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yeyinde · 4 months ago

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baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors.

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time.

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life.

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust.

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean?

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it.

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words.

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him.

Especially him.

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much.

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things.

Even this.

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way.

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always.

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures.

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried.

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort.

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too.

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was.

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like.

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl.

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding.

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly.

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored.

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him.

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.”

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution.

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man.

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.”

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms.

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose.

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection.

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive.

And he is.

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own.

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse.

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More.

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle.

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean.

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones.

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for.

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare.

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart.

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake.

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place.

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in.

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.”

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?”

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in.

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks.

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.”

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose.

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.”

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.”

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft.

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep.

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go.

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer.

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her.

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her.

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John.

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant.

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they?

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill.

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.”

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did.

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs.

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan.

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection.

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton.

Complete, maybe.

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.”

“You'll be fine.”

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth.

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.”

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.”

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears.

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.”

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you.

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink.

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches.

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.”

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission.

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.”

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.”

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind.

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you.

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent.

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face.

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest.

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical.

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start.

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving.

Needy. Full of greed.

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it.

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team.

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct.

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered.

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?”

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John.

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

#john price x reader #captain price x reader #i am at a loss for words #this is gross and sappy mlahhhhh #sprinkled with the slightest indigeneity #captain john price x reader

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agendabymooner · 7 months ago

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SOMETHING REWARDED !!! LANDO N. X FEM!READER (18+)

summary: at the night of his first win, lando gave his sweet girl a reward for being his ‘lucky charm.’

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), miami gp 2024 spoilers (ish), standard smut, anal play if you blink, praise kink, titfucking, body worship-esque

note: this could’ve been published an hour after the race but i got busy. it didn’t eat as much but enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist // o - z masterlist

if you’d like to get on one of my taglists, check this post out

lando’s partner wasn’t shy. she was just… reserved in the sweetest way possible. that’s what he loved about her. no amount of words could express how beautiful she was. her curves, her lips, her everything?

god lando was fucking in love with her.

anyone in miami might assume that she was feeling hot due to the sweltering weather. sure.

but lando knew the difference between the heat in her face when she’s under the sunny weather and when he whispers praises in her ears.

and he certainly knew what the heat rising in her cheeks meant when he had his hand between her thighs.

“lando…” she murmured softly, her face becoming hotter by than it was as lando hovered over her, “i- i-“

“shh…” lando tutted her with a smirk, “‘s okay, darling. ‘s just us.”

“i know,” she whispered back, “b- but you’re supposed to be celebrating tonight.”

“i told the boys i’m not showing up,” lando said, his hands were getting too generous for his touches to be just ‘teasing.’

lando won today. surely he can be something beyond generous, right? he got what he wanted for a long time, a long awaited victory.

it was only fair that his sweet girl got the brunt of that victory, too.

his lips attached themselves on her ear and nipped on it, eliciting a soft moan from her. pressing another kiss on her earlobe, lando whispered, “told them i’m too busy loving on my lucky charm.”

she let out a whine, her body squirming beneath lando’s towering ones while his hands slid her dress off.

she was left with nothing but a red lace knickers, her plump breasts eager to be devoured as lando growled quietly. his one hand created friction on her nipple while his mouth was attached to her other one.

“oh,” she let out a little whimper, her back arching just at the feeling of lando’s hands and mouth all over her. “hm-“

lando’s hands worshipped her like she deserved, gliding through her curves and between her thighs. the sweet whispers of, “lando” continued to escape her mouth.

“mmm… you’re so fucking pretty, my sweet girl,” lando murmured, his hands kneading and fondling her tits. “such good fucking tits, too.

precum leaked out of lando’s cock, his mind already feeling foggy with the thought of feeling her writhe beneath him.

“you don’t mind me fucking these tits, do you?” lando taunted her, knowing that she would say yes anyway. “can i fuck these tits, baby? hm?”

lando could have cum right there as his half-lidded eyes were trained on her flustered face. the woman didn’t show how excited she was, but she sure wanted him as much.

she bit her lip and nodded, her tits splayed out in the open. she held her breasts and squeezed them together.

lando grinned, moving up on the mattress with his cock gliding through her tits. lando let out a guttural groan, watching the tip of his cock disappearing each time he slid.

she whimpered, enjoying the sight of lando on top of her.

“fuck,” he cursed, thrusting his cock between her breast while she whined. “so good for me, baby. god, fuck. you’re gonna make me cum hard.”

“oh god…”

and if fucking her tits wasn’t any better, seeing the top of her tongue lick his moving cock became nothing but a cherry on top.

sure his first victory in miami was an achievement, but god his girlfriend was a delightful sight to see when she begged to be fucked too.

“hngh- oh god,” she whined lewdly, already too fucked out after her third orgasm of the night. from behind, lando watched himself glisten and slide out with her wetness coating his cock.

“so good f’me, darling,” lando crooned softly, thrusting into her wet cunt slowly.

she didn’t respond with anything but a muffled mewl, clutching the sheets drenched with the mess she made.

“ohhhh god fuck!” lando let out, his pace getting faster as her walls clenched around his girth.

“oh my god,” she whined, “so good, so good. fuck!~”

“such a good girl,” lando praised her, his hand snaking between her thighs to rub her clit. “let it out baby. you’re such a good girl.”

“i’m gonna cum again,” she stammered, her body squirming and writhing while being caged by lando. she could crawl away, her legs shaking vigorously as she felt her orgasm approach.

lando’s other hand glided on her ass, his thumb toying with her puckered hole as he muttered, “mmm… look at this hole of yours.”

“so tight and all,” lando commented, lust evident on his tone, “you’re gonna let me fuck this one of these days, aren’t you?”

“ngh-“

“yes?” lando chuckled darkly, “i know you said yes before. but…

“i want you to cum again,” lando whispered, his hand reaching up to tug on her hair. “cum on my cock darling. cum all over my cock.”

lando might be the victorious one today, sure, but nobody deserves a reward more than she did.

♡ moony’s reminder 🅶 (general): @hiraethrhapsody @avaleineandafryingpan @enhacolor @roseandtulips @woweewoowa @magnummagnussen @happy-nico @architect-2015 @hiireadstuff @biancathecool @scorpiomindfuck @stinkyjax @youdontknowmeshh @hyneyedfiz @decafmickey @lightdragonrayne

♡ moony’s reminder 🅴 (explicit edition): @glitterf1 @savrose129 @maxillness @bigsimperika @xoscar03

#ln4 smut #lando norris smut #lando norris imagine #lando norris #ln4 #f1 smut #♔ something sinful ⎯ f1 smut #formula one smut #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #formula one #formula 1

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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okay so by now i think all the spencer enjoyers™️ have seen that picture of him in his white unbuttoned shirt covered in red lipstick kisses, but imagine leaving said kisses perchance? earlier season spencer would be like a puddle on the floor and it'd be too cute.

Spencer's job as Designated Driver is backfiring fast. It means that his head is completely clear as your mottled one decides it's time to waste your lipstick, lathing it onto your puckered lips and painting his face with it.

"Another one!" You declare, a giggle hanging off the edge of your voice as you reapply another smeary coat of the product. You reapply every time you kiss his cheeks, which means there's far more of the stuff on your lips than you need there to be.

"Okay that's- that's enough," Spencer reaches for the tube of lipstick, taking it from your hands and clutching it in his tight fist, "You don't need to apply any more. There's enough on your lips already, I- uh, I don't think that's how makeup works."

"But I want the kisses to be fresh," You insist, eyes wide and doe-like, sparkling with earnest, "Spence, I- if the kisses aren't fresh," You explain, voice thick and wobbly, "Then people won't see them, and people won't know you're my best friend! I have to," Your voice tapers down into a sullen whisper, "I have to mark my territory."

Spencer didn't know he was your best friend. He knew he was one of your friends, of course, but he'd have assumed your best was maybe Prentiss or Morgan. Certainly not him, not the man who time and time again fumbles his way through conversations with you because no matter how much time he spends prepping what he'll say, you always make him nervous. He can't say he's exactly calm now, with your bright kiss marks pressed to every inch of skin on his face, but he takes solace in the fact that you're not going to remember this come morning, so he can stutter all he wants and it won't affect his image.

"I think she's right, Reid," Hotch grins, though Spencer can tell the man's holding back the brunt of the expression's force. Spencer curses the man's composure; he handles liquor a lot better than you do. "I mean, God forbid people think you don't know her. It's not like she's sitting in your lap, or anything."

"Mhm!" You nod emphatically from your place in Spencer's lap, his sticky face held in your hands, "Exactly. So I need to kiss you more."

Spencer's not sure what he can say besides yes. He doesn't want to hurt your feelings, make you think he doesn't want to be your best friend. Because he does, perhaps a little more than you realize. But he's not sure he can take the feeling of your lips on his face any more, for fear of turning into a melted puddle of raw awkwardness on the sticky bar floor.

He swallows the saliva that's pooled around his teeth, inhaling the scent of your strawberry shampoo, "Uh- okay. One more."

"Two more." You decide, already leaning up to press not one, not two, but three kisses to his face. One on each of his cheeks, then one that you smash against the curve of his chin. You press until it hurts, intent on really stamping the mark there.

"Perfect!" You declare, and Spencer's sure his breath is shaky when he exhales, a side effect from having your lips so tantalizingly close to his own. "Now- now I'm done." You promise, "And I'm tired, Spence." You suddenly pant, "Can I lay down on you?"

You're already in his lap. Spencer's not sure if he has any reason to say no. Well, besides his uncontrollable, embarrassingly strong, undying adoration for you. But he can't tell you that, not here, not now, so he steels himself as he nods, "Sure. Go- go ahead."

You slump down onto his shoulder so fast it almost hurts, and you're lifelessly snoozing in an instant. Spencer's sure you're not actually asleep yet, but you're so easily dead weight against him that he has to lean up against the back of his chair for support.

"No pictures." He hisses to Hotch who's already taken three, "Stop it."

"Penelope's not here," Hotch goads, sending the picture off before Spencer can demand he delete it, "Someone's gotta be the gossip."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid headcanons #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid hc #spencer reid hcs #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid dialogue #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader fanfiction

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prentissluvr · 5 months ago

Text

warm brown jacket — sam winchester

for : 200+ followers event [ open ] ➖⟢ pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : major fluff, friends to lovers ➖⟢ cw : mentions of canon typical gore, violence, and bloodiness at the very beginning, mentions of being casually shirtless around each other kind of?, dean teasing a little, barely edited ➖⟢ wc : 1.3K prompt : sharing clothes in a totally (not) friendly way

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

you’re used to the grime and gore of the job; you don’t really have much of a choice. but the whole front and back of your shirt and jacket are so unpleasantly sticky from a horrid concoction of blood, mud, and maybe more, that your fingers itch to peel the layers from your body as you head for the car. of course, you’re just going to tough it out until you can shower and change at the motel. you know that sam and dean will let you take the first shower tonight; they’re not the ones who beheaded a vampire then got shoved into a mud puddle by a second right along with the decapitated body gushing blood from it’s stump of a neck. it sucked, to say the least.

you can’t resist pulling your jacket off, and you’re lucky that it gets rid of most of the mud. but it’s the front of your shirt that took the brunt of the blood, and it’s sticking to your skin, warm and just about dreadful. there’s a rustle beside you coming from sam, and you don’t have to look over to know the sounds of him taking off that big brown carhartt jacket. your favorite.

it’s only when he nudges you, holding the fabric out for you to take do you look at him. he’s got that pretty, borderline awkward smile when he’s trying to be subtly sweet. he doesn’t want to make you feel self-conscious about the mess on your clothes, but your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt and the grimace on your face that’s so subtle just about no one else but him could spot it, and he knows instantly that the stickiness of your clothes is bothering you.

you smile at him, not too wide so you don’t accidentally show him that he makes you feel in love, and accept the jacket with one hand. you’re trying to maneuver your own mess of a jacket away, but sam takes it from you with a soft, “here, i got it,” as you near the car.

“thank you, sam,” you say, pausing at the door so you can shrug the much cleaner layer on without being confined to the small car.

“course,” he replies, all casual and kind as if he isn’t dying to see you put the jacket on. then he remembers his manners. “dean and i’ll look away if you wanna,” he forgets how to be smooth for a moment, clearing his throat as he gestures vaguely to your bloody shirt, “you know, get rid of the shirt too. ‘m sure the blood’s worse than the mud.”

“right, of course. don’t wanna get the inside of your jacket covered in the blood anyways,” you agree, glad sam said something about that because you weren’t quite sure what to do. you certainly didn’t want to keep the shirt on, and you’ve been shirtless around the boys plenty before because of the way you live out of motel rooms, but with sam so close like this, waiting for you to put on his jacket, you feel the tips of your ears go flaming hot at the idea of taking your shirt off without some sort of awkward warning. this way, sam’s being an utter gentleman and taking the shot for you when it comes to who’s the most awkward this time around.

sam gives you his silly, pursed-lip smile and his dimples pop out and all you want is to kiss them til they never go away. he slides into the car, and as the door shuts closed, you turn your back to the impala, tuck the jacket between your knees, and shimmy the mess of a shirt off your body. a chill of air hits your sort of blood-wet skin, making you shiver before you can drop the ruined shirt and pull the warm layer over yourself. but the second the soft fabric is over your shoulders, then around your arms and torso, it’s sweet heaven. sam’s body heat lingers, warming you in an instant and pushing a sigh of relief from your parted lips.

the time-worn softness of the fabric is glorious after such uncomfortable textures, and though the metal of the zipper is a little chilly against your stomach as you close the jacket around you, you couldn’t care less about that.

a moment later, you’re settled into the back seat, trying not to look at sam to see if he’s taking in how you look in his favorite jacket. instead, you catch dean’s eye through the rearview mirror and he sends you a teasing wink that has you stuck between rolling your eyes at him and flat out planting your face into your hands to hide.

the ride is quiet save the few minutes in a fast food drive-through. dean grumbles about the restaurant’s lack of pie as he drives off in the direction of the motel.

standing in the motel room, you hate to take off the jacket, but it’s a must if you want to shower and get the rest of the day's grime off of you and down the drain. sam’s already assured you that you don’t need to wash it for him, so you leave it on the foot of your shared bed before you head to the shower. you know that he likes to pack up any piece of clothing he isn’t using right away.

you try to keep your shower short for the sake of your companions, though it's difficult when the hot water feels so comforting and cleansing. even so, being back in your own clean clothes afterwards is certainly nice as you leave the bathroom after brushing your teeth and running through your short post-shower routine.

sam’s sitting at the table across the room and dean stands from his bed, ready to shower next. you’re expecting to mourn the loss of the jacket on your bed, but your eyes immediately fall on the nicely folded bundle of brown fabric placed neatly by your pillow. unable to resist, you walk to it and pick it up, placing it on your lap as you sit on the edge of the bed. you try to catch sam’s eye to silently ask what he means by leaving it there, but it almost feels as if he’s avoiding your gaze in favor of staring at the book in front of him.

since you can’t get sam’s attention, you turn to dean before he can go, but all you get is a sly smile before he disappears into the bathroom.

it has got to be your raging crush on pretty boy over there, sitting so close and far all at once, that’s making you jump to silly conclusions. but the barely visible blush on his cheeks, his refusal to look up when he heard you pick up the jacket, and dean’s knowing look makes it feel like sam wants you to put that jacket back on. and you do too.

so, you stand and turn as if you’re not looking at sam anymore, but you’re careful to keep him visible out of the corner of your eye as you unfold the fabric and put it back on. the ac is too strong; it’s cold, you tell yourself that’s enough of an excuse.

if you could tuck sam’s pretty brown hair behind his ears like you so often get the urge to, you bet the tips would be pink. even with his face half blurry in your peripheral, you can see the look he's giving you, because he is looking now. it’s an expression you don’t see on him often at all; he’s the kind of guy to always school his features away from betraying what he thinks and wants. this time, it’s loud and clear and you can feel it as much as see it. you, wrapped up safe and warm in his jacket, are exactly what he wants.

you think you’re gonna kiss him, and he’s gonna kiss you back with his hands clutching at that soft brown fabric to be sure it’s all real and glorious like he thinks it is.

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fandoms-x-reader · 5 months ago

Text

Teenage! MC

Requested By: @opiopal

Headcannons

Summary: How the brothers' would act around you if you were a teenager that got sent to the Devildom. The brothers x MC platonically / sibling relationship

Lucifer felt a bit guilty when it came to you. He was the one who was in charge of picking the human for the exchange student program. So, by default, he was the reason you got ripped from your life and brought down to the human world.

He was surprised by how well you had adjusted to life there. You did your best to be respectful, did your homework, and had great manners.

Lucifer dared to say you behaved better than his brothers who were centuries years old.

But, you still had your moments that baffled Lucifer and made him mentally face-palm.

You were in a student council meeting with Lord Diavolo and the others; and, you dared to call Lord Diavolo “dude”.

A collection of gaps broke out across the room when the word left your lips. You called the future King of the Devildom “dude”! You could see some of the brothers - mostly Belphie - stifling their laughter at the situation.

But, Lucifer was completely mortified. His eyes were wide and his expression looked flushed. He couldn’t believe your audacity.

Luckily, Diavolo laughed the whole situation off. He found it amusing.

But that didn’t stop Lucifer from giving you a long lecture on how you were to never do that again.

And the next time you came face-to-face with Diavolo, Lucifer was on high alert, ready to clasp his hand over your mouth every time you said any word that started with the letter ‘D’. Just to make sure that never happened again.

Lucifer was used to being the head of the household and making sure everyone did their daily chores and kept up with their studies.

And you were no exception to that, so Lucifer didn’t think twice about it when he asked you to do a simple chore.

But you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, it was very early in the morning, and you weren’t in the mood. All you wanted was to eat your breakfast in peace. You just wanted a moment of silence before you had to go to school.

“Y/N, you need to clean your bedroom after you get home from RAD today,” Lucifer stated simply, continuing to eat his breakfast. It was a simple request that certainly didn’t warrant a sassy response. But it was the straw that broke the camel’s back and a sassy response is exactly what he got.

You had a stoic expression on your face, barely missing a beat before you replied with, “And you and Lord Diavolo need to kiss already but neither of those things are going to happen so let’s not talk about it at 6 am.”

You hadn’t looked up from your plate yet, but you could imagine the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces. Especially Lucifer’s.

“Well, we’ve gotta get to RAD,” Mammon stated, practically pulling you up from your chair. He had seen that look on Lucifer’s face too many times and he knew exactly what followed afterwards.

The other brothers quickly joined the two of you. Lucifer was not used to being defied and he was most certainly not going to be happy with the way you talked back to him.

The brothers found it amusing nonetheless. A teenager standing up to Lucifer of all people. And you didn’t even have a look of fear in your eyes!

Lucifer loved having you around. You were a welcome addition to the family. But he definitely got the brunt of your witty remarks and side comments.

And he had no idea how to handle it. It’s not like he could punish you like he did his brothers. You would barely survive half of them.

For once in his life Lucifer felt defeated…by a teenager.

Mammon still tries to impress you as a teenager. But not in the same way. He wants to come off as the “cool” brother. The one that will let you stay out later than you’re supposed to, and take you for rides in his car, blasting music.

Mammon loved it. Having you around made him want to be a good role model despite his spending tendencies.

He would still be a bit possessive of you. Only because he doesn’t want his brothers influencing you. Only he was allowed to show you things around the Devildom.

He wanted you to like everything he liked and hate everything he did. Movies? You liked the classic Devildom action movies, right? You didn’t like horror movies, right?!

And you loved going gambling with him, right? Didn’t you think it was so fun watching him win? Of course, he had to lie about your age to get you through the doors of the casino. But that just added to the fun of it.

And please don’t ever mention anything about witches to either of you. You both hated them with a passion. At least, Mammon will say that if someone ever did bring up the “w” word.

The truth is, that Mammon felt guilty about leaving that little girl he had found with the witches. It was for the best that she stayed up there in the human world. But, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would have been able to take care of her himself.

And although you were more like another sibling than a child to Mammon, he wanted the chance to start redeeming himself. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be responsible for someone. Please be his mini-me.

But being responsible meant that sometimes he had to be more assertive than fun. Especially if you were putting yourself in danger.

You didn’t think you were. You thought that going out with Simeon and Solomon would be fine. You were just hanging out around town for a bit before heading back to the House of Lamentation.

But, you forgot to text the brothers that you were with them and when you hadn’t gotten home in time, Mammon snapped.

Worry filled his heart and directed his mind.

When he finally found you in town with Simeon and Solomon, relief came in waves.

He took you back to the House of Lamentation, despite your protests. And, as soon as you were back, Mammon decided to give you a lecture. He had learned how to do it from the best, after all.

“What do ya think you were doing? You almost gave me a heart attack,” Mammon stated as you began walking to your room.

“We were just walking around town. Don’t you trust Solomon and Simeon?” you questioned, crossing your arms over your chest as you stood outside your bedroom door.

“I don’t trust ya out there by yourself without one of us to protect ya,” Mammon countered.

He didn’t mean it to come out the way it did. He was just worried about you. But, you were angry with his words. You were frustrated that he was treating you like a child so you replied with the first thing that came to your mind.

“Your whole thing is being a crow in a flesh suit. I really don’t want to listen to someone who would stop everything that’s happening in their life to pick up something shiny from off the ground.”

You entered your room before he could respond and closed the door on his face. Mammon stood there in shock while Levi and Asmo began snickering in the background. They couldn’t deny the truth in your words.

Mammon was stubborn when he wanted to be and that left the two of you giving each other the silent treatment. Just like he would do with any of his other siblings.

But, eventually, he apologized. Especially when he saw you growing closer to his other brothers in his absence.

Please forgive him. All of his other brothers have told them they wished he wasn’t their brother or part of their family. He can’t handle hearing that from you too.

If you were a teenager who liked going out and doing things on a regular basis, you and Levi probably wouldn’t have a lot in common. And it would be hard to spend time with him.

But, if you were a teenager who liked watching anime and playing video games, you and Levi would be best friends.

He was still wary of you at first. After all, you were a normie. And even if you were a teenage normie, he could never be too careful.

He’ll slowly open up to you though. If you impress him with your own otaku skills, the process will be even faster. Deep down, Levi just wants a friend who likes the same things he likes.

He wanted someone he could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t brush him off or tell them that he wasn’t making any sense.

Levi will invite you over to play games with him often. He enjoys playing with someone who is actually competent.

But even he isn’t safe from how sassy you could be. And if you and Levi played a game against each other, your competitive side came out and so did the sassy comments on both sides.

Levi had heard of a fighting game that was very popular up in the human world and he was dying to try it. He wanted to know how it compared to the fighting games that they have in the Devildom.

Let the trash-talking commence.

You’ll surprise Levi with the first couple of things you say. But he’ll quickly begin to fight back with his own remarks. Both of you fight diligently with both your words and the controllers.

And, when you start winning, Levi’s jealousy starts getting the better of him. He’ll tell you things like “You’re cheating” or “It’s because it’s a game from the human world.”

“Come on, Levi, just admit you’re not as skilled as me in video games,” you retorted. His eyes were now glowing as his fingers were pushing the buttons on the controller rapidly. He had to win.

“I won!” you exclaimed with a proud smile. That smile faltered though when you saw Levi’s expression. A dark aura surrounded him as he stated in a low voice, “I want a rematch.”

“Yeah, and I want a million dollars. But right now I don’t feel like beating an old man who’s lost his reaction time at a videogame…again,” you replied, before getting up and leaving.

Levi let out a small gasp as you left the room. Old man?! I mean, he technically was considering he was at least a few centuries old. But he has not lost his reaction time!! How could you say something so rude to him? He just needed practice, that was all.

Levi will pester you for the next few days, begging you to play with him. He’ll tell you his reaction time is better and that he won’t lose. He won’t give up until you either tell him that you think he’s a great gamer or until he beats you in the game.

Satan will take it upon himself to be the one who helps you with all of your studies. He usually won’t be the one who encourages you to neglect your education in favor of having some fun.

He would rather ensure your success. He wants you to be at the top of the class, with his help. He just wanted the best for you. And he wanted to rub it in Lucifer’s face later.

He’ll always suggest the two of you have tutoring sessions where he can help make sure you understand the lessons that are being taught.

He’ll stay late after class or show up early. He’ll meet you at the library or at the cafe. Wherever you would agree to meet him.

And although you appreciated him trying to help you, sometimes it was a bit much. Especially when it was early in the morning.

Which is exactly when Satan decided to have your latest study session. You were barely awake and hadn’t had any food or coffee yet.

You were sitting at a table, your books opened in front of you as Satan went on a rant about one of the lessons. Your mind was barely keeping up with what he was saying.

All you wanted to do was go back to bed, but Satan’s rant was never-ending as he tried explaining all the intricacies of the subject you were studying.

You finally had enough when you had to catch yourself from falling out of your chair after you had accidentally fallen asleep.

“Okay, Satan, look I love you, but I hardly remember the difference between a verb and a noun so I have no idea what the actual fuck you are saying with your mouth and your face right now,” you stated.

Satan was taken aback at your sudden outburst. His eyes were wide as he suddenly took in your tired look. Normally, he would argue that it’s important to study. But, today he responded with, “We can pick this up later.”

You were thankful that you were finally able to return to your room and Satan was more careful about planning your study sessions. He’ll do his best not to overwhelm you again.

Also, don’t think Satan was only serious around you. Satan had a very playful nature, especially when it came to Lucifer. And you were the perfect vessel for some of his pranks.

Satan knew that Lucifer couldn’t do anything towards you so he would beg you to be part of his pranks that he and Belphie would play on Lucifer. You were an integral part of the Anti-Lucifer league after all.

Sometimes you were bait, luring Lucifer into staying in a specific spot for too long. Sometimes, you were the one who actually set off the prank while Satan or Belphie distracted the eldest.

It hardly ever worked. Lucifer almost always knew what the three of you were up to. But it didn’t stop any of you from trying.

Satan thoroughly enjoyed having you there to help him. He believed you fit in with the family perfectly.

He also related to you the most as you were both considered “late-comers” to the party. Neither of you had been angels, and although you weren’t a demon, Satan still felt like he connected with you.

You never made him feel like you were better than him or like he wasn’t his own person and he was thankful to have a sibling like that.

Asmo thinks you are the most adorable thing in the world. He was the first one to dote on you out of all his brothers. How could he not?

Asmo is very accepting of you from the start and thinks of you as family almost right away.

He’s like Mammon in the sense that he wants to be the one to show you around the Devildom and teach you all the tricks he knows.

He wants to show you how to charm people and get them under your spell. Of course, he has to approve of the person you’re trying to charm and he’ll only let it go so far.

He’s the Avatar of Lust - but NO PDA. You were too young for that and these were demons after all. He didn’t trust a single one of them.

He’ll only let you try your charm on age-appropriate people and only until you have them hooked so that you know how to do it. Then, he’ll charm the person to go away himself.

You better believe he also wanted to dress you up in all of the outfits in the Devildom. He loved taking pictures of you and posting them on Devilgram with captions like “Look at my lovely sibling! Aren’t they cutest?!”

But it could be overwhelming sometimes. The constant shopping trips and photo ops. The constant fashion shows and meeting new people all the time.

Adjusting to the Devildom was a task on its own and there were times when you just needed to be alone and recharge your social battery. Times when you just needed some peace and quiet.

You were trying on the sixth outfit of the night in Asmo’s bedroom. You had asked if you could be done on outfit number three. All you wanted to do was go to your room and relax.

Asmo promised the two of you would be done soon, but you saw no end in sight.

“Only a few more,” Asmo told you, shoving his arms full of clothes.

You let out a groan and Asmo turned to face you. You finally let the words you’d been holding back fly out of your mouth.

“Asmo, I know you’re too glam to give a damn, but I’m not your personal mannequin and all I want to do is lay down and relax!” you shouted, feeling relieved as you finally spoke the truth that was weighing you down.

Asmo isn’t used to you snapping at him like this, so he’ll give you some time to calm down. He doesn’t want to keep pushing your buttons.

Once you start talking to him again, he’ll want to do a spa day with you instead of going shopping. He’ll pay more attention to your needs and he won’t force you into doing anything you don’t want to do.

At the end of the day, Asmo is a very caring sibling and only wants the best for his family.

The first time Beel saw you, he couldn’t help but think about how much you reminded him of Lilith.

It was simple things. Things he noticed just from where he was standing in the assembly hall when you first came to the Devildom.

Your big and innocent eyes. Your gentle and loving smile. You were so full of life, just like she was.

It didn’t take long for Beel to take you under his wing and decide to protect you. He acted like an older sibling and he was always there for you.

If you were upset, he’d find a way to cheer you up. If you were bored, he’d try to entertain you. If you were hungry - he knew just the cure!

When he found out that you had a connection to Lilith, Beel was ecstatic. It wasn’t your connection to Lilith that made Beel love you more. You were your own person and he’d never compare you to his little sister.

It was the fact that your connection to Lilith meant that you truly were part of the family. That you belonged no matter what obstacles stood in the way. It didn’t matter if you were human - he would always think of you as family.

When Belphie attacked you and killed you, Beel really thought he failed. He was plagued with images of Lilith dying. Belphie didn’t understand what he was doing - how Beel felt about you.

He didn’t understand how badly it hurt Beel to watch someone he thought of as a younger sibling die in front of him - again.

When he saw that you were alive he had never felt more relieved. He promised you he would never let anything happen to you again. That he would protect you like any good big brother would.

And he was the perfect older sibling - for the most part.

Lucifer had taken you up to the human world for a task. While you were up there, he allowed you to get whatever you wanted and bring it back down to Devildom.

You shopped around for a bit until you saw a supply of food that you used to eat all of the time. Food that reminded you of your childhood.

You immediately got it and brought it back with you.

You wanted to shower before you ate it because it had been a long day but when you returned to the kitchen, you were heartbroken at the sight in front of you.

Beel had eaten all of it! You didn’t even get to have a single bite of it. You could feel the emotions building up in you. Mostly because of the nostalgia that came with the food.

“Beel,” you stated, pausing for a moment to stabilize your wavering voice. “How could you?” you asked.

Beel looked up innocently from the food, a questioning look. He didn’t have the slightest clue what he did wrong.

“I get that you're a bottomless pit and that you're practically Kirby on steroids. But can't you just for once think about what you're eating before you eat it!” you stated before storming off.

The next day, Beel made sure to get the same food for you and brought it to your room as an apology.

He would do his best to never eat your food without asking again because he realized teenagers could be scary when they were hangry.

Belphie obviously doesn’t have a good first impression of you. You had never done anything to him, he just innately hated you because of the fact that you were human.

He attacked you with no remorse until he saw how it affected his brothers. They were so upset about losing you and he couldn’t comprehend why.

He saw the way they embraced you when they found out you were alive and the scene triggered something in his brain. A memory of someone he loved the same way.

Belphie didn’t attack you again, despite his instincts telling him to do so. He was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

Things between you and Belphie were tense for a while. You knew that he hated you because you were a human. But it’s not like you could do anything about it. There was no way for you to change your race, and even if there was, you wouldn’t do it just to appease Belphie.

Like Beel, the more time he spent around you, the more he saw you as a younger sibling.

He would protect you like an older brother, but he was the least serious out of all the demon brothers.

Your carefree nature was one of the things he adored. He enjoyed watching you be improper in front of Diavolo and the way it made Lucifer look like he was going to pop a blood vessel.

The way you talked back to Lucifer also entertained him. It was something all of the brothers wanted to do at one point or another, but they didn’t have the luxury to do so.

Yet you were just a teenage human and you dared to stand up to the Morningstar himself.

The first time you did it, Belphie immediately deemed you a worthy member of the Anti-Lucifer League.

He had so much fun pranking Lucifer with you and Satan and he was thankful that you had brought him closer to the fourth-eldest.

He never once judged you for your sass or asked you to tone it down. He loved it because he could be just as witty when he wanted to be.

He also never thought that your sass would be directed towards him.

That was until you got caught in the crossfires of one of their pranks.

Satan and Belphie had neglected to tell you that they had placed a cursed object in the living room, expecting Lucifer to pick it up. You found it first though.

The second you touched it, your entire body immediately froze and you were unable to move or speak.

Belphie and Satan came in with proud smiles on their faces until they saw that the person they had cursed was you.

They immediately rushed to your aid and Satan began saying spell after spell to try and undo the magic.

Lucifer had entered the scene at some point and was holding back his scolding until after Satan had remedied the situation.

As soon as you were free you turned to all three men and stated, “I know this was your idea, Belphegor. I’ve had it with all the pranks. They’re silly, they take a ton of time to prepare and they never even actually hit Lucifer! It always fails or hits whoever else happens to fall for it.”

“Satan, I know that you don’t like Lucifer because you were born from him, but the only one who actually makes a big deal out of it is you! And Belphie, you are the youngest brother! Everyone dotes on you so stop acting like Carrie at the prom because you fit in just fine. And Lucifer, for the love of all things would it kill you to tell your brothers that you love them at least once in a while so that I don’t have to suffer through pranks like these anymore!”

At some point, your rant had attracted the other members of the House of Lamentation who were all looking at you with wide eyes.

You were a sassy human, but you were their human. You were part of their family and you did fit right in. They were proud to call you their human.

Especially Belphie who was somewhat glad that not even he was safe from your rants when you had been pushed to your limit.

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chipster-321 · 1 year ago

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Listen…it never occurred to me that Fizz WASN’T WEARING JESTER MAKE UP.

His entire face is one massive scar…and that red spot isn’t lipstick…it’s the one spot that didn’t take the full brunt explosion thanks to the clown nose…

I don’t know if people already figured that out but I certainly hadn’t. And Christ the full extent of his injury…

He lost his legs quickly in one go but his arms…omg Fizz 🥺

We already knew he must have lost his legs and arms and horns in the accident but omg seeing it…we were not prepared…

#spoilers #fizzaroli helluva boss #helluva boss #helluva stolas #robo fizz #omg fizz you poor thing #tw: body horror #helluva boss oops

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lexsssu · 8 months ago

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Adoration (Alhaitham)

TAGS: Alhaitham/Wife!Bunny!reader, cockwarming, pregnant sex, drabble Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

The last thing anyone expected of the Akademiya’s scribe was him being a doting husband. Or well…finding anyone willing to put up with his personality enough to want to spend the rest of their life with him.

While it’s no secret that he was an objectively handsome man with many achievements to his name who would make any mother or father clamor to have their daughters married to him, Alhaitham’s personality was simply too much.

Of Sumeru’s hottest bachelors, he was the most difficult to get along with, regardless if one was a scholar, a wealthy merchant, or even just an ordinary civilian.

He simply wasn’t interested in anyone…until you.

If anything, it should have come as no surprise to anyone that the only person who could capture the stoic scribe’s heart and thaw it out would be his Akademiya sweetheart.

While the two of you hadn’t been officially together at that point in your lives, more than one person had noticed that you were the only woman Alhaitham willingly associated with outside of his academics.

Those rumors about finding you sitting on the scribe’s lap while he tutored you in some secluded corner of the House of Daena didn’t feel so farfetched after all. If anything, it certainly explained just how long this relationship had been brewing even before it had come to light.

And just like those seemingly fantastical rumors, you are once again settled on your favorite seat within your now shared home with your husband as he read through various reports and journals with one hand.

With his cock stuffed so snuggly within your cunt that had bore the brunt of his relentless affections barely half an hour earlier, your head using his defined chest as a pillow, and his hand rubbing the already noticeable baby bump on your middle, there is no place the both of you would rather be.

#lexsssu writes #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x you #alhaitham x female reader #genshin impact smut #crossposted on ao3

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wttcsms · 2 months ago

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ if you love me right, then who knows !!

ᝰ.ᐟ you decide it's time to let your beloved bodyguard relax. ( fem!reader )

pairing jinchul woo x reader word count 2.4k content contains breeding kink, creampie, roleplaying domesticity (pretending to be husband&wife), bodyguard!au, rich girl!reader, size difference/size kink kinktober masterlist

It’s been a rough day, give or take.

From the moment Jinchul Woo steps into the office, he’s been slammed with work. Hunters not returning, hunters looking to sue because of jobs gone wrong, new gates opening up at every other second, coworkers who are so swamped with work that they’re looking to pass it off to anybody and everybody — and as the chairman’s right-hand man, Jinchul gets the privilege of taking the brunt of it. How lucky is that?

And it’s because he’s the chairman’s most trusted employee (and the strongest A-Rank he has in his arsenal), that when all is said and done, the working day isn’t over for Jinchul.

Instead of coming home to his stark apartment, empty save for the essential pieces of furniture, like a couch he put purely for its functional purposes instead of aesthetic reasons, he finds himself pulling up to a gated estate, opening the clicker so the gate opens to allow his car inside, and then he’s parking in a garage full of luxury vehicles.

For the past month and for the foreseeable future, Jinchul Woo has been given the assignment of a lifetime: watching over the only granddaughter the chairman has. Even if Jinchul didn’t respect Go Gunhee, there would have been no room for Jinchul to deny the chairman’s request. Him asking to take care of you was just a formality. And as a formal man himself, Jinchul can respect that.

The only issue is that you’re not one for formalities. As a college-aged girl with more money and privileges than most, it’s no surprise that you’re a bit of a brat. The moment you saw Jinchul and learned that he was to be at your beck and call, Jinchul knew he was in trouble.

He just never knew just how far he’d go to reprimand you.

It all starts off innocently enough; he supposes that’s how most things go. Gentle scoldings here, a few lectures there. But ever perceptive, Jinchul would catch the way you clench your thighs and rub them together every time he gets onto you. He notices the way you decide to walk around the mansion in pajama sets that get more revealing by the day. The way you start asking him to open jars for you and to build furniture that you don’t need. He knows better than to ever act on your desires, but his resolve to remain unaffected crumbles the second you practically pounced on him, batting your pretty lashes slick with tears, asking him why he won’t fuck you. Is it because you’re not pretty enough? Smart, driven? What is it?

No. He thinks you’re absolutely perfect the way you are. And he spends that night fucking you, showing his devotion to you, all while reprimanding you in a way that will certainly leave an impression: spanking you for teasing him, for constantly disobeying him on purpose.

That’s how sex usually initiates between the two of you. You decide to push his buttons and wait for him to snap.

But Jinchul is pleasantly surprised when he walks in, slipping off his shoes and tossing aside his briefcase, only to be greeted at the sight of you on your knees, wearing an apron, smiling up at him sweetly.

“Welcome home, husband,” You chirp cheerfully.

For once in your dynamic, it seems like Jinchul’s the one in trouble now.

He swallows hard, looking down at the demure sight of you.

“Wha- what is this, exactly?” Jinchul stutters, unable to remain composed, nervously tugging at the tight knot of his work tie.

“Can’t a wife greet her husband when he comes home?” You pout, and it all clicks.

The guys at work always say it’s easy for Jinchul to pull in overtime and work himself to death; after all, it’s not like he has a family or a wife or even a girlfriend who’s going to stay up late, worrying about him. One night, when Jinchul decides to grab a drink after work and comes back to you, you help him onto the couch, worried. He had been too drunk to realize it at that moment, but the fact that you stayed up because he hadn’t come home to you yet makes his heart ache. (It’s why he doesn’t pull in as much overtime as he used to, no matter how hectic work gets.) That night, he admits that it’d be nice to have a wife and start a family, to have something distract him from work, to pull him out of the misery of paperwork and other people’s troubles.

He didn’t realize how that drunken confession would impact you.

He runs a hand through his blond hair, messing up the styled strands, disrupting the hair gel. “Get up, honey.” He tacks on the pet name, trying it out for the first time. It rolls off his tongue easily, a little too easy, really. He pats your head, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by him how much larger his hand looks when it’s anywhere near your body as opposed to his own.

“That’s not fair. I wanted to treat you to something special.” You get up, though you’re still pouting.

“Oh, yeah?” He’s walking to the kitchen, wondering whether it would just be easier to order takeout, before the scent of a home cooked meal hits him. “Did you cook?”

“Of course, I did.” You cross your arms, bringing attention to the pink apron you’re wearing. “Why wouldn’t I?” You seem happy that he’s surprised about this. “Now go to the dining room, and you’ll see that I already have your plate ready! Just wait a second, though. I have to reheat the soup.”

Jinchul doesn’t go to the dining room, though. He remains rooted in his spot because he’s frozen at the view you’re giving him when you turn around. Underneath the apron, you’re wearing nothing. Not even a pair of panties. You’re crouching down a bit to bring your mouth closer to the pot of soup, and you’re sipping from the ladle, testing to see whether it’s warm enough or not.

“Ah!” You let out a squeal when you feel the muscular body of Jinchul, the only thing separating him from you being the stiff fabric of his suit. Quick with his reflexes, Jinchul reaches from behind you to catch the ladle before it falls into the pot, potentially splattering you with hot soup. He places it gently in, before shutting off the stove entirely.

“Jinchul.” You whine, bending awkwardly to try to look at him. “The food will get cold.”

“I know, but can’t a husband just take a moment to appreciate his wife?” You love it when Jinchul’s voice gets all low and husky like this, every word he says coated in his dark desire. His large hands grip your waist, squeezing you gently but firmly, and you feel the growing bulge of his cock straining against his suit pants. “If I knew you went through all this trouble, I would’ve told the guys at work to fuck off so I could come home to you sooner.” He whispers this in your ear, leaning down. The strands of his hair tickle your cheeks, and before you can tell him that it’s okay, he’s spinning you around to face him.

You look up at him, and he’s grinning, licking his lips as he stares down at you. “I’m sorry, honey, I know you worked hard but dinner’s going to have to wait. I need to fuck you.” His tone lowers a bit more. “Can I fuck you, honey?”

“Of course.” You choke out the words, too caught up in just how hot Jinchul looks when he’s unbearably horny. He’s so careful, so put together, so stoic in his everyday life. It suddenly occurs to you that when he’s with you, this is the only time he gets to be a little unhinged, to relieve his stress.

He’s easily picking you up, placing you right on the granite island of the kitchen. Even sitting on the elevated surface, you still have to look up at Jinchul, and he still has to lean down to crash his lips into yours. You moan into his mouth, enjoying how messy and sloppy Jinchul makes out with you. It’s a stark difference from how he handles everything else in his life, and you want to unravel him just a bit more.

While he’s sloppily kissing you, swapping spit and swallowing up your moans, he’s making quick work of the bow of your apron, untying the knot and slipping off the tiny strip of fabric from your body. The cold air of the mansion hits you in full force, and you shiver a bit.

“Spread your legs for me.” He grunts out, when he momentarily separates from you, and you comply. He takes a sharp breath, admiring the way your folds are already glistening, how you’re already wet for him. “Were you this wet the entire time?” He asks, dragging his index and middle fingers against your slit.

You nod, knowing that anything you say will only be caught in between your little pleasured mewls.

“You got wet waiting for me to come home? What were you thinking about?”

“I-I wanted to welcome you home with a blowjob before you ate dinner.” You confess, more slick being produced when the fantasy re-enters your mind.

His eyes darken at the sound of that. “Yeah? Fuck — you’re such a good wife, you know that?” The tips of his long fingers tease your soaked entrance, and he leans down to whisper in your ear. “We’ll have more nights for you to do that, don’t worry. But tonight, I’m going to be a good husband and treat you so well. You know what good girls like you deserve?”

You shake your head, not knowing what filth might come out of Jinchul’s mouth.

“You deserve to have me fucking a baby into you. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, feeling the way your hole clings to the tips of his fingers, eager for more, desperate for it. “Yeah, I knew you would.”

Jinchul makes quick work of his pants, undoing his belt and unzipping his trousers, pushing down the layers of fabric ‘til his cock can finally spring free from its confines. He pumps his cock once, twice, but he’s too starved of you to do much more. You’re so wet, the need for prep has long since disappeared, and besides, Jinchul’s fucked you like this many times before. Before you took on the role of wife, you were the brat he had to babysit, and to teach you a lesson, he’s fucked your cunt with no courtesy orgasm to prepare you.

And you love it.

You’re already writhing, laying down on the cold granite of the counter as you spread your legs, inviting Jinchul in, gasping and moaning at the way he taps the head of his cock teasingly against your slit before inserting the head in. He’s in love with the sight of his long cock disappearing into your wet, tight cunt.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, honey.” He grunts out, sliding his cock further into you ‘til he’s balls deep. You haven’t stopped moaning the entire time.

He leans down to capture one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking and biting at the soft flesh as he starts steadily pounding into you, getting into that quick, jagged rhythm of his that he’s particularly fond of when he’s in a rush to cum. His mouth moves upwards, sucking and kissing at your collarbone, moving further up until he’s planting a kiss right on your lips, inhaling your moans of pleasure, keeping up with his same, quick pace, battering away at your cervix.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, honey?” He asks you, feeling the way you tighten up. “Yeah, I knew my little wife would love this. You ready for me to get you pregnant, sweetheart?” He coos, and you can’t help but nod. A little Jinchul running around wouldn’t be too bad, right? In fact, right now, with his dick making you see nothing but stars, you think several tiny Jinchuls would be a dream come true.

You can’t answer him using your voice, but you do wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him in place as if he was going to run off. He smiles at your reaction, taking a calloused thumb to rub circles against your clit, relishing in the feel of your walls tightening around him.

“Ah, ah, ah!” You squeal out, before letting out a jumbled stream of syllables that sounds distinctly like his name. You’re creaming all over him and his cock, the cock that’s splitting you open, the cock that’s going to get you fucking nice and bred, all for him, only for him. His grin is feral as he continues with his thrust, now content to chase after his own high. The ring of white circling around his cock only motivates him further, and he’s shoving himself deep inside of your messy cunt as he cums.

Shooting copious amounts of thick, white cum right at the entrance of your cervix, practically straight into your fucking womb, Jinchul still keeps rutting his hips until you let out a weak whine.

“Aw, are you too tired, honey?” He asks you, giving you a forehead kiss. “Just give me a second, okay?” He tells you, waiting for the pleasure of your walls clamping on his dick to subside. Even after his cock gets too sensitive and begs for relief, he remains inside of you, still wanting to enjoy the feeling of your cunt twitching around his cock, swallowing up his cum.

He rests his forehead against your own. “You feeling alright, honey?” Even though the act should be over, Jinchul is still calling you by that pet name, and you love it. You don’t protest it, but you try not to draw attention to it, out of fear that he’ll realize he should stop pretending and shatter the illusion. Despite his cock plugging you up, a trickle of the mixture of your shared cum is trickling out of your cunt, and you let out a mhm.

“Ah, I should get up and reheat the soup for you.” You mumble, struggling to lift yourself from the counter. He only pushes you back down, shushing you.

“You should rest. Let me heat it up.” Jinchul’s hand finds your own, and he’s entangling your fingers together. “But let’s stay like this just a little bit longer.”

You don’t complain, letting the warmth of Jinchul blanket you. You want to stay together like this forever.

(And he does, too.)

#jinchul woo x reader #woo jinchul #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling fanfiction #smut #lemon #one shot #drabble #imagine #kinktober 2024

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romaritimeharbor · 2 months ago

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HEARTH FLAME. — In which the Knave's heir decides their fate.

— trigger & content warnings. depictions of injury (& the recovery following it), pain medications and slightly implied impairment of judgment because of them. it isn't really outright though and could honestly be ignored.

— pairings & notes. ambiguous genre; may be considered hurt/comfort. arlecchino & heir!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). reader is a member of the house of the hearth and is arlecchino's chosen heir. occurs after the events of arlecchino's story quest. 2.1k words.

— author's thoughts. i would say "i swear i'm very normal about arlecchino" but i feel as if we all know that is not true. anyways for those that care about the lore behind this series of fics, i perceive this as the "turning point" in arle & [name]'s relationship in which the latter begins to realize how serious being the knave's heir is. but rn they are delirious on pain meds and do not realize the fate that they have condemned themselves to. yeag

Lightning struck their body at even the slightest of muscle twitches.

The bruises on their skin hidden underneath gauze and bandages throbbed with agonizing heat, their insides twisted and churned as their body attempted to repair whatever manner of internal injuries that they had oh-so lovingly been gifted, and their mind begged for restful sleep.

(No matter how tired they were, ever since they had awoken after being asleep for about a day, they had not been able to fall back asleep again... at least, not in a way that mattered. Their sleep was plagued by nightmares and worries that they could not shake, all concerning the very person who had put them in this condition in the first place. She hadn't come to see them yet. They were certain she would have, but she hadn't.

Was father... upset? Did they upset her?)

A soft sigh left their lips as they stared upwards at the ceiling from their bed—even the simple task turning over was nigh impossible, so they dared not attempt anything other than sleep. At least the admittedly rather laborious task of trying to fall asleep did not wrack their body with searing hurt.

In their spar, Father was neither kind nor easy on them, and they had a sneaking suspicion that she was especially hard on them. Lyney was already standing again and on the move, meanwhile Lynette and Freminet ended up slipping by with relatively minimal injuries, but them? Bedridden, without the slightest hope of being able to stand in the coming hours... or even days, probably. Their legs pulsed at the thought alone.

...But they did take the brunt of Father's attacks, so they supposed that was their own fault.

— flower of the universe !! 🌸

"I will not sit idly by and watch you bring unfathomable harm to my siblings."

Standing immovably in front of Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet with their weapon pointedly raised at the very woman who raised them was certainly not how they had anticipated their day going. Nevertheless, they were in that exact situation, and backing down was the last thing on their mind. Lyney seemed to want to say something—to tell them, to warn them, not to be stupid, maybe.

...But really, Lyney knew better, and as much as he worried for his sibling's safety, he also knew extremely well how Father was and how they were.

She would want to see their display of strength, no matter how miniscule in comparison to hers.

And them—they would not dare let Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet face this alone, even if it meant risking their safety and wellbeing.

(He also happened to know that his sibling could be a tad too eager to show Father the display of strength she desired, but that was just his own opinion, muddled by his biases and his own desire to protect and care for his siblings. He knew and recognized how his desires played tricks on him, but it did not make him any less bothered by what he liked to think of as his sibling's 'recklessness.')

Arlecchino's stare threatened to pry apart their soul at its very seams, but they failed to waver. Instead, they firmly returned her stare, albeit with less intensity. Their grip on their weapon tightened.

The Knave was going to absolutely destroy them, though hopefully not beyond repair.

They knew that, and they were fine with that. It was an inevitable truth; so be it.

In the defense of their siblings, they would be more than happy to shed blood—someone else's, or theirs.

"...I hope you can forgive me, Father."

In this case, theirs.

— flower of the universe !! 🌸

Destroy them, she most certainly did. It wasn't an unexpected outcome. They knew better than to think that they could actually beat her; at least their showing of strength (combined with that of their siblings' and the Traveler's) was enough to compel her to give a kinder execution.

'Execution.' Hm.

Execution.

The word bounced around in their mind for some time as they pondered.

They weren't quite sure if they saw it that way or not—on one hand, the mind was killed and reborn, but on the other, the body remained alive and unharmed.

What kind of execution could be so... gentle? So forgiving? None that they had ever heard of. No executions were so tender and compassionate as to preserve the gift of life.

...Perhaps that was simply a different kind of execution than what they were used to.

As their mind wandered, they absentmindedly mused about what their freed siblings were doing.

'Filliol and Nanteuil... where are you two now?'

Were they enjoying the sun?

Hopefully.

The soft click of a door opening and closing caught their attention, and for a moment they felt extreme relief—finally, someone had come to administer their pain medications... the ache sinking into their bones was about to finish what Arlecchino had begun at this point—but the click of heels that followed made their chest tighten nervously.

They turned their head slightly to the side. At their bedside stood none other than the Knave herself, an unreadable expression crossing her face when she saw the state they were in.

Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

"Father..."

"My child."

Arlecchino was quick to drag the stool at the foot of their bed to the side and sit.

"Father, I—"

They tried to sit up, grimacing through the pain that clawed across the entirety of their body as they did. The Fourth did not allow them to get far, however, and placed a firm hand on their chest. They had no choice but to settle back down, as the strength she was exerting against them was far too great for them to combat.

"Do not get up. You will only hurt yourself—"

"Father—"

"—And spare yourself the chore of speaking."

Their mouth closed without another word. All they could do was stare up at her, eyes wide and bewildered and perfectly displaying all the questions they wished to ask (and a bit glazed over due to the combined factors of their exhaustion and the strength of the medication they had been on), though one in particular stood out the most:

'Why are you here?'

Maybe the Knave could read their mind.

(She had no such ability. To know her children and what they were thinking was simply part of her responsibility as Father.)

"My child," she mused again, this time not in greeting, though she did not continue. Perhaps she was looking for the words. Her fingers gingerly brushed the hair from their face, briefly brushing over the scratch across their forehead.

Ah.

One among the many wounds she bestowed upon them a day prior. One of the most mild of her gifts, actually.

It wasn't regret that washed upon her upon realizing the severity of their wounds in particular—no, they made the choice to join the fight knowing well that she would not be gentle on them or their siblings, and she would argue that regret was a useless emotion only capable of holding one back. What's done was done. It was as simple as that. Regret, much like sorrow, does naught but hold a person back.

...Yet, she still felt something, though she struggled identifying what it was.

Maybe...

Maybe, now that the Fourth had seen them and the extent of the wounds she delivered, she felt that she had neglected her obligation as Father to visit their bedside in the midst of their healing.

"I'm sorry."

Their voice cut through her thoughts. Though they tried their very best to mask it, it wavered almost imperceptibly, the tremble only audible to trained ears—ears like hers. The Fourth Harbinger was not known for being obtruse. She noticed, and they could tell. Nothing ever slipped by her.

"And what is it that you are apologizing for, exactly?"

"I... I don't know. I just feel like you're disappointed in me somehow, and I don't know how else to remedy it at the moment."

'At the moment,' she assumed, meant their current bedridden state.

"I know not what has given you such an impression. I am not disappointed."

"...You're not?"

"Certainly not. If you are referring to your interception of our spar," she began, "defending your family is the most kingly action you could have taken in that moment. In fact, I expected no less of you."

"I'm not kingly," they replied, offering a weak chuckle as they continued: "At least, I don't feel kingly right now..."

"Then how is it that you feel?"

"Pathetic, maybe." They turned their head fully to the side so that they were able to meet her gaze. "I know I can't and probably will never be able to triumph over you in a spar, but—"

"Perish the thought," Arlecchino dismissed. "Immediately."

"Huh?"

Her eyes bore into theirs. This time, much unlike the time they stared at her in battle, they did not feel fear or nervous anticipation of what was to come.

"You did not win the war," she affirmed, "but I would certainly say you won the battle."

She leaned closer. With one hand, she brushed the framing hair that normally fell over her cheeks to the side.

There, a long cut was scabbed over with dry crimson, and suddenly, their heart leapt—whether it was from an odd pride in having been able to actually hit her, or shame and embarrassment that they actually caused harm to Father of all people, they did not know.

The Knave allowed her hair to fall back into place.

"Though the odds were stacked against you and yours, you ultimately managed to wound me. This was something that not even your siblings managed to achieve."

"I could argue that it's only because there were so many of us."

"Perhaps, but it was still you who caused this wound. I lost track of you for only a moment and you took the opportunity. Progress does not happen overnight, child, and your strength is still growing. One day, you will be the king of this house. You will deliver these kinds of wounds to others, as I have delivered to you." Her gaze shifted to their bedside table. "...That is, if you so desire that life."

The bottled flame swirled and flared in the vial under her gaze, as if it sought to melt through the glass and lunge, consuming everything in its wake and leaving nothing but ash behind.

Ah. Right.

They had almost forgotten that she had also allocated the resources needed to complete her 'execution' to them.

Silence, heavy with the weight of implication, endured for what seemed to be an eternity.

Then, they broke it:

"I do not wish to leave the house."

Arlecchino would have been perfectly content with letting them free—with snipping away at the webs they were so deeply entangled in, letting the flames cleanse the darkness from their veins, and thereby permitting them to step into the sun.

And yet... that was not what they wanted.

Perhaps it was a blend of bewilderment, pride, and annoyance that stirred in her chest.

What a foolish child they were, refusing freedom when it was so readily within their grasp. They had earned it, and yet they chose to reject it? How foolish, indeed.

The Fourth's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she gazed down at them.

"Hm. Is that so?"

"Yes."

...But that foolish child was hers—her child and her successor. Hers, and hers for a reason, for better or worse.

If all of the Knaves who came before Peruere were not stubborn, then there would be no Knave to begin with. It was, therefore, only right that her heir be as much of a stubborn fool as she.

Her eyes seemed to soften, if only by a miniscule amount. Arlecchino placed a warm hand over their own, resting idly across their torso, and they hummed, daring to shift and intertwine her fingers with theirs.

Brief tender moments, always flickering like a dying flame, were rare in the House of the Hearth, especially when permitted or even initiated by Father.

Thus, they had no problem taking advantage of the situation that they were in, eyes fluttering shut as her warmth oozed into their hand and slowly crawled up their arm. It would soon consume their entire being, but rather than being scorched by it, they were certain that they would be lulled to sleep by it.

"So be it, then," she murmured, thumb absentmindedly running across their knuckle. "You are a fool."

A smile. The first that Arlecchino had seen from them in days, in fact, and it seemed to soothe something within her. "I know."

"Do not disappoint me."

Her tone cut as sharply as a knife, but they did not appear to mind a single bit; all they could do was smile at her.

Even when she was threatening them, all they could do was smile.

"I won't."

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#✧— aphe's creations.#astronetwrk #divider by @/cafekitsune ♡#platonic genshin #platonic genshin x reader #platonic x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin impact #arlecchino x reader #platonic arlecchino x reader #arlecchino @ reader: what an idiot child. my idiot child (un)fortunately

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inchidentally · 5 months ago

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this entire week was a LOT for Oscar and Lando clinging to each other through responsibilities but Sunday was like a masterclass in Oscar 'Let Me Take Care Of Lando' Piastri during what was sadly probably going to end up being one of Lando's darkest days

first Oscar fucking bodying the disappointment of his own race by chuckling ruefully about it in the interview next to a brooding (but at one point smiling!) Carlos. then Oscar looking at Lando's forlorn little face during the group photo...

and deciding from there on out to be Gregarious Outgoing Oscar - to pick up the remainders of their home race weekend on his very strong shoulders and see it all through on a high

like goddamn is his competence and maturity and sense of responsibility and desire to perform acts of service specifically for Lando are sexy as hELL !! starting with bearing the brunt of the post race recap so Lando doesn't have to - and watching Lando finally smile by continuing the tradition of saying "thanks Osc" is such a relief and Oscar would probably let Lando use any nickname he liked so long as it made him smile like that.

and then Lando - who'd been fighting a full on breakdown since the wrong choice of tyres right up to the group photo and working very hard to be happy for the team - sees Oscar putting in all of this effort and watching him and hovering and even doing that standing back a few paces so that Lando's home crowd can focus on Lando! and Lando knows he can do just as he likes and Oscar will allow anything! won't even do his completely fake and ultimately futile "scolding" no he's gonna give Lando whatever he wants just to make Lando smile and laugh. he's gonna 'keep him happy' :)

and Lando wants another shoey! he wants it to be Their Thing at Silverstone! and he wants Oscar's shoe and for Oscar to go first! and then Oscar gives in immediately and purrs "well since you put it like that" and Lando doesn't even fight the smile spreading across his face. then when it's his turn he wants to giggle and squirm and put his hands behind his back, ducking his head and going all cute like "but Oscah I'm too petite and fertile for a shoey" and he's loving Oscar going all pushy and pulling his pigtails, his absurd white sock treading in cold beer as he advances on Lando and not giving a damn bc Lando's dimples are out and he's being so cute and it's all for Oscar :)

and then suddenly Lando wants to project all of his frustrations into Oscar's shoe and hurtles it into the crowd and he can't quite believe he did that but!! Oscar is doubled over with laughter so Lando doubles over too and it's so wild and absurd and any other friend would steal one of Lando's shoes in retaliation and hurl it at the crowd - but not Oscar !! Oscar is exuding relief at seeing Lando this happy and Oscar never thinks of taking a second of that joy for himself and he is so happy to be the foil for Lando to act up and be wild and feel all of his feelings because it makes Lando feel !Safe! knowing that Oscar will never throw him a curve ball or do anything unexpected and whatever Lando says or does, Oscar will make it all okay by finding it hilarious or cute or he'll pretend to be exasperated and it's all the same thing really.

because Oscar doesn't care about the media! he appreciates the fans but he's not going to sacrifice any of himself for us and he certainly won't dance or perform! he doesn't care about his "image" so long as he's mostly left alone to focus on what's important to him. he doesn't give a damn about PR and he REALLY didn't care about creating a bromance or a PR package with Lando, not just bc it's not Oscar's thing but also bc Oscar had spent 8 years enjoying Lando as a driver and genuinely liking what he saw of him online. he saw a real future with McLaren - one he'd sacrificed so much to have - and he really saw a future with Lando. however their relationship was going to develop he wanted it to be solid and without any meddling for the sake of publicity. he doesn't hand over his time to just anyone and is perfectly alright being largely alone if need be! so the investments he's made with Lando are entirely a conscious choice - he wants to spend that time with him even when it's not for work or PR or social media.

Oscar both knows and cares that what is temporarily frustrating to him is utterly devastating to someone who feels things the way Lando feels things. that they're Different in so many ways but that in the same way Lando has watched Oscar closely to figure him out, Oscar has too. and Lando has gotten so incredibly comfortable with Oscar that he's let a very wide range of his emotions out around him! he's even shown his downright annoying and infuriating sides to Oscar and Oscar either smiles and allows it or smiles and pretends to be firm with him. sometimes Lando is especially annoying because it's quite fun seeing Oscar fighting down a smile and pretending to be firm with him :) they've basically turned that Sport Bible interviewer into their comedic marriage counselor.

and Lando didn't insist on the shoey for show - and as he had said after his very first one two years before, had no intention of ever doing another - but because this is their home race and now it can be Tradition! and because it was a bonding moment for them last year! and he doesn't throw Oscar's shoe bc it's a great "bit" or bc he's playing up to the crowd, it's because he's currently experiencing the most dizzying extremes of high and low all at once and we know very well that Lando has to channel a meltdown every now and then! he's genuinely surprised at himself for a moment when he so casually hurtles the poor shoe - almost unconsciously and he didn't even check to see who was watching or if Oscar saw it - and doesn't laugh until he sees Oscar laughing. and it felt SO good and cathartic to do and Oscar never complains !! Oscar wouldn't retaliate make Lando have a cold foot for the remainder of the fan stage! he even took off the other shoe and threw it himself for good measure!

and goddd do I love how you can see toward the end some kind of strategizing going on between Oscar and the members of the McLaren media team where Oscar wants Lando to throw the last hat for the cameras (edit: it was for them to do this adorable moment with a fan with the hats they signed on each other!!). but Lando is euphorically performing the crowd and thrilled at how they respond to him waving his arms - even makes sure Oscar sees him do it to see Oscar beam at him! but the prompter down by the stage monitors has been flashing "WRAP IT UP" for a long time now so Oscar spares a moment to let Lando have his fun and revel in the moment before prompting him to throw the remaining hat.

and the thing is that Oscar has been saying how much Silverstone came to mean to him after last year - when the crowd chanted his name and Lando said how Oscar should've been on the podium with him and Lando almost floated off the stage with joy when Oscar said he watched when Lando was leading! - when they were still figuring each other out and Oscar was still very quiet and mostly wanting to just get through public appearances unscathed - and yet !! in the face of Lando's joy at a home podium, Oscar had plucked up the courage to push an arm around Lando's waist and squeezed him close. a move so unexpected and momentous that Lando literally looked a little dazed by it before slinging his arm around Oscar's shoulders and somehow smiling harder than he already was.

so isn't it a nice little bookend that this year, when Lando is now utterly devastated by third place and not remotely in the mood for crowds and jubilation - he is the very flip opposite of his hopeful, ecstatic colorful self of the previous three days buildup - but!! that Oscar has grown to know him so well that he'll gladly shift gears and be more animated and outgoing, all in the same way that even the general public recognize how Oscar provides Lando words he can't think of or facts he can't remember or helps him sound out words he doesn't know - and in this instance, Oscar can see where Lando's ability to turn himself "on" for the public drops off and needs Oscar to help out.

and Oscar knows probably better than most apart from the closest members of Lando's team how Lando needs time to get over a severe disappointment. he needs to stew and spiral and recover. he'll do his best in the meantime but it's a labor. so every time Lando droops again in the hours following the race, Oscar doesn't once get tired of watching him and boosting him back up. Lando leaves the stage and you can immediately see the dejection and weariness again because it's time to get in the car with Oliver and leave. (poor Max F today posting a very telling video of golfing with Lando in the rain and Max's face saying everything about Lando's continued state of mind)

so Oscar posts Those Moments of fan stage joy - just the two of them - on every social media platform he has and lets the images of himself and Lando in the setting sun take up the top row of his instagram. and Lando replies to one of his own very few posts of the Sunday with a video of the shoey calling him "Osc" - bc it's one of Their Things. it makes them smile and if the public likes it that's fine but it only happened at first by accident and without any audience so it's still just Their Thing. just like how the shoey Lando found so yucky in 2022 is now Their Thing to do at Silverstone. just like it's Their Thing to know when the other needs the support and for the other to step up. and how the public call them "twins" but really, it's that when you watch someone close enough and you Care, you just naturally slip into patterns and you know what they're about to say!

race day at Silverstone 2024 was absolutely nothing of what Lando had hoped, and all coming after the giddiness of both media days and FP and quali with Oscar right there beside him both on the track and off it. he didn't even hold his trophy like usual in the post race because only the big gold one meant anything anymore. but he had "Osc" and Their Shoey and Oscar who takes a shower and rinses away all his frustrations and shows up for Lando in the same kit as Lando's team and smiling for Lando no matter what. it's no wonder those are the only moments Lando wants to remember <3

this should be all the video sources I used in the compilation but pls let me know if I missed one and I'll add it <3

tumblr.com/eightyonefour/755376682323623936 x.com/folklando/status/1810032883865993489 x.com/safeforlando/status/1810028772634009855?s=46 instagram.com/p/C9IteqeInL2/ instagram.com/p/C9IpL8itplz/?img_index=6 instagram.com/p/C9IpZBaN-NO/ instagram.com/p/C9IxcU2tntu/ instagram.com/p/C9IlzaBoaKX/ instagram.com/p/C9IrQW9tMhc/ instagram.com/p/C9In7rvNgsQ/ instagram.com/p/C9Io-ERNwgM/ instagram.com/p/C9Iheq3NQ1d/ instagram.com/p/C9IkX-vNuUF/ instagram.com/p/C9IvhKMNTJU/

#landoscar #inchidentallyanessay

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fraugwinska · 6 months ago

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Our lovely couple moves in together... Smut ahead - Minors DNI - Adult themes!

"Last chance to change your mind, cher."

You cocked your brow with that sweet smile you always had when looking at him, a small box in your hand. Alastor stood at the front doors of his townhouse, his arms crossed and leaning against the door frame, returning your grin with an even wider one.

"You know me long enough to know I am not one to take back my word, love. My house is yours from this day on forward."

With the flick of his wrist, he summoned various of his voodoo minions, who all immediately sprung into action, one of them taking the box out of your hand while the others crept to the waiting car with the few belongings in boxes you had accumulated over the past years. Most of them were books you could hardly part with, an antique room screen you got as a gift from Zestial. Your office, mostly, folders and folders of your articles, the polished black typewriter you loved. A vintage, cherry-wood cathedral radio - Alastor's gift to celebrate your three year anniversary. It's been about nine, now. Nine incredible, enchanting, magical, horrific, terrible and utterly love-filled, chaotic and passionate and simply hellbent and haphazardous years. Nine years, in which Hell came truly alive for you. Nine years, and finally one step further. Moving in together.

He watched as the final helper sprung inside to sit at the steering wheel of the car to drive it back to the rental, his arms still crossed. You tried hard to find the catch, but it seemed that Alastor simply wanted this, just as much as you did. No trickery, no traps, nothing. Just him, and you, together in his treasured house. Well. Mostly.

Though you've not met her yet, you knew about Niffty - a young, new sinner Alastor took under his wings. Whether he made a deal with her, or simply hired her, you didn't know, and you didn't really care, but she would also be at his house, he had told you, as a live-in maid/housekeeper. And because he was a gentleman of his times, he offered to change this condition and make her move out, if it made you uncomfortable - you immediately refused. You wouldn't deny a young demon like her shelter out of petty and misplaced insecurities, and the thought that someone other than yourself would actually be doing the brunt of the housework around your new home was immensely enticing.

With a smirk Alastor lifted himself up and stepped away from the door frame, stretching an arm out as an invitation, still smiling.

Your grin widened at him and you hummed, a rather contented purr escaping your throat and rumbling deep within as you took his hand. He pulled you into him, his head turning to press a kiss into your hair, the fresh breeze blowing a smell of flowers and smoke through the garden - you melted against his touch.

"Well then, welcome to your new home, darling...", Alastor mumbled against the crown of your head.

The town house was one of the few places you had never been to before. Over the years, Alastor let you into his world more and more. His radio tower became your most frequented place to be together, and even that took a full year of talks, dinners, outings and strolls together before that. And the progress into a deeper bond that didn't just rely on the foundation of mutual interest and curiosity was a slow one with him. But he was never, in your eyes, anything other than a gentleman and an all around impeccably wonderful sinner - even at his worst, and certainly at his best. And his very best was, by any and every definition, impressive.

He showed you his turf, introduced you to people who worked for him, acquaintances and friends alike. That's how you've met Mimzy for example, although she certainly wasn't one of your favorite people... but that did go both ways. Alastor adored her, and you respected that. You understood that, considering who he is - the petty grudges Mimzy bore against you because of misplaced jealousy were part and parcel of your life on his side. You remembered the joy when he mentioned that Rosie was also a friend and part of his close inner circle, and she soon became someone whose presence you always enjoyed. Fully supportive and invested in you two as she was, Rosie always helped whenever you could think of problems, whether big or small, in your shared journey through Hell. She and Alastor both supported and loved you in all of your ways and plans, the latter having been what helped you rise to editor in chief at the Pentagram Daily and right hand to Zestial, who had gradually turned from boss to close friend to you.

Hell truly came alive for you.

Your focus moved to the townhouse itself. It was modest and tastefully furnished, with dark wood furniture and decor, a wooden plated kitchen filled with plants and the strange hellish shrubbery you grew accustomed to and green tiling on the bathroom floors and walls. The fireplace in the foyer was glowing with a healthy ember and flames, the heat engulfing you, as well as a vague hint of Alastor's signature smell that seemed to be oozing from everywhere.

"Why don't you come and have a seat, love. Let me take your things upstairs and then we'll have some coffee ready in a minute, hm?"

Alastor's hands left yours, and you didn't turn around as his presence receded. Your thoughts were so caught up in the beauty of the house, your pink claws traced and ran over the lines of the wood paneled wall. Alastor had never stayed at your apartment, an agreement and precaution he decided on even when you officially started dating, citing his moral code and the rules of courting he intended to follow. Where he filled the days, the nights were always spent alone, in your own home. The time spent together was full with discussions, talks and occasional killings, and yes, you'd also share more intimate moments - kisses, touches, even some serious fooling around. But he had always stopped, right before crossing the one final line. Your body had been a sanctuary, a sacred place which was not to be violated or disturbed, not even by him. And while you found it almost endearing, after a few years it made you crave finally taking the last step.

It's a funny thing, wanting and craving something with your full body and soul while at the same time, the actual act that would grant this wasn't something you ever thought you needed, in contrary. It had been a weapon, a tool for you to do what you did when you were alive and what earned you damnation in hell, as unfair as it was. Sex was one of the simplest concepts of mankind to corrupt, of course. And maybe this was the reason for Alastor never allowing both of you to crossing that line, too. Perhaps he would have, if it wasn't for him knowing where you came from - because he knew you used sex as a method of getting men to lower their guard, a means to an end.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a faint giggle, and you looked down. A small, wide-eyed cyclops girl stood before you, barely reaching your knees. She wore a dark red blouse with a red skirt, and a white apron covered the front. The demoness beamed up at you, grinning, her single eye framed by a magenta bob cut fixed to your face and hands clasped together.

"Alastor told me a lot about you, miss! I'm Niffty! Can you believe you actually exist? When Alastor first told me about you, I- well- ohh, this is SO EXCITING!! We'll be the best of friends, and we'll talk and you'll tell me ALL your stories and I will learn everything about them, so I won't forget anything and-"

She stopped herself as the sound of a throat being cleared was heard through the hall, and Alastors form, already half obscured in the shadows of the hall, stiffened.

"Niffty, you promised me to not be weird, my dear.", he tutted, glowering at her, one of his eyes twitching and his close-lipped smile tensed. You almost burst out laughing. It was always an endearing and utterly charming sight, when he got flustered or nervous. His discomfort always manifested itself in the twitch of his eyes or nose, or an unexpected flick of the wrist at something mundane and simple like this - and as silly as it may seem to others, Niffty's uncontainable energy, the utter wholesome enthusiasm and weirdness of hers that could get even the radio demon uncomfortable made you soft for the girl.

Your tail swished playfully as you grinned up towards Alastor and turned back to the exciteable demon before you.

"Ah, Alastor did tell me what a lovely companion you were, chèrie.", you told Niffty, a light purr entering your voice, which made her ears prick and her eye to light up, the singular black and yellow iris blown wide. You held out your hand to the maid and gave her a soft smile, tilting your head. "I'm sure we'll get along well together."

Nifftys small, clawed hand shot into yours as if it was on fire and you squeezed it with a slight force that made her squeal with glee. She shook your hand so rapidly you could barely register it, and her head was bopping up and down eagerly.

"Yes! Absolutely!!! I'll do anything, anything, anything!! We will get along perfectly! I'll make coffee, you drink coffee, right? And maybe some cookies!" She said in a hurry, her words and excitement blurring together, not even waiting for an answer but scurrying away to the kitchen. She was as hyper as a squirrel in a tree and equally adorable, and your grin widened with amusement at her enthusiasm.

"So, that's Niffty.", you mused, chuckling at his rather stiff and awkward posture.

"Oh, a dear child, without a doubt - a lovely, twisted little thing. It was fortunate that she met me.", he agreed. Alastor's ears flicked slightly as you came closer, his tone lowering once again. "Still, you must not underestimate her. If you'd see the things she does to the vermin around the house..." He laughed.

"Well, never mind that. You still have the second floor to inspect, darling. Shall we?"

He extended an arm, grinning, and with a raised brow and a hummed 'oooh, scandalous,' you hooked your elbow around his and let him drag you up the stairs with a short lived chuckle.

It didn't even take five seconds for your composure to crack once you saw the bedroom. Not because there was any hint of dubiousness to it, quite the contrary. Everything was nice and clean and sweet smelling, the windows were opened, allowing the fresh air from outside to gently blow into the room. The bed, an old, beautiful vintage piece of dark brown walnut furniture, had black satin sheets that seemed cool and smooth even to your eyes and there was a surprising number of soft pillows and blankets.

"This, I didn't think I'd need to mention... will be the only part of the house to be completely off-limits to young miss Niffty. Or anyone except for us, for that matter." He smiled at you with a most wicked grin as his shadow crept to the door, closing it shut.

Your body froze and your mind went blank and for a moment, you weren't able to think at all, just feel the burning of your body and the tingling of your skin. Oh, dear Satan. Slowly, his words really sank in, and the reality of their meaning dawned on you and tightened your grin.

He wanted the same as you. And it seemed he was finally ready to do something about it.

It was silly of you. So many people in hell fucked every day, in so many ways - whether because it was the nature of sin itself to be more perverse and vile than it could be in the living realm, or because there were so few taboos that remained in hell to keep up... and you were aware of your hypocrisy. A serial killer would definitely not be able to point fingers, let alone judge, others, you knew. But with him, it was different. At least to you it was. He wasn't some pervert. He had principles. Standards. Values.

Valuing you was one of those, and respecting and caring for you, as much as he respected himself. To him, sexuality, lust, any expression of this... had always had to be a conscious decision to be made with you, not some primal reflex forced upon you, if the time ever came.

And the knowledge that finally, that last boundary of your relationship, which, for the past nine years, had become so noticable and odd for others in its non-intimacy, was about to be breached, and his intention to cross it with you as explicit as it possibly could be, sparked a heat inside of you unlike any other kind of flame that has ever burnt your skin. Well, loin des yeux, près du cœur.

"Really, my dear? No remarks at all, not even a clever retort? Did I finally get the cat's tongue?", Alastor teased and you shivered at the way his eyes glazed over like a starved predator, his hungry gaze washing over your flushed, but now obviously and severely flustered face. He always said your flushing, especially when flustered, looked good on you. His large claws brushed down your shoulders and arms, leaving a hot trail in their wake and sending an all-out shiver of delight and anticipation down your spine.

"What a rare sight, you're absolutely adorable when shy."

"You are impossible...", you replied, slowly feeling the soft mattress hit the back of your thighs and the added support behind your back made you keenly aware of just how strong he was. One of the strongest, if not the strongest of all the overlords. And you loved his strength - when he ripped into the bodies of foolish sinners as when he now used it to lift you with ease, sit you down onto his bed, his palms resting on the pillows right besides your head.

"Do you really want to do this, cher?", your words were a breathy, yet rumbling whisper. Your black pupils blew wide, taking over the majority of the shades of magenta