank you, really".

The side of his mouth bows upwards. "Ya are welcome". And with that, he closes the door.

***

When you wake up in an unfamiliar room, remembering where you are takes a few seconds. Then it comes rushing back as you see the visiting pass on the bedside table. Johnny’s phone call. John’s injury. The military base.

You sit up with a jawn, peeking out the room's sole window.

It’s utterly white outside, with no cloud in the sky as the sun just about peeks over the horizon, suggesting today will be considerably colder than yesterday.

Slipping from bed, you’re quick to dress yourself. The t-shirt you slept in gets stuffed into your handbag as you only shrug on the hoodie from yesterday, slipping into your pants not soon after.

You move to the bathroom, lamenting the lack of anything to freshen up. Even so, you splash your face with water, trying to tame your hair before sighing heavily, simply fetching the hair-tie you’d remembered to take off your wrist before bed.

Moving around the room, you remember the package of gum you’d thrown into your bag a few days ago, hoping you hadn’t chewed through the whole package when it would ease your mind about morning breath.

You rummage through your bag, cursing what yesterday didn't feel like a lot of stuff, but now does as you search for what you need.

A swift two-rap knock echoes from the door just as a triumphant sound escapes you when you spot the silvery package. Popping a gum into your mouth, you move towards the entrance, not surprised to find Johnny on the other side as you swing it open.

”Good morning”.

Johnny cocks his head as you smile at him before he splits into his own grin. ”Ya seem cheery this mornin’.”

”Seeing that John’s doing good helped me sleep better”, you shrug, catching a hum from him as you turn around to collect your stuff around the room. ”And then the bed was surprisingly good”.

”These ones are heaven in comparison to those in the barracks”.

”Yeah?” You turn towards the Scot standing with his hands behind his back, waiting at the doorstep.

“Aye, happy to not be rookie anymore”.

”Understandable”, you chuckle as you and Johnny step out into the hallway before tracking the same path you’d done yesterday. You could’ve done it yourself but had an inkling that you couldn’t move freely on the base.

”So you’re my guide while I’m here?” Blue eyes flicker down to you as he lets you pass out the door to the courtyard first.

It’s indeed colder today than yesterday, the chill biting your cheeks.

”Aye. Concernin’ Price was bed-bound; I needed to sign those papers in his stead”.

”And you don’t have better things to do?”

”L.T. gave me five minutes to spare”.

”From what?” The snow crunches beneath your shoes.

”Whatever drill he set up to run us into the ground”. You let out a surprised laugh at that, making the Scot grin. ”Yaself then, lass, goin’ to keep an eye out on the Captain for us when he leaves?”

Your eyes widen, switching to look at Johnny once evading an ice-spot as you cross the parking lot. ”He’s cleared to go home?”

”Haven't got any confirmation on it. But he's got no vital injury and has stayed close to two days, so it’s probable he’ll get to go home”, he shrugs.

The warmth rushes against your face as you enter the main building, much like yesterday, taking a right towards the medical wing.

”Feel like I’ll need to. Otherwise, he’ll stress the injury”.

”Wouldn’t be the first time any of us did that”. Johnny rubbed his neck as you raised your brows at him. He positioned himself opposite you as you stepped into the elevator, giving you a sheepish shrug. ”Comes with the job sometimes despite medical leaves”, the Scot excused the habit, only making you roll your eyes with a disbelieving huff.

”Then I’ll definitely have to ensure he takes it easy”. The doors close, and the elevator smoothly rises.

”Price won’t be able to say no to ya, never has since he met ya”. When your head dips into a shake this time, a smile adorns your lips that you try to hide. Even so, the Scot slung his arm around your shoulders with a laugh as you exited the elevator upon its chime and the doors opening.

The walk to John’s room seems much shorter than yesterday, without a doubt, because you know of his stable state. So when Johnny drops his arms from your shoulders, it’s not with bathed breath you open the door.

Unlike yesterday, your eyes don’t lock with John’s the second you enter the room designated to him. His gaze remains cast downwards on the tablet in his lap, even if his head tilts your way to show he noted someone had entered. Not until the Scot behind you offers a ’Mornin’ Captain’ does the man in the bed look up.

”What was that about makin’ him take it easy?” Johnny chuckles lowly, making you send him a look before he departs with a mock salute. You only shake your head at the man before entering the room.

”Aren’t you meant to take it easy?” You watch John with a raised brow, catching how the door slides close behind you while you slip out of your coat.

”I am”.

”Let me rephrase”, you chide him with a smile. ”Shouldn’t you relax, no work?” You move to the side of his bed with one of the chairs dragged along behind you.

”I-

”Don’t say that you are John. I know that look on your face”, you remark with a finger towards the easing purse of his lips and the furrow between his brows that’s not brought on entirely by pain like yesterday.

He sighs heavily, a locking sound coming from the tablet as he drops it screen-down in his lap. ”You’re right”.

”I know I am”. John releases a huff of laughter through his nose at your comment, softening your smile. ”Did you sleep well?”

He hums. ”Woke a few times ’cause of this-”. He jerked his head to his shoulder. ”Bed probably goin’ to set off my back”, he scoffed in annoyance at having to deal with the twinge in the lower part of his spine that you’d learnt most often came and went more frequently after he returned from a deployment or a bad mattress.

You hum, leaning forward to card your fingers through his hair that had fallen across his forehead after his previous jerky movement. While you do, you catch John returning the question, but your answer is an undeveloped ’good’, all your attention upon the locks your fingers card through.

His hair feels matted, and when your eyes briefly flicker over his face, you note his beard is untamed, not grizzly, but it’s lost the shine it usually always has.

”When was the last time you showered?”

”That's your way of tellin’ me I smell?” Your nose scrunches, hand falling to rest on the metal railing as your gaze locks with John’s amused one.

”No, at least that wasn’t what I was getting at”.

A chuckle precedes the more serious answer you get. ”About a week ago at the last safe-house, haven’t been able to have one after returnin’. Can’t wet the bandages”. You purse your lips, gaze momentarily switching to his shoulder before trailing back.

”How long before you can take them off?”

”The Doc visited before you came around and said I’m clear to leave, but the bandages needed to stay on until tomorrow”.

You nod. ”Johnny betted you would be able to go home today”.

”We know how these thing goes. Instructions about wound care, then sent off on med-leave before even attempting to come back and get shot at again”.

”Jesus, John”, you let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head. When you raise it again, there’s a slight tug in the corner of his mouth and a knowing, truthful, look in his eyes. "Better we get you home and start the arduous wait, then." You offered him a smile and a raise of your brows, silently wondering if he was ready to pack up.

"Can't wait".

It wasn't a hassle to get John out of bed. He groaned and gruffed to himself as he pushed himself upright with your hand steadying him on his back, but that was about it. As he rose from the bed, you helped him into his boots and gently slung the jacket draped over his duffel-bag on the other side of his bed.

You'd sent him a look when he'd noted you of the bag's presence, remembering it wasn't there yesterday, to which he only explained Kyle got around and dropped off his things just after the Doctor had visited.

Although standard issued and didn't seem too heavy once you made the proposition to carry it instead of him, you cursed in disbelief when slinging it over your shoulder, not anticipating its weight. It had given John a good laugh before offering to take it regardless. However, you remained stubborn, motioning for him to take the lead out of the room with a 'you don't know how heavy our purses can be sometimes'.

But you don't enjoy a second of it as you trudge through the building; you more than John slowing the tempo. He catches you grumbling under your breath numerous times about what he's got in there, falling back to walk beside you once you reach the parking lot, mentioning he doesn’t desire looking back and find you toppled over in a heap of snow. He'd gotten another glare upon that comment.

You'd thought the drive home to John's would've been less arduous, but you'd found yourself unable to relax just as much, but for entirely different reasons.

With each turn of the car, you noticed how John braced his feet against the floor so as not to move in his seat, his free hand slipping beneath the seat belt to keep it from digging into his injury at times.

The way he acted made you all the more cautious in your driving, even picking routes that had more straight for his sake. You knew John noticed when you didn't take the usual right about halfway through the drive by the glance in your direction.

By the time you pulled into his driveway, the sky had darkened, and snow had started falling, making your and John's retreat into the house from the car hasty. Nonetheless, he managed to escape the weather that was worsening by the second much quicker compared to you as you fetched his bag from the booth.

You don't take more than a few steps into the foyer before you slip John's bag to the floor. When the pressure of the straps disappears, you sigh in relief.

John's chuckle makes you send him a glare. However, it melts away when your gaze finds the absolute disarray of his hair, now a combination of dirty and wet from the snow.

"Come one, I'll help you freshen up". You say, closing the door behind you, shielding you from the chilling cold.

"No need, love". You send him a look over your shoulder as you take off your coat, finding John stepping out of his barely laced boots.

"Why? You always have a shower when you get home?"

"If you have forgotten, can't get this wet for a day more". John nods to his shoulder as he faces you. "Can just wait 'till tomorrow".

Your brows furrow, and your hand falls to your hip while hanging up your coat. "John, I know how religious you are about your routine once you come home. There is no need to skip it just because you can't do it yourself when I simply can help".

You see his resolve falter somewhat as he regards you. "You don't mind?"

"Not at all", you shake your head. "Wouldn't mind a hot shower to warm up in this cold house of yours". A smile tugs in the corner of your lip when you end the sentence with an exaggerated wink.

It makes John chuckle as he shakes his head before those blue eyes rise to follow you when you approach. "Don't think I could supply that need now".

"Out of us two, I'm the one who can go a bit without being dicked-down". You kiss John's cheek as you slide the jacket from his shoulder, catching the harsh sigh as you wander to hang up his piece of clothing beside yours.

"That a challenge?" He hums as his un-injured arm sneaks around your waist as you finish your task, gently turning you around to pull you towards him. "Besides, I got other ways to satisfy you".

"Oh, I know". You give John a softer look as your hand slides down his forearm before gripping his hand, moving it to hang beside your bodies. "But let's listen to the doctor for now and let you heal up first". You offer him a smile as you back away and head into the house, John letting himself be led by you as you steer towards the stairs.

Not until you've reached his bedroom do you let go of his hand, ushering him to the bathroom as you move to his dresser. You swiftly dig through it for a new pair of pants, opting not to bring a shirt, believing neither of you could bother the hassle of attempting to put it on.

"Strip", you wave your finger towards John as you step over the threshold to join him in the en suite.

"Thought Doc's orders applied". You catch the smugness in his voice, sending him a humoured look, one he answers with a wink as he moves to sit down on the lid of the toilet. While John rid himself of the pants he'd gotten from the hospital, you place his own pair on the sink.

While he kicks them aside, your attention falls on the white shirt still covering his upper body. A furrow enters your brows, lips pursing. It would be challenge to take it off even if you helped him, being an uncomfortable and possibly painful process no doubt.

"Just cut it off". Your eyes meet John's, checking if you heard him right. With his head falling sideways in a nod, you move to the sink drawer to fetch the scissors, silently agreeing it might just be the easiest thing to do.

Mindful of the sling and bandages, you rid John of the thin cotton shirt, leaving him in only his boxers briefs.

While you turn around to throw the strips of his shirt into the bin, John stands, moving around you toward the shower. By cocking your hip, you swiftly close the drawer after putting back the scissors.

As you turn to say something to John, you catch him stabilising himself on the edge of the sink, knees just about to bend. Realising what he is about to do, all your previous thoughts are promptly cut short.

”You’re not kneeling on the floor." John stalls in his movement, looking at you. If he says anything in return, you don't catch it as you're already on your way out of his room.

The spare bathroom, which was under renovation the first time you visited, has now been finished. But you remember the stool John had used was yet to be taken to the spare room downstairs. Although you'd reminded him about it every time you'd been over, now you were thankful as you could fetch it as something John could sit on rather than the floor.

With a slight shuffling step, you bring the stool along with you and to where John waits, leaning against the sink, his eyes finding you the second you're visible through the open door of his en suite.

"Sit”, you motion to the stool you brought once John had moved to the side and let you set it down inside the shower's glass doors. A slight tug that doesn't evolve into a smile is present at the edge of his mouth as he follows your command.

When John makes himself comfortable on the stool, you gently nudge the back of his head with your fingers, urging him to bow forward to make it easier for you. Even sitting down, he reaches your stomach.

Pushing up the sleeves of your hoodie, you turn on the tap, testing the water steadily flowing from the showerhead on your hand. When finally finding the perfect temperature, you keep the stream gentle so as not to splash the bandages covering his left arm but rather trickle forward and down to the floor.

Small groans of appreciation escape John as you wash his hair, fingers running over his scalp to wet every single strand before setting down the showerhead and massaging some shampoo over his head. Earthy and clean scents fill the warm air as it steams every reflective surface inside the bathroom.

You do a double cleanse, not because you think John needs it, but because he seems to enjoy the gentle pressure off your fingers as they run up and down his scalp.

After washing away the last sudds, you take a towel from the rack and cover his head. Your laughter fills the air as you hear the huff of amusement from beneath the fabric draped over him as you attempt to dry his hair as much as possible by ruffling the fabric.

Ultimately, you slide the towel from his head, letting it hang around his neck to catch any stray droplets from reaching his shoulder. John turns towards you upon having his vision uncovered again, and you instinctively step closer when he does, inspecting his face.

”I don’t trust myself trimming your beard”, you card your fingers through the brown strands on his cheek. A low huff pulls your eyes to the blue ones steadily watching you.

”Can do that myself in a day or two. You’ve done plenty enough, love”. John’s about to stand, but your hand softly settles on his healthy shoulder.

”I only said I don’t want to go near the best part of you with scissors”.

”The best part, eh?” He pinches the back of your lower thigh, a squeak slipping out of you as you bat his hand away with a lower lip curled between your teeth.

”Don’t bite the hand that feeds you”, you chide with an evolving smile.

You catch John’s chuckle as you switch your attention to the counter, eyeing his products as neatly lined up as usual and the set of your own products beside them. Stepping away to the sink and out of his reach, you grab one of the face towels from the stack he’d bought for you to always have at his place, along with the other products needed.

When you turn back, you set the things on the sink-edge beside you.

”Said I can’t shape it up, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make the most out of what I can do”.

”You pamperin’ me?” Your eyes flit sideways, meeting a blue gaze watching you with a tilted head.

”I’m taking care of you, John”, you corrected him as you turned to wet your hands beneath the tap and squirted some cleanser into your hands.

John doesn't respond, only remains quiet when you start coating his face in the milky substance, merely staring up at you for a few seconds before his eyes flutter close when you cock a brow down at him.

You gently rub away the invisible grime on his face, staying clear of his beard as you lather his face. Humming gently, you wipe away the suds after a few dozen seconds and continue with the beard shampoo.

You’d seen the man, who now lets his chest deflate with a content sigh as you easily angle his head backwards with a few fingers beneath his chin, do his beard-routine a few times. It wasn’t difficult to remember, and you’re happy you didn’t need to ask John and bring him out of the relaxed state he’d entered as you used one of the brushes to rub the product into his beard.

Using the opposite edge of the towel, you also dry off his beard.

You wash off the white foam from the brush as you discard the towel before coating his skin in your moisturiser, only to continue by dropping some oil into your palms before you settle them over his lower face, smoothening them over the strands.

As you shift to the sink again, you reach for his comb, only to find John’s eyes had fluttered open when you turn back.

Those blues of his are soft as you gently comb his facial hair with slow movements. His hand settles on the outside of your thigh when you pick up the beard balm, warming it between your palms. The vanilla white lotion softens and warms between your hands before you work it through his beard.

Slowly, John's hand moves to the back of your leg while fingers lightly start tracing the line of his beard and skin, both much smoother than previously.

The moment was soft, gazing at one another in silence, before you cupped John's cheek and bent down. A gentle smell of something nutty from John's beard invades your nose as you press your lips against his.

Even if you end up trading multiple kisses, the pauses never let you drift further away than for your lips to rush against one another.

John felt the last bit of tension leave his body. Something awfully soft had infiltrated his heart as you fussed around him, your hand leaving gentler touches than even the Doc had done when he’d returned from the field with his shot-up shoulder. He’d tried to ward off your help and doting, but now he realised he needed this.

He’s been on 24/7 for over a week. He’s run on less food than at home. Countless times, his mouth had watered when thinking about the roast you’d shared before his deployment. He’s run on minimal sleep for several days in a row, barely more than half asleep when given a moment of tranquillity and nowhere near as relaxed as when having you in his arms. He’d looked over his shoulder for more than double the amount, only to be hit by a bullet in the end anyway, coming home broken.

John pulls away, cupping one of the hands that rests on his cheek, turning to kiss your palm. But, when he gazes at you again, your brows draw together.

”Don’t”.

"I didn’t say anythin'"

You only shake your head. "I know what you’re thinking, and no, you're not a burden".

"But I'm a broken man at the moment, love. Just see how much you've needed to do today", he scoffs, letting go of your hand, letting his fall onto his lap. You stop John from turning his head to the side, away from you, instead forcing him to watch you.

You look down at the man who meets your gaze with an almost sorrowful look. "And you think that bothers me?"

"Why wouldn’t it? It’s not your responsibility. Should just not have gone about gettin’ shot-".

"Jonathan Price". The use of his government name shuts his grumbling right up, his eyes even widening the slightest bit. "What bothers me isn’t that you got shot. I know the dangers of your work. What does bother me is seeing you in pain".

"I appreciate it, but there’s no need for you to do all this, to care for me". His voice is softer, but you still shake your head.

"Yes, there is because I love you". You barely notice the weight of what you say, those three chosen words leaving your lips in a too-natural fashion to be the first time. But rather than reluctance preceding and nerves following them, there's a sense of them being long overdue in the first place.

"I hate how much it hurts seeing your pain, so it’s not that I need to do anything for you. I very much care because I want to, John".

Compared to a few moments ago when John wanted to turn away from you, now he can't take his eyes off you. Whatever murky emotion which clouded his eyes has lifted, those blues clearer than ever as he stares right back at you, lips slightly parted.

"I’ve said it before, but you're too good for me".

"They say you get what you deserve". You offer John a smile, and something just crumbles then.

"God, you don’t know how much I love you, darlin’".

Your chest swells, heart suddenly pumping much warmer blood through your body. "So let me take care of you now when you need it".

"I- of course", he breathes, voice remarkably thin to support his gravelly cords as he shuts his eyes tightly. John gives you a single nod instead of attempting to continue his sentence, and you lean down to press a kiss against his forehead.

His arm loops around your waist the best it can from his slumped forward angle, pulling you close so his head rests against your upper stomach. Despite his hair being wet, you card your fingers through it, kissing the top of his head, his warm exhalation warming your skin despite the thick sweater.

"Goin’ to be one hell of a Christmas". The first half of the sentence is mumbled into you, the second half clearer as John looks up at you again.

You hum, feeling how one of the strands at the back of his neck drips water onto your fingers. "I only see more of a reason to have a lazy day".

"Where you do everythin’".

"Hush, now you’ve allowed me to do the work for once". You twirl the hair at the nape of his neck, looking back into those blues.

"Still don’t want you workin’ yourself to death". He gives you an honest rather than pointed look.

"I should say that to you", you only muse lightly in return, not needing to avert your eyes to his bandages as they shine like a beacon in the corner of your vision. "And I reckon it’s going to be fine either way".

"M’sure”, his reply is hummed into the sparse space between your faces before your lips press against his in a fleeting kiss. Before you lean back and straighten, however, his hand cups the back of your neck. "Thank you for all of this, love".

"You know it’s nothing". Although John doesn’t answer as you step backwards, you don’t catch any guilt, no trace of the previous gloom in his gaze. He believes your words, the crows-feet at the edges of his eyes and smile-lines around his mouth further proof.

290 notes · View notes

nuitnotions · 1 month

Note

Just came across and your writing is impeccable 😩, I was wondering if you could please do Captain Price spending time with 5 of his daughters while mom is away for a girls vacation with her friends! I would like to imagine it would be chaotic as hell and he would not manage despite him being a SAS Captain😭

hi sweetness, this is incredibly kind of you!! as per usual, this will be sfw due to me not being able to confirm your age but i do hope it sates this thought of yours mhm <3

[ teeth rotting fluff ; afab reader ; no gendered terms ]

John knew it was time to slow down by baby number three. It was a reluctant thought really, the glow of you holding your newborn in your arms after that first cry into their new world warmed his skin in a way the sun never could. You twisted his arm (that’s how he likes to believe it happened) into trying once more, very much eager for a boy with his father’s eyes.

The fifth had been a girl too. At that rate, he could see the exhaustion on your body and had to really sit you down for a long and needed talk. He sat you across his lap, of course, it always made you slightly more agreeable.

His age never bothered him, he was fit and he would keep at it for the sake of you and all of your princesses, a perfect motive. That was his selling point, your biological clock and the risks that followed if you were to keep trying. Well, that along with having the need for a new house for more room if the two of you were that determined to have a boy.

Money never placed above his children, but the two of you also had to be wise about it if you were to give the best you could to your girls. You listened, you were reasonable and you were more than content with the joys you two had created together thus far. No contradictory statement to that existed and so you cupped his jaw, murmured your understanding and kissed his cheek before you laid yourself against him.

The silence that followed was loaded, the reality of a dream weighing heavy in the air and the slight sting of sweetness lingered in the back of your cheeks. It likened to the long sigh after coming home from a long but fulfilling day at work. Not quite bittersweet, but rather a muted sugar diluted down with trickles of warm milk.

And so the pair of you devoted every possible second of your lives to five girls with very much individual demands and personalities. There were learning curves of course, the kind that were sharp enough to be corners, but the two of you remained resilient. Linked arms tightened around each other, feet at shoulder-width and steady on the earth as you stormed through parenthood together. This does not exclude the handful of times that the new endeavours had you crawling, sometimes alongside your 9 month old with John cooing and chuckling at his poppet as he met her pace.

The girls were close in age which quite frankly, was a double edged sword. They had enough company to ensure no tantrums ensued from boredom, but that also meant a good few years where sleep was as scarce as saffron. It also introduced the camaraderie of culprits, however. It was the birth of your fourth that also called John into finally hanging up the tactical gear, locking away his weapons and wading back through years of emotional avoidance with a psychologist. Needless to say, your household had seen a great deal of an adjustment period. It took them entering primary for a good rhythm and flow to emerge, the cog wheels finally smoothened and lubricated in their machinations.

With this, you and John finally emerged once again beyond the singular title of 'parent' and found yourselves becoming reacquainted as lovers and individuals. There were shifts, as one does with a family of seven, to taking some needed time out. It might have taken a number of pep talks from John to convince you that no, you are not being selfish, luv and no, needing a break does not make you negligent. So the former captain had all but shuffled you toward the foyer of the house, gentle kisses at your neck and soft reassurances that he would in fact be alright and yes, he was well aware of their curfew and bed routine and no, cancelling now would be very rude.

You swore up and down that you'd be no more than two hours, maybe just an hour and half actually, as your worried eyes shifted from your husband to the giggling group stacked atop each other on the staircase like peas in a pod as they eyed the spectacle. Your friends had all but threatened to kidnap you if you didn't spare them just a few hours of your time to catch up and allow them all an excuse to go out. You hadn't agreed until the literal day before and even as you shrugged on the jacket John held out for you, you second guessed your decision.

But John Price was the type of determined that many likened to a mule, bordering on a word that would cost him a quid to the jar on the kitchen counter. With a lingering kiss to your soft lips that had your kids in a screeching uproar, he finally got you out of the door, winking at the girls behind you as you reminded them all once again to play nice with your father, he's grey enough as it is, girls.

He spared you a quip that had mention of him being a silver fox before he was telling you that he loved you and closed the door as you slid into the car that had some old club tune booming from its speakers.

"Alright luvvies, let's see what we can accomplish before hell's fury comes walking through the front door, yeah?"

No battlefield or amount of PT could have prepared John for his daughters. A dad he was, and that job title doubled for a number of things including but not limited to; model, butler, makeshift jungle gym turned horsie, sous chef, taste tester and also pillow fort architect.

He was in over his head truly, but drowning in daisies had never been found on an autopsy report. Cardiac arrest however, very likely and not impossible. His eldest was nearing 10 and Rhiannon had just discovered the wonders of music and more importantly, singing. The little mic stand the two of you had gotten her took permanent residence in the living room and because the younger generation just took preternaturally to technology, she had figured out much too easily how to connect it to the tv set. Impromptu performances were average in the house, but what was not on schedule was the blaring singing of his eldest as her sisters took liberty in forming a band with very unorthodox instruments. Very much breakable instruments that had John's life flashing before his eyes one too many times in the span of the four minute and thirty nine second performance.

A performance the girls had also deemed appropriate from him to use as background music for his strut down the homemade catwalk. Scarves stripped from the hallway closet, pillow cases for sleeves and two different beanies atop his favorite hat as the high pitch chant sounded for him to strut his stuff and pose for hand-shaped cameras. It was safe to say that his booming march that concluded with a duck face pose was not a crowd pleaser.

Dinner had not gone as smoothly as he had envisioned in his head either; the image of controlled chaos as the six of them prepared a meal together went up in almost literal flames. A number of tantrums, soot coating the kitchen sink and two pizza boxes later had the father and gaggle of girls building a loosely termed pillow fort in front of the television, a Barbie movie playing in the background as John slaved away at keeping makeshift walls standing. The smallest of slouch to the pillows would have his tiny supervisors reprimanding him.

His middle daughter, Penelope at age 8 finally took pity on him, short arms wrapped around his neck as she pouted at her sisters, "Daddy needs to enjoy our castle too!" A benevolent princess, his petal was as he finally allowed his tired body to fall against the couch behind him without consequence, head rolling on the seat as she scrambled onto his lap. John's hand found her long curls, gentle strokes to the dark brown locks as he settled her to his chest, both sighing in tandem.

The man looked across the linen closet state of the living room and let out a huff. You would be sure to use this against him upon arrival. Stray puzzle pieces littered the carpet, a knocked over bowl of popcorn at the foot of the armchair and the nail polish bottle he had to snatch away from his baby during his modeling hours, laid beneath the coffee table. That was all excluding the proper pile of clothes and costumes haphazardly shoved into the corner.

He did not in fact have it all covered but hey, at least the girls were all safe and accounted for in the family space watching one of their movies that he could recite word for word bitterly and- shit, what time was it?

Bringing his wrist to his face, John winced and stifled the groan burning at the walls of his throat. You’d be home much too soon for him to at least keep up pretenses and he knew that getting the girls away from the television midway through the movie would only do more damage than good. So the tired father sagged further back into the floor, and let be.

Pen, much too emotionally attuned to her parents, lifted her head and stared up at him with the eyes of his lifelong lover, lashes long and dark framing them. “Don’t worry, daddy. We’ll make it all better. Nice and clean again, okay?”

He never stood a chance against them, he realized then as his heart went gold and molten beneath her curled up body. A small nod as he kissed her forehead, big palm rubbing at her back and had her falling back against him.

“Alright my petal. I trust you.”

And John did, because he was much too scared to ever imagine a time where he had to second guess the words that came from their little hearts.

It was all of five minutes before Penelope wriggled loose and made her rounds across the living room, tugging and pulling her sisters into motion as they worked quietly, slowly with eyes flicking back to the movie every now and again. He would like to believe that it was helping, the floor was more visible and the piles looked somewhat organized and it made him swell with pride, even if he could barely find the energy to lift himself into a seated position.

You walked in no more than 20 minutes later, eyes wide and bouncing over every nook and cranny of the house as you took it all in. Your daughters barely paid you any mind as they came to settle on and around their father to resume the movie after their attempts of tidying up.

No fury from the scorch of hell greeted them, but rather an amused chuckle as you leaned against the backrest of the three seater to stare down at your family. John spied the warmth in your cheeks that spoke not of alcohol but the relief of being home, the love that embraced you through the threshold. Your eyes were so soft and all he wanted then was to drag you into the pile of bodies that he and his kids made.

“Enjoy your night out, sweetheart?”

You hummed, eyes dancing as your fingers tapped against the cushioning of the couch, “I’m assuming you did too considering you’re all a bag of skin and bones on the floor?”

The grunt he let out resulted in the giggle of more than one of his girls as they felt its rumble against them. Your smile went cotton soft at the combined sounds.

“Told ya I had it under control.”

“Interesting definition of control, Captain considering the time.”

His eyes fell closed as exhaustion coloured the edges of his vision grey, his words half of its usual capacity, “Purely subjective, if you ask me.”

#john price #john price x reader #john price x you #dad!price #fluff #cod #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod x you #cod fluff #nightbug answers #nightbug babbles

135 notes · View notes

littlesparklight · 1 year

Text

Okay, actually, let me do a quick, basic primer for Mycenaean fashion, if anyone would want to try this aesthetic for their Greek myth art since Mycenaean era Greece (1400-1200 is when the majority of the myths happen, and especially the Trojan war). Not claiming to be an expert at all, here, as I've mostly googled shit and screencapped images to use as ref and then read some articles, but, I figure, it might be somewhere to start!

Here's one of the panels from the Hagia triada sarcophagus, from Crete during Mycenaean control/hegemony of the island. The women are painted white, the men dark; artistic aesthetic you see in other cultures for their visual arts of the time, like Ancient Egypt.

I think the fur(?) skirts might be religious wear, but aside from that, you have one woman and one man (specifically, the lyre player, which is probably indicative of some cultural attitudes; the lyre player in the fresco from Pylos is definitely wearing a fringed skirt of some sort, similar to what women wear) wearing a long robe/tunic, and the women are wearing some short jackets on top of that. The jackets might be Cretan or merely "early" style, because here's a fresco fragment from the Greek mainland where the woman appears to wear something similar:

It's probable (but basically impossible to know) that the thing underneath is a long robe/tunic like the women above are wearing, short or sleeve-less.

Another Mycenaean/mainland Greek fresco. In this one you'd have to decide if the top halves of the women's dress is a short (but not cut-away) jacket, plus wrap-around, tiered/fringed skirt, or a long robe/tunic with really deep neckline and, again, a wrap-around tiered/fringed skirt.

Now, you don't need to make things harder for yourself than you have to! Women can wear a simpler style of dress (like what the man in the first fresco panel is wearing), basically the same as the men's, probably just longer:

It's possible these two women are wearing wrap around skirts below the edge of the chariot, but I doubt it. As you can see, their style of dress is the same as the man's above, with a plain, straight collar.

The various lines you see plunging down the sides of both the longer robes/tunics and the shorter ones are down the sides (under the arms and down) and might also/either be down the front, at least on the long dresses with elaborate bottom rim; the woman in saffron above clearly has a decorated line going down her front.

I'll put the rest of this under the cut!

Some nice art with Mycenaean-era dress and armour for some of our Trojan war characters. (Aeneas and Hektor notably wearing Mycenaean wear even if they probably wouldn't be.)

I like this site http://www.salimbeti.com/micenei/index.htm for both art and a lot of pictures of artifacts when it comes to armour and weapons from the Mycenaean era.

The men don't just wear those tunics, though; you can get some (short) kilts or skirts;

(In my opinion, I'd say it's basically a given the one/two dudes painted in basically black are meant to be from further south compared to the Greek dude here. Probably not sub-Saharan Africa, however. North Africa/Egyptian might be more reasonable, despite the impossibly dark skin.)

Some examples of the clothes recreated!

This article https://www.jstor.org/stable/20627591 talks about a fresco and its possible reconstructions, and, more importantly, includes photos of some women's clothes, especially the fringed/tiered wrap-around skirts recreated, and some drawing diagrams of said skirts that might be helpful!

Hair-wise, the majority of the men have hair anywhere from around the ears down to the shoulders in mainland Greece. (The exception being, again, the Pylian lyre player.) Minoans, even mycenaean-era Minoans, might have longer hair; one of the panels on the Hagia triada fresco has a flute-player with hair down to his waist in braids (or something like that), for example.

All the women, no matter Cretan/Minoan or Mycenaean/Greek have very long hair, gathered in variously more or less elaborate hairstyles; make your best guess from looking at the frescos is my suggestion!

#greek mythology #trojan war #I might add a reblog for jewellery?#but trust me you can find lots of nice pictures of #mycenaean jewellery if you search exactly for that

377 notes · View notes

treason-and-plot · 9 months

Text

[previous]

The school principal, Mrs Jevtic, calls a special assembly mid-morning. Saffron has been avoiding Connor since their exchange in the carpark, nauseous with apprehension about what he might have witnessed between she and Liam. Outwardly though she maintains her trademark icy reserve, and barely smiles when Connor takes the seat next to hers in the assembly hall. Connor doesn’t smile at her either but he does mutter “Hey.” “Hey,” she says, staring straight ahead. Mrs Jevtic coughs and adjusts the microphone, waiting for the room to settle.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says. Saffron digs her fingernails into her knee.

“I’ve called this special assembly to share with you some very sad and unfortunate news,“ Mrs Jevtic continues. She pauses for effect. “Earlier this morning the wife of one of our valued staff members, Mr McFarlane, met with a terrible accident and had to be taken to the ER. Her condition has been described as serious. Understandably Mr McFarlane will be taking an indefinite amount of leave, effective from today. I will be advertising for a replacement for him, but in the meantime please join me in prayer for the recovery of his wife.”

Saffron can see Connor staring at her from the corner of her eye. She digs her nails deeper.

”Dear Lord,” intones Mrs Jevtic, her voice thick with emotion, “Please comfort Mr McFarlane and his wife and bring them both peace and healing…“

“Saffron, we need to talk,“ Connor whispers to her. She turns her head and looks at him, and the expression on his face makes the edges of her heart curl up like a fallen autumn leaf.

#Saffron #Connor #Mrs Jevtic #back to Bridgeport #5 years later

127 notes · View notes

thatgirlonstage · 4 months

Note

mermay prompt: JamiKali + gold?

I'm not entirely happy with the way I ended this one but if I keep picking at it I will run out of time to work on other prompts so I'm calling it good. Keep an eye on the Ao3 collection next year, I might put a revised version up once I've had longer to sit on it. I really like the worldbuilding concept I'm playing with, anyway :3

(also I hope you see this, nonny — sorry for taking most of the month to get to it!!!)

———

Mermaids cry pearls and their scales are made of gold.

Those are the kinds of myths that Jamil grows up hearing, circulating in whispers through the bazaar, repeated like a dreamy incantation by traders in their cups, posted in hashtags below visibly photoshopped images of supposed beachside treasures.

“If only they knew, huh Jamil?” Kalim giggles by his side, letting silk run over his hands like water. When his fingers lift away, there’s an embroidered pattern of fish leaping along the edge of the headscarf, flashing in the sunlight. Kalim’s smile is brighter than the pure silver of the thread, a searing thing, white teeth a slash in his brown skin. “I don’t think these people even believe mermaids really exist.”

Jamil bites down hard on the urge to tell him to shut up. Drawing any attention will only make Kalim’s remarks seem significant to anyone who already overheard them. He bites down so hard that his lip splits. He tastes iron. Kalim, brow furrowing, reaches up and swipes a thumb over Jamil’s mouth.

When mermaid blood is spilled on sand, it turns into rubies.

“Are you all right?” Kalim asks, popping his bloodied thumb back out of his mouth. “You’ve been so quiet today.” He spits a shard of something glittering and red into his palm, considers it, and discards it on the ground. A moment later, Jamil hears a muffled exclamation from behind them. He does not look back. Looking back will only draw attention. People exclaim in bazaars all the time.

“It’s too hot,” he says by way of excuse. “It’s making me tired.”

Kalim pokes him in the shoulder, a friendly reproach. “You should have said! I would’ve come on my own. It’s only the groceries.”

“Last time I let you go on your own, you left an entire frieze of the legend of Sinbad carved over the entrance of the fish merchant’s stall.”

Mermaids have sea silk for hair. I bet if you plucked a mermaid’s eyelashes they’d be made of saffron.

Kalim laughs, the sound high and bright and as bubbly as a stream. “I forgot about that! The poor man was so confused.” He trails just the edge of his pinky finger along a piece of pottery, and the mosaic pattern gains a thin golden outline. “I’m sorry I make you worry, but it’s just that your magic is so abundant, I’m overflowing all the time.” He leans up and presses his lips to Jamil’s cheek. “Take a little back, okay? It’ll help me behave.”

When a mermaid kisses you, forever after, every time you speak, gems will fall from your lips.

Jamil feels his own magic surge backward into his skin, electricity racing up and down his spine. It sits there, crouching in his nerves, making every hair on the back of his neck stand up, locked in his blood. He inhales sharply and lets the breath hiss back out between his teeth.

“Warn me when you’re about to do that,” he says. “It’s not exactly comfortable.”

“Oops.” Kalim looks contrite. “Sorry, I gave you back a little more than I meant to!” He reaches as if to take some of it again, but Jamil jerks his head away.

“It’s fine.” The magic pulls at his tendons, crackling with unreleased potential. He grits his teeth against the scraping, scrabbling, screaming need for release, the way it hits a wall at every turn. Kalim is at least no longer quietly turning every pebble he steps on into sea glass.

“Your magic really is just that potent,” Kalim tells him, settling back into his place next to Jamil, grin diamond-white in the afternoon sun. “I can make anything you want, Jamil.” He slides his hand into Jamil’s, interlocking their fingers. “Just ask. Whenever you want anything, just ask and it’s all yours.”

Jamil hopes the smile he gives in return looks less forced than it feels. He can’t bring himself to speak, to tell Kalim the truth. He only breathes and lets himself imagine the contact of their palms makes his magic trickle back into Kalim a little faster, that the pounding desperation in his skull to let the magic out of his skin is a little lessened, that the tightness of his jaw is due to sun and stress and hours spent with Kalim as company, and not a curse weaving its prohibition into his tongue and teeth, stopping any spell from passing his lips.

If someone asked Jamil Viper to tell them a story about mermaids, this is what he would have said:

It’s true, mermaids can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.

But they can’t do it alone. They have to borrow your magic.

If you wish, you can promise them magic in return for jewels, for gold, for pearls, for anything your heart could desire.

So go to the river if you want, trail a finger in the water under the full moon, and send out a spark to let one of them know you want to talk.

But be careful.

Once you’ve made a pact with one it cannot be undone.

They will stay bound to your bloodline forever.

———

Mermay prompts are open until May 31st!

#twst #twisted wonderland #jamikali #mermay #jamil viper #kalim al asim #my writing

65 notes · View notes

crevicedwelling · 1 year

Note

I come bearing a selection of cool beetles/bugs for your viewing pleasure.

Photo 1: Male Rhino beetle I believe. Found this guy in the city with no greenery in sight during a heatwave a few years back so I collected him and kept him until the weather was ideal then released him in nearby bushland. A gentle giant who absolutely adored tomatoes and would go through 2 cherry tomatoes daily.

Photo 2: A Saffron Beetle I believe. First and only one of these I’ve come across.

Photos 3 & 4: Pie Dish Beetle. These guys are interesting because they have a flattened edge around their wing casings and if you disturb the they’ll tilt their body’s to the side which works with this flattened edge to make them extremely difficult to pick up. Included a close up of the head because I find their eyes to be very interesting to look at.

Photos 5 & 6: Botany Bay Weevil. One of my favourite insects because of the pattern and color combo. Got lucky enough to be filming when it took flight so got a good still of the wings extended.

Photo 7: Fiddler Beetle. I find a lot of these late in the year around my hedges and the vibrancy of the green markings is amazing.

Photo 8: I believe a Metallic Jewel Bug (Scutiphora Pedicellata?) found last year on a footpath.

excellent bugs! fiddler beetles always look painted to me, they’re such an artificial color

234 notes · View notes

avastrasposts · 10 months

Text

Six and a half minutes - Frankie's version

In honour of Frankie Friday, I've repurposed a short little smutty thing I wrote back in January (I think) and changed it around a bit. So some of you may already have read it, but I think it's probably new to most of you. Please enjoy Frankie interrupting you in the kitchen.

Buen provecho!

The holidays were just around the corner so you’d decided to get a head start on making your favourite Christmas cookies and pies, reserving an entire weekend for the project. You'd been at it since Friday afternoon and today, Sunday, you’d started to regret your decision to cram it all into one weekend. You're tired, warm and sweaty in your hot kitchen, shedding your sweatpants and opting for just knickers and a t-shirt under the apron. But you’re finally down to your last bake; saffron rolls. Delicious and soft, golden in colour, and filled with almond paste, butter and sugar. The smell that wafted through your kitchen was heady and rich as you pulled the first batch from the oven and slid the second tray in.

You’d placed the hot ones on a cooling rack and just gone back to the dough, when you heard the key in the front door, glancing over your shoulder. Frankie stepped over the threshold and shrugged out of his coat, pushing the door closed behind him. You saw him lift his head at the smell of saffron and butter and sniff loudly, looking into the kitchen.

“You’re looking very sexy, bebita,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice, “kneading that dough, cute butt on display for me.”

He stepped up behind you and his arms went around your waist, pulling you into his body, his nose grazing across the back of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell very sexy too, saffron, sugar and butter, good enough to eat, hermosa” he growled, his hand coming up and cupping your breast through the apron.

“Hands off, Frankie,” you ordered, “the next batch of rolls are coming out in,” you looked over at the timer on the oven, “six and a half minutes and you’re not making me burn them.”

“Six and a half minutes?” Frankie grinned into your neck. “That sounds like a challenge.”

He sunk his mouth to the soft skin on your shoulder, kissing it and moving his tongue across as he worked his way up towards your ear.

“Seriously, Frankie, do not make me burn the rolls!” you exclaimed as you felt his teeth nip at your earlobe, sending a little jolt down to your core.

“I promise, I’ve got six and half minutes to make you scream my name, cariño,” he mumbled as his hand left your breast and grabbed your jaw, pulling your face round to his mouth. You felt his tongue, licking your lips and making you open them with a moan.

His other hand had left your waist and trailed down the back of your naked thighs, his big hand warm against your skin. You shivered as he moved it in between your legs, his rough fingertips caressing up along the smooth skin of your inner thigh and you felt a familiar heat build up inside you. Frankie’s hands and mouth always made you wet when he wanted it and he knew the effect he had on you. Now he grumbled into your mouth.

“Are you wet for me already, bebita? Want me to check?”

You moaned and moved to pull your hands out of the dough as his words made you ache to touch him, pull him closer.

“No, no,” he grinned, pulling away from your mouth. “Keep them there, I’m gonna make you come right here, no need to clean your hands, no need to touch me.” He gave you a wicked grin and pushed his open mouth on yours again.

You felt his hand cup the fabric of your pussy from behind, his fingers sitting right over your clit, it had already started to ache for more. He pressed a finger against it, soaking the fabric with the slick already building up inside.

“Hermosa…dripping wet for me already, I knew it, such a needy girl,” he breathed against your mouth as he felt the wetness stick to his fingers.

He pushed the fabric aside and his finger moved through the wet folds, edging up towards your clit and he started to circle it. Ordinarily he would tease you, just edge around the clit, moving back and let his fingers play around your entrance before he went fully to work, but now he was on the clock.

The sensation of his fingers made you gasp into his mouth, stifling a moan as he gently rubbed the calloused pad of his finger over your clit, creating friction that sent jolts of electricity into your core.

“Fuck…cariño…if I knew baking made you this wet I’d come back earlier,” Frankie mumbled, he’d pulled away from your mouth and was watching you gasp as he pushed you further toward the edge. One hand was kneading your breast, fingers pinching your nipple when the fingers on his other hand pushed down on your clit, it made your nerves scream every time. Through half open eyes you saw him watch you intently, turned on by the ecstasy visible on your face as he caressed your pussy.

“Frankie, “ you moaned, “how much longer?” You're panting out the words and he chuckles, amused by the effect of his fingers on your clit.

He glanced over at the oven, “Four minutes, hermosa, I best get to work.”

With swift hands he hooked his fingers into your knickers and pulled them down before he grabbed your hips and pulled your butt towards him. Your hands were still in the dough and when he pulled you back, you stretched out and rested your chest on the flour covered surface, back arching and opening you up for him.

Frankie’s hands left you for a few seconds and you heard him undo his trousers and push them down.

“Bebita…if only you could see what I’m seeing,” he groaned, “this dripping wet pussy of yours looks more delicious than anything you can bake,” his voice low and dark as he ran his hands over your behind, kneading the flesh before running the tip of his cock along the edge of your pussy, making you spasm and shiver, pushing up against him.

“Please, Frankie, please fuck me, the time,” you whimpered as you felt the tip of his hard cock drag over your clit.

“Are you worried about the rolls or do you just really need my cock in you?” He was chuckling but you heard the strain in his voice, the need in him to sink himself into you and feel your pussy clench around him.

“Frankie, please,” you moaned again, your pussy aching to feel him inside you, that thick cock filling you all the way up and straining your cunt wide.

With a groan, he did as you begged, and pushed himself inside, grabbing your hips and pulling you on to him, his cock sinking deep. You gasped, the force of his thrust pushing you forward, making you sink your fingers into the dough, grabbing on to it for any kind of support as the heat inside you started to build.

“Fuck, bebita, always so tight for me, like your cunt is trying to choke me,” Frankie moaned as he pulled out to the tip. You looked over your shoulder and saw him looking down between you with lust blown eyes, seeing the way his cock was coated in your juice. “So fucking wet for me, hermosa,” he groaned and with a tight grip on your hips he pushed himself in again, slamming against the back of your legs, and you felt him bottom out inside you, making you cry out as he hit every nerve ending inside, making you spasm and convulse around him.

Frankie set a fast pace, no time for gentle love making as he’s chased both your release and his own. His thick hard cock filled you up, the hard ridges and veins of it created friction deep inside you, making you moan every time he pulled out and slammed back in. He was breathing hard, his fingers sure to make bruises on your skin from how tight he was holding on to you.

He bent down, circled his arm around your waist as his hand settled between your legs, never missing a beat thrusting into you. Rough fingers started to roll over the centre of nerves between your legs and your breaths stuttered and became ragged. Moaning his name you clenched the dough and pushed hard back against his cock as it slammed into you.

“Bebita, I need you come for me, I’m not gonna last,” Frankie panted, “I need your tight little pussy to come on my cock,” he groaned, a deep rumble in his chest, “squeeze me real hard, and then I’ll fill you up with my cum.”

He slammed his cock into you, your pussy started to convulse around him as his fingers rolled across your clit. “Gonna fill you up,” he pulled out and thrust back in, “and then watch my cum drip from your pussy as you knead that dough.”

His cock bottomed out and hit new spots deep inside as his words pushed you over the edge. With a strangled cry you felt your pussy cramp around his hard cock buried deep inside and Frankie growled loudly behind you as his rhythm faltered. The climax hit you hard, making you arch your back into him, trying to push him even deeper in as you moaned his name and his fingers dug into your hips. He thrust himself onto you, collapsing over your back, his hips moving slower, milking every drop of himself into your pussy as he groaned into your hair.

You leaned your head on the kitchen table, the dough sticking to your hands, as Frankie’s hot breath flowed over your neck. From the oven you heard the timer start to beep and he chuckled.

“Right on time, cariño.”

#frankie morales #frankie friday #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction

110 notes · View notes

youcancallmeelle · 8 months

Text

We’ve got one thing in common, it’s this tongue of mine…

A prequel to She’s got a boyfriend anyway…

Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI)

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Smoking of cigarettes, semi public sexual acts, oral sex (f&m receiving), blow job, mention of body hair & hair removal, cunnilingus (Joel is the king of eating pussy), nipple play (Joel likes boobs idk), mention of ovulation, sneaking around, mention of Ellie.

Summary: Joel seeks you out just like he’s always done and you’re thrilled, interrupted work break be damned. Or

Two clearly in love people fool around behind The Tipsy Bison.

AO3

Read below…

A Friday night is always particularly rowdy at The Tipsy Bison, with a larger crowd pouring in after working the stores on main street or serving dinner at the dining hall.

You’ve been on your feet for what feels like hours, making regular trips out into the seating area to collect empty glasses and bowls that house dried fruit and nuts, then washing and refilling those glasses and topping up the bar snacks.

Bar work is probably your least favourite on your work rotation, the only good thing is the socialising.

When Darius comes in to take over from Seth, the resident grump, he shoots you a sympathetic glance when he sees you standing against the wall, rubbing your lower back tiredly.

“Go for a break.” He orders, nodding towards the back doors.

“You sure you can manage for twenty minutes? It’s only gonna get busier.”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Go on, Seth is an asshole for keeping you here while he probably took multiple breaks.” He shakes his head, it’s true, in the time you and Seth had both been on shift, he’d taken three smoke breaks. “Here, for your troubles.” Darius pulls the rolled cigarette he’d had resting behind his ear and holds it out for you.

“Thanks.” You beam, taking it. “See you soon.” You promise, hastily making your exit through the back and out the fire escape door.

The door swings open and shuts with a ear piercing wail, the hinges are desperate to be oiled and you expect you’ll end up doing it instead of Seth or Darius. It’s unsurprising that men are still useless even after the outbreak, if you want a job doing right then do it yourself.

You wander down the alley, kicking up gravel as you go before slinking around the back and reaching for the resident shared lighter on the top of the broken air conditioning unit on the outside of the building.

You spark up the lighter, encasing the point of the cigarette in your mouth and inhaling so it begins to burn evenly.

It’s heavenly, the way the tobacco settles within you and you take another deep drag, closing your eyes and listening to the evening chatter within the commune.

The sky is darkening to blended shades of vermillion and saffron, the last time you’d been outside today it was bright blue, a true testament to how long you’d been working your bar shift today.

As you stand there, enjoying your gifted cigarette and the peace and quiet, you hear something over the sound of Alice Cooper’s Poison playing from inside.

There’s the familiar set of footsteps that your ears pick up first, belonging to a man with a hard stature and heart of gold. Then a low whistle and the hairs on your arms stand on edge, your hand trembles just so, some ash falling to the dirt as arms encase you from behind and pull you back into a hard chest.

You sigh happily when you feel scruff drag along your cheek and a small peck at the corner of your lips, you tip your head back, peering up into a set of dark eyes laced with a depth of hunger and a border of infatuation.

“Hi there.” You murmur, twisting around in the biceps encasing you, conscious of the lit cigarette in your hand.

Joel looks down at you, massaging your hips with his big hands; the same hands that have held his daughters and cradled you close just the same.

Ruthless; that’s how people in Jackson described him when he arrived back the second time. A killing machine, a no good man, trouble. You’d scoffed and brushed everyone off, choosing to formulate your own opinion and boy, were those gossipers wrong. Of course, they only see what they want to see, that hard exterior and scar running across his nose.

“Hey.” He whispers back, leaning down for a soft kiss, one that speaks a thousand words he’d struggle to articulate any other way just yet. “Where’d you get that?” Joel asks, nodding to your cigarette.

“Darius.” You reply, taking a small drag then offering it to him to finish. He takes it, inhaling and emitting a neat line of smoke. You watch in fascination, rubbing your palms over the broad width of his chest, plucking the material of his t-shirt. It’s black, more faded to the scale of grey than being the darkest shade of ink. Still, he looks delectable.

He has such a beautiful mouth, the first thing that had drawn you to him, then it was his voice - the smooth texan drawl that you absorbed like a plant during photosynthesis.

“You been out here long?” He wonders, you shake your head. “I thought maybe you weren’t working tonight, couldn’t remember what shifts you said you had this week but I came back here to check anyway.” Joel tells you, taking the last drag of the cigarette and crushing the butt against the brick wall behind him, encasing you back into his arms.

“That old man brain of yours.” You tease, standing on your tip toes to hunt for his mouth, he makes a noise at your soft insult but coincidentally melts into you as you kiss him like you hadn’t just seen him the previous afternoon. “How was your shift?” You inquire when you pull back, he chases your lips.

“Fine.” He supplies back in his texan drawl, fingers winding in your hair to tug you back into gravitation.

Joel had been on a wall shift since late morning, you’d remembered that much.

“Are you not cold?” You press, feeling his bare forearms and noticing the chill that he tends to feel in his older age. It’s spring now and you’re perfectly content working in denim shorts and a t-shirt, the bar gets stifling the more bodies that pack in over the course of the evening and into the night.

“Ellie has my jacket, she wanted to wear it to school today, she’s still a little anxious to be without me.”

Your chest warms at the confession; you’ve always loved observing them together. Anyone can see their bond but you can see how deep it runs, they’re almost always together, wether that be huddled close in the dining hall with her sometimes seeking refuge perched on his knee when it gets too busy for her to deal with and he’ll whisper things to her that make her smile timidly and lean into him, stealing bites of the dinner he offers even though it exactly the same as what she’s had and chosen to leave.

You’ve seen him give her his scarf in the street when she’s looked panicked and white in the face amongst the snow during last winter, you’d watched as she inhaled his smell and then fallen into his chest, hugging him tightly around the waist until she seemed grounded enough to walk home with him, tucked beneath his arm like a little bird. There’s a story there, you can decipher that much; one forged by fear and survival. Your chest had hurt at the fearful look in her eyes when a flurry of snow had began to fall, making contact with her rounded cheeks and causing her to flinch, almost sucking the last of her life out of her youthful complexion.

He’s her safety blanket - her protector - and when he’s not available to be that as himself, his jacket is the next best thing.

“Ah.” You murmur, lips curling at the sweet revelation. “Did you give her those parsnip chips I made?” It was a friendly offering, something you do regularly for her wether it be with food or things you find on patrol.

She’s none the wiser to the relationship you and Joel now have that’s strictly past paired patrol partners.

“Yep.” He replies, skating his palms over every inch of your skin, looping them around your elbows to pull you in.

“Did she like them?” You press further, evading him.

“Loved ‘em.”

“And did you like them, cowboy?” You lean out of reach and he snarls playfully, trying to tug you back.

“Well, from the one she let me have… yeah, they seemed good.” You snort at Ellie’s behaviour, unable to even be shocked at her unwillingness to share good snacks with Joel, it’s hilarious for some reason. “Mmm, laugh it up, I want my own batch next time and then I’m going to hide them on the highest shelf where she can’t reach.”

You continue giggling and his shoulders shake too, he takes advantage of you being distracted to continue kissing you, you sigh into his mouth, giggles ceasing.

You kiss him heartily, scrubbing your fingers through the grey patches in his beard and over the definition of his jaw. He moans into your mouth quietly, fingers fidgeting to grasp onto you.

He pulls back, nudging his nose against yours as you all but pant against his chin in hot puffs to compose yourself.

This is all still fairly new, barely a couple of weeks old but you don’t see yourself growing bored and neither does Joel. You feed off the thrill, seeking solace in one another to fill that void that has been empty for too long. It’s not that you don’t want people to know because you’re both embarrassed but it’s nice to have a little secret that you can greedily hold the reins to, something that’s yours.

It had all been sudden, everything had come to a head in the early hours of a Tuesday morning on overnight patrol. You’d stationed up together in a broken down and abandoned truck just a couple of meters in the forest, talking and drinking alcohol laced tea in the truck bed as you watched dawn break. One thing had led to another and you’d had sex, it was short but one of the most intimate experiences of your life.

“Can I come over tonight for a little bit? My gremlin child is sleeping over at Tommy’s, he’s taking her fishing tomorrow, it’s a reward for not skipping any classes this week.”

In the last few weeks, Joel has come over for a few hours once darkness has descended over Jackson. You haven’t slept together at your place or even in a bed at all, you instead steal moments on watchtower shift together where you ride him on the creaky deck chair with your back to his chest or on one occasion he’s sought you out during a greenhouse shift and bent you over the potting table in the shed.

When he comes over, which is most nights before Ellie comes home for curfew, you lie together on your couch with you pillowed on top of him. You make out like teenagers and talk and tease, sharing snippets of your life. He’s so easy to talk to, he’s an interesting specimen, full of wisdom and anecdotes. He’s told you stories of his first daughter, you imagine her green eyes and pretty curls in whatever story he’s content to retell, tracing the cracked face of his watch.

He’s always back before Ellie, sometimes way earlier than he needs to be just on the off chance she might have had a bad day and comes in early. It’s happened before, he’d got home after her and found her in hysterics on the couch just before dinner and had to lie about his whereabouts while trying to comfort her over a rough shift at the stables when a metal gate had clanged shut and suddenly she was back in a cage somewhere in Colorado. The accusatory where were you? she’d hiccuped in the middle of a panic attack had fucked him up real good and he vowed to be more careful.

“You can.” You hum, fiddling with the notch of his belt, his stomach tenses at your teasing. “But this - “ You grab the heft of his cock through his jeans, he growls immediately. “This has to stay in your pants.” You say firmly, peering up through your lashes with a devilish smirk.

“Why’s that?” His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, the tips slipping beneath the frayed edge of your shorts.

“Because I’m ovulating.” You answer, you swear his eyes darken ever so slightly.

“Mm, is that why you smell so good?” He grumbles, burying his nose in your throat after forcing your head back by your hair, he inhales deeply like you’re the very best drug he’s ever had. He gulps you in, behind your ear, at your pulse point and the hinge of your clenching jaw.

“Jesus, Joel.” You huff when his tongue dips into the hollow of your throat and his perfect teeth clip the edge of your jaw. Your pussy clenches and your clit throbs, as if your hormones weren’t already crazy enough at this part in your cycle without him inhaling your pheromones like a mad man.

He nudges the neckline of your t-shirt down by the rip in the collar, nosing at your clavicle and sucking a small bruise there like he’s marking you as his own. It’s so possessive, your underwear grows even damper at the thought.

“You taste good.” He mumbles into your skin, licking over the bruise then his long fingers are going up your shirt, bunching it above your bra where he then begins to press wet kisses to the swell of each breast, cupping you roughly. A nipple peeks over the unlined cup and he takes it into his mouth, sucking and pulling off with a wet pop to bite it gently and pull it between his teeth. He’s really into your tits, that had been learnt very quickly.

“Oh my god…” You pant, eyes scrunched shut, head tilted towards the cloudy sky as you pray to whoever for the strength to not beg Joel to take you there and then, to fill you with his potent warmth and leave it dripping all day to dip a finger down and taste the combination of you both. “Ow!” You hiss when he bites your nipple harder than you’re used to, you pull a curl of his hair in retaliation.

“Oopsie.” He grins unapologetically.

Somehow you possess the strength to push him back against the wall roughly, he grunts when his back connects to the brick but then you’re on him hungrily, crowding him against the surface.

Your hormones fizzle over and before you can even comprehend where you are, you decide you need his dick in your mouth immediately or you’re gonna die.

Your fingers fight with his belt, undoing it with your nimble fingers and tugging it apart like you’re furious.

“What’re you doing, honey?” Joel voices, though he doesn’t stop you. He’s unsure if you’re suddenly throwing out all sense and wanting to take him inside you, there’s a part of him that’s hoping that’s the case but you’d both been fairly careful so far; he’d been pulling out at the last minute and covering your inner thighs or ass in his cum.

“Sucking your cock.” You retort without missing a beat, unsnapping his button and dragging his fly down.

“Ya don’t have to -“ He begins but you level him with a glare.

“I want to.” Your glare humbles him and he actually gulps. Well - he’s not going to argue with that.

You kiss his lips hard, biting his bottom one gently and tugging in a way that makes him expel all his oxygen out of his nose and then you’re shimmying down his body, lifting his t-shirt and pressing a series of kisses down his stomach, you let the your fingertips graze over the ragged scar next to his navel and then lick a horizontal line just above his pubic area as you tug his jeans and boxers down over his ass and bunch them at his thighs.

You glance to the side nervously, waiting to see if any noise is approaching but then tug his cock completely free.

He sees you lick your lips when his cock springs upwards, he’s hard as rock and blushed along the length, curved a little to the side, the head beading with pre cum that your tongue immediately darts out to lick from the slit.

“Fuck.” He chokes, leaning back against the wall and winding his fingers in your hair as you press a group of featherlight kisses up the length of him until your reach the crown and wiggle your tongue on the underside of it, skating around the rim of him.

Your mouth is heavenly, wet and inviting, your tongue soft on the underside of him where you trace a prominent vein.

You let your mouth gather saliva while you admire the patch or dark and coarse hair between his narrow hips, threaded with wiry strands of silver.

His mind turns to static when you take him deep, easily swallowing just over half his length.

“Just like that, baby doll.” He coaxes, you swallow around the length of him, pulling up to lavish his tip with attention with the point of your tongue. He groans, hips canting into you so you envelope him again in the wet heat of your mouth. “God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.” You alternate with taking him deep into your throat and using your hand to jack off what doesn’t fit, twisting your wrist and moving lower to suck and kiss his balls when your jaw begins to ache deliciously, he’s tugging at your hair, moving his hips to nudge that tiny bit deeper until your eyes water.

Joel thinks you look as pretty as a picture, there’s nothing sexier than a woman that is actively enjoying giving head rather than doing it because she thinks she has to, not that he’s ever made a woman do anything they didn’t want to before. Tess wasn’t that enthusiastic about giving head, happier to receive than reciprocate which didn’t bother him.

“You taste so good, Joel. I could suck your dick all day, so fucking good.” You confess, lips braced against his crown, kissing and nipping ever so gently, you trace his circumcision scar.

“Baby.” He whines, pushing against your closed lips until you open up to let him back in. Your cheeks hollow, sucking back and forth, popping at the tip and repeating.

He’s nestled in the back of your throat, balls gently being stroked between your feminine hands and his stamina wavers. You hum around him and he’s a goner, quickly pulling back as you feel his hairy thighs tense, dragging himself along your tongue one last time.

Joel takes himself in hand, stroking roughly like he does when he’s alone with just his mind to recount your previous encounters.

You stroke his thighs, watching eagerly. The tendons in his neck strain, his throat bobs as he swallows back his pleasure.

“Stick your tongue out.” He demands gruffly, working the length of himself and cupping his balls. You stick your tongue out, eyes glassy and lashes dewy. He manages three seconds before his abdomen contracts. “Jesus - fuck. I’m cummin’, baby. Oh shit, fuck- “ He stammers, eyes wanting to cinch shut but he needs to see you take his load. His dick throbs and kicks, his balls draw tight and his spine burns.

He cums in thick spurts, some landing on your tongue and a little hitting the corner of your mouth. Joel groans his way through it, the erotic sight of you humming happily as his head pulses on your tongue, his grip encouraging one last thick drop of semen to spurt out.

“Mmm.” You hum, closing your mouth to swallow his load and using your thumb to catch what missed your tongue, you suck the tip of your thumb to get the last drop and smile up at him like the little fucking vixen you are.

“That was amazing, you’re amazing.” He babbles, dragging you to your feet and engaging you in a deep kiss. Joel can taste the saltiness of himself on your tongue, he licks into your mouth with ferocity.

He pulls away to yank his boxers and jeans up, buckling his belt as you stand there trying to quell the ache in your loins as your cunt drips into the gusset of your underwear.

You’re so fucking horny, desperate for an orgasm or two.

When Joel has finished righting himself, he yanks you to him so fast that you wobble on your feet.

“What’s wrong, baby doll? Did ya really think I’d take mine and just be done?” Joel asks, unsnapping the button of your shorts and pulling them down to your thighs.

“No.” You lie, though you’re laced with relief when he crouches down and settles on his creaky knees. You see him wince a little but he says nothing, adjusting to a comfortable stance.

His head dips beneath the loose and fraying hem of your t-shirt, you giggle when his beard scrapes a particularly ticklish area and you feel him smile against your abdomen, kissing there after and descending lower to the waist of your Miami cut panties. He’s following a similar trail to what you did on him, he’s teasing you and riling you up.

His dexterous fingers hook into the sides of your panties, pulling them down but as they hit the centre of your thighs with the bunched denim of your mom shorts, he urges you around to face away from him.

He slaps your ass and you sink forward, barely able to catch yourself first.

You feel his hands spread you and you bend forward just so, arching your hips backwards and you heard him take a sharp intake of breath.

“Well, what do we have here?” He purrs, greedily taking in the sight of your bare pussy, freshly waxed and smooth, your arousal and natural fertile release coating your lips in a shiny slick.

“Waxed it.” You pant, fingers anchoring to the brick, the grains of mortar shedding beneath your nails.

“I can see that.” He hums, using his thumbs to part you, to expose your fluttering hole to his gaze. “Why?” He wonders, though he’s not complaining, it’s just that he doesn’t really have much of a preference for intimate hair but this is a nice surprise.

“Wanted to, I li- I like the feel of it.” You admit with a gulp when you feel his lips at the back of your thigh, right below the curve of your ass cheek, tongue darting out to trace a silvery stretch mark.

Every month, Martha - the owner of the apothecary - makes up a batch of natural and homemade sugar wax. Many of the ladies (and some gents) come in for a pot to wax whatever they want, you’re one of the few that keep this up, liking the normalcy of something as simple as having smooth legs and underarms but this time had decided to put yourself through the eye watering pain of waxing your vagina too, just as a little experiment you like to do every now and then but usually you shave instead when you can be bothered.

It was touch and go, at one point you thought you’d lost part of your labia but with some tears and a mostly steady hand, you’d managed to complete your task. Were you in a hurry to do it again? Absolutely fucking not but you were enjoying the results for now.

“Look how wet she is, is this all for me?” He goads, swiping his thumb through the centre of you and letting it dip into your hole for a second. “Yeah, this is all for me. This perfect cunt loves me.” Joel confirms, that cocky nature really coming out to play.

You’re definitely ovulating, he can tell by just looking at you. Your outer lips are puffy and you’re dripping into your underwear, sticky and clear, the viscosity thicker than when you cum.

He spreads your cheeks, leaving you vulnerable for a brief moment until he literally begins to lick at your asshole. This is the thing with Joel, the vulnerability. There are days where you chest cavity has been cracked open, the cage of your ribs pulled apart and your heart beats in tandem with his own, he offers his own vulnerability and you nurture it in the palms of your hands.

It’s a new sensation for you, nobody has ever done this before and it feels phenomenal. It’s unsurprising that Joel Miller is a dirty old man, you think to yourself, pushing back against his tongue. You’d been left dissatisfied with previous partners, unable to orgasm through oral sex most of the time, leaving you to tend to tourself at a later date.

You complain when his slick mouth leaves your puckered rim but the disappointment vanishes just as quick as it came, he begins to feast on your pussy, suckling your labia and moving to your hole, dipping his tongue inside and teasing your urethra too.

It’s hard to reach back and grab at his hair when he spreads you further, stretching you beyond your limit. You whimper and whine, desperate for more, for whatever he can offer.

Fearing that maybe you were correct and this was going to be a disappointment, in a moment of weakness and pure gluttony, you reach down between your legs to give your clit some attention where Joel can’t reach it from the positioning. You barely make contact before he sees what you’re doing and gives your ass a hard slap, you jump and your hand drops. He pulls back to twist you around until he’s eye level with your pubic mound and he positively glowers up at you, it’s such a fucking turn on that you feel no ounce of remorse whatsoever.

Daringly, you reach down again and he tracks your hand, you don’t even get to touch yourself this time before he knocks it away.

“Hands off.” Joel scowls, brown eyes flecked with hazel and gold. “I want to see that pretty little clit and I can’t if your fuckin’ hand is in my way.” He sounds so irritated that it’s comical. He scowls for a minute longer then gets his thumb involved with stimulating your clit and pushing upwards so that it’s bared beneath the hood, kissing it tenderly before flicking at it with his tongue.

Christ almighty - this dirty old geezer and his ability to eat pussy like he’s starving.

“Ah, ah.” You gasp at a particularly ferocious flicker of his tongue, your nerve endings alight. “There. Right there, that’s so good.” You sputter, clutching at his hair, so soft beneath your claws.

“I know where, you greedy fuckin’ girl.” He mumbles against you, clearly holding a grudge for your earlier interruption.

“Oh? So get back to work, Miller.” You order defiantly, he narrows his eyes and returns back to work, licking at your clit and kissing it. You feel the rising storm of your orgasm building by the second, Joel flattens his tongue and running it between the seam of your, scooping up the fertile sugary syrup of your arousal.

“Look at you, sweetheart. So fuckin’ wrecked already.” He goads, kneading your hips. He reaches up to grasp at your tits, squeezing firmly, he fondles them both and you observe the chocolate brown eyes looking back at you, watching every single reaction to his ministrations.

He goes back to your clit, it’s so hard and aroused now, pretty and pink just like the rest of your pussy. You writhe against the wall when he sucks, his tongue darting out to lick the very tip of you and that’s game over.

“God, Joel.“ You moan, strands of greying hair clutched between tour fingers, pulling rougher than you intended. “I’m cumming.” You whine, head thrown back and pussy grinding into his lower face. Your clit pulses between his lips, he moans too when he feels you soak his facial hair, making a mess of him just like he’d wanted you too.

It’s filthy, the way your hips gyrate through your orgasm and the way his tongue scrubs your pulsing nerve. You wish you were full of him right now, soaking that thick cock of his. Your hormones are going haywire, screaming at you to let him fuck you with brute force and cum inside you, filling your womb and planting a seed within your empty uterus.

You’re being exceptionally loud, you know that. You have to bite the side of your hand, yet it’s not enough to muffle you. The volume in which you’ve reached the highest point of rapture sure to be heard from anyone passing by, you hope that the volume within The Tipsy Bison is enough to cover your tracks and pray that Darius won’t come looking for you.

It’s as though you can’t get enough oxygen into your lungs to compensate for what you lost keening, you suck in mouthful after mouthful of air and your body calms, the fire that had ignited slowly descends into burning embers until it’s nothing but petite plumes of smoke and tendrils of ashen air.

“Fuuuck.” You gasp, feeling gentle kisses being placed on the inside of your trembling thighs and you chance a look down after brushing the hair from your eyes. Joel looks back at you, pleased and aroused all over again, his dick a considerable lump in his jeans.

Refractory time who?

“I forgot how much I enjoyed doing that.” He confesses against your thigh breathlessly, lips and beard slick with you, with nectar like droplets clinging to his moustache.

“Mm.” You squeak, chest heaving and knees shakily supporting you.

“Was that okay for you?” He presses, rubbing your thighs, mouthing at them where his beard has left you scarlet and raw. You nod vigorously, just about able to find your voice.

“It was fucking incredible, Joel.” You reply, still a little breathless. He smiles and kisses your inner thigh once more before hoisting himself up stiffly with a pained groan. You drag up your underwear, jolting when your clit rubs against the material. Your shorts are also pulled back up and fastened, you breathe in deeply before reaching out for Joel’s face.

You capture his scruffy cheeks and pull him in for a kiss, practically licking yourself out of his moustache. He groans and squeezes your waist, you reluctantly pull back to peer at him, savouring a glance at his gorgeous face.

“I guess you gotta go back to work.” He remarks sullenly, you nod.

“You gonna come in and have a drink? We have beer tonight.” You tell him.

“Not tonight.” He shakes his head, your shoulders slump in disappointment. “Don’t think I’d be able to watch you all night and not be able to get my hands on you.” He brushes a strand of hair from your face, stroking your cheekbone.

“Okay.” You huff.

“Don’t be mad at me, angel. My old ticker can’t take it.” He remarks playfully.

“Not mad.” You deny. “Just like having you around.”

“Yeah, me too.” He sighs.

“But I’ll see you at mine later.” You whisper, rubbing your nose against his.

“That you will, sweetheart.”

“Promise?” You pout.

“On my life.” He promises, kissing you softly.

He watches you retreat down the alley with the essence of you still on his tongue and listens as the door closes with a screech, smiling to himself like a clown in love.

You return back to work with flushed cheeks and a thrumming heart, counting down the hours, eager to be back with him once again.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #joel miller #the last of us fic

68 notes · View notes

halcyonwrld · 10 months

Text

— SATIN RIBBONS

PAIRING. Park Chaeyoung/Rosé x Reader

Your morning routine is simple, peaceful. A quiet moment away from the drivel in the real world that inevitably awaits you. All it takes is one incidental encounter with the princess and her hyper puppy for things to change completely. (2K)

NOWPLAYING. Amy - Alexandre Desplat

TAGS. royal!au, mutual pining but roseanne is an obvious dork, self-indulgent fluff, typical helpless dog owner shenanigans, ft. lisa as roseanne’s personal maid who definitely needs a break

There is no better view than this one here, you decide.

Spring mornings are calm, quiet, and soft in every way. Standing in the gazebo as you do every morning, you look out into the pink and violet sky.

Just beyond the castle, a thick fog muddles the outline of the surrounding walls. The sun is so orange it looks to be drawn by a child. That saffron orange light gives a soft, dreamlike glow to everything in its reach.

Petrichor permeates the cool air. Dew from lastnights downpour slinks from the trees, coming down like drizzle in the gentle winds. Cattails along the rivers edge sway. Though the geese scattered along it remain unperturbed, suspended in time.

(That ethereal, rich light falls upon them in such a way that makes you wish you’d been a painter instead of a florist, if only to immortalize this moment forever.)

All you can do is appreciate it for what it is.

Opening the pouch on your hip, you take a handful of the birdseed inside, and toss them out into the river. Used to this routine, hardly any of the geese startle, simply drifting closer to eat.

Might as well join them.

You split open a golden-crusted loaf and lather on a thin layer of melted butter, mouth already salivating just from looking at the platter before you.

Birdsong whistles overhead as you set down your cutlery on the empty side of the dish.

You toss a bit more seeds into the river. They dapple the shimmering water, creating ripples that look like fully bloomed roses.

You’re about to gather your things and take a seat when you hear noise from below the gazebo, moving fast. The source doesn’t take long at all to reveal themselves. Hank skips up the stairs with a few excited barks. The terrier is nothing but a white and brown blur charging toward you, nails clicking all the way.

You smile as he reaches your feet, wanting to lean down to pet the pup but deciding against it. You still have to eat, and you’d rather not have a mouth full of dog hairs… no matter how cute said dog is at the moment.

“Hello to you too,” you mutter fondly.

Hank yips enthusiastically in return, spinning himself dizzy around your feet.

A few of the geese startle at the ruckus, lifting off from the foot of the gazebo and settling back closer to the empty bridge.

You shush the canine nonsensically, only seeming to make his frenzy worse. His wet snout tickles your ankles. Searching. You shake your head in amusement when he seems to settle just enough to look up at you with those expectant, glittering eyes.

“Sit still, boy..”

Hank obliges without you needing to ask twice, though his tail thumping against the mahongany planks doesn’t quite seem to get the memo. The puppy stares up at you with big guileless eyes and a panting smile that tells you he's never had to beg for a thing in his life.

You give in with a long, dramatic sigh, and a defeated fine you win. You rip off a small chunk of sausage from your platter to share with the canine. “Spoiled little thing, aren’t you? Always causing trouble these days..”

Hank takes it gently between his crooked teeth, and it’s only after you’ve pulled away to eat some yourself do you realize you’re a part of the problem as much as anyone else. Spoiled mouths hardly ever feed themselves.

Hardwood creaks as someone else steps into the gazebo, causing you to turn.

You both pause as soon as you lock eyes, dumbstruck by each other’s presence.

Princess Roseanne.

The woman looks absolutely radiant in the morning sun. Light frames her soft edges. She’s like a walking daydream. Closer to angel, than mortal. Pink hair rollers wrapped in her blonde locks. Nose tinted pink. Satin bunched between her pale fingers to hold up the frills of her nightgown. Robe falling off of one of her sun-kissed shoulders.

You think you’d do anything she’d asked of you, if only to forever bask in the fond recognition that overcomes her face after her shock settles.

“Morning, your highness,” you greet, slightly bowing in courtesy.

Her smile falters. She gives you a look.

It takes you a moment to understand, but when you do, you immediately bow again in apology, face becoming far too hot for so early in the day. “Sorry sorry, still a habit.”

You straighten up and try again, “Good morning, Rosie. Lovely to see you out bright and early on such a beautiful day.”

Roseanne smiles, and just like that, all is forgiven. “It’s nice to see you too, petal.”

She finally takes in the scene. The full plate and mug on the railing, Hank sitting patiently at your feet, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a pant.

“Here he is… thought I’d heard him making a fuss over here! I’m so sorry about him, he has a frantic mind of his own in the mornings, I swear." She briefly bends to smooth down the wild fur around his eyes with an exasperated look, "One second he’s playing with the butterflies and next thing I know he’s halfway to the bridge…”

“He’s just lucky he’s as cute as his owner,” you say unthinkingly. There's little time to retract the statement because the moment Roseanne looks down —unable to hide behind the curtains of her hair like she tends to— you know you've said something right.

She turns away, but you catch the reddening apples of her cheeks before she can get too far. An overwhelming amount of fondness blooms across your chest.

You’re still biting back a smile when her stomach grumbles.

“Want to share?”

Roseanne looks over, still flustered from your last comment. You offer a good chunk of your loaf. The tension eases as she gives you a grateful smile.

Finally, you take a bite of your own food, buttery goodness melting on your tongue.

“So, have you—”

“Is this why—”

You both stop short, glancing at each other with secret smiles.

“You first,” she says, beating you to it.

You hum thoughtfully, picking up your mug filled to the brim with fresh spring water. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Ah, no.” She confirms your suspicions as you take a long swig, covering her mouth to speak around her bread. You give her a stern look, making her laugh. “Your concern is sweet, but I was planning to, swear! Hankie has been sick for the past few days and he finally wanted some fresh air, couldn’t pass up the opportunity, you know?”

“I see..” you murmur. “In any case, I’m glad he’s feeling better then. And please have a real meal after you’re back inside the castle. Picking berries off of my plate surely can't be fulfilling in any sense.”

Her blush deepens at being caught red-handed, but you just laugh, lightly bumping your shoulders together. “Now, your turn."

“Ah- this,” she gestures to your setup along the gazebo railing, a hint of mirth in her tone, “is why I’ve never seen you during breakfast? You’re out and about making friends with the local wildlife?”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“Nothing like that, no. Just… another one of those habits I can’t seem to shake, I suppose you could say.” You look over the railing into the water. A few geese glide across the river in search of birdseed. “I don’t garden for the mere motivation of wage. Nature is just where I’ve always felt most at peace. And so, my days tend to be far more productive the sooner I can get outside and simply,,, take a moment to breathe.”

When you look over, Roseanne stares at you like you’ve just given the most interesting spiel in the entire universe, with that fond quirk to her lips.

You offer a nervous smile in return, “If I may ask… why the inquiry? Has someone asked for me?”

The princess looks away to tear off another chunk of her bread, meek as she is hopeful when she asks, “Does it count if I’m asking you now?”

You can’t help the way your smile widens, finding her madly endearing. “I suppose so, princess."

Roseanne doesn't quite fluster this time, but you swear you've never seen her face so red since the first time you introduced yourself to her.

(She'd kissed your knuckles like you were more than the head of gardening staff, said your dedication in the months you'd been serving had really shown… then minutes later she tumbled into a roseberry bush full of thorns. That was how you met Lisa, too, who couldn't hold her giggles when you retold the story while plucking the twigs out of her hair.)

Roseanne even opens her mouth to retort, but is stopped by a shrill voice in the distance.

It takes another few times for either of you to realize it’s nothing dangerous, and that they’re calling for the princess herself.

Who rubs the back of her nape with a sheepish smile, “Ah right, I’m not supposed to be out here quite yet..”

One look at her attire —feet bare and draped in delicates— and surely anyone could’ve guessed that.

You notice movement on the bridge.

Not even a few moments later, Roseanne’s name rings into the air, clearer than ever.

“I take it that’s your maiden?” you ask knowingly, failing to keep your laughter out of your words. Lisa has never been known for her subtlety.

Roseanne blanches, “Shoot.”

In a rush, she gathers up her satin drapes all over again, pink pins wobbling atop her head but no worse for wear when she stops abruptly in her departure, spinning to face you once more. “I won’t ask you to stifle away in the castle… but maybe, we could come back tomorrow?” she asks, smile shy, eyes glittering.

You open your mouth, but she cuts you off.

“If it's okay with you, of course,” she tacks on as an afterthought, genuine as ever for someone of her status. You tilt your head, as if there was ever really anything to think over. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Roseanne smiles as bright as the sun, blinding you with her beauty.

You're only pulled out of your daze by the clink of cultery, and you by the time you realize what she's doing, she's already got your empty mug and platter in hand.

You frown, stepping forward. "Oh no, I couldn't ask you to-"

She steps back. Brandishes another one of those disarming grins that makes your heart flutter. "Please, we're headed back to the castle anyway. No need for you to waste your energy on a second trip back over the bridge."

You sigh.

"Fine… but, next time I'll walk with you. Alright?"

Roseanne nods, smile seeming to widen if anything.

“Come on, boy, we have to go now." Hank perks up at the tone shift, happy to finally be addressed. “Say bye Hankie!"

Hank barks as if he really understands the princess, making you chuckle.

You wave them off, watching them leave the gazebo.

Roseanne meets her maiden halfway. Lisa promptly snags an arm around her shoulders, mouth running a mile a minute as she tells the princess off, equal parts exasperated as she is playful. Hank zips toward the bridge. You catch word about Roseanne’s lack of shoewear, her bundled hair, and… a patch of dandelions?

You can't make out much more as they get too far out. But you were sure you'd figure it out eventually, as it was literally your job to oversee all of the plant life around here.

Oh well, nothing to fuss over as of now.

You toss the last of your birdseed, and the geese are eager to reform back near you with Hank's ruckus. The princess and her maiden follow the cobblestone path back down the river. Their figures become smaller and smaller amongst the green grass and the pink, hazy sky.

Just a little before they reach the bridge, Roseanne looks back, and you both share one last secret smile.

#rosé x reader #gg x reader #blackpink x reader #blackpink imagines #gg imagines #idol x reader #kpop imagines #park chaeyoung x reader #kpop fanfic #blackpink fanfic #halcyonfics

93 notes · View notes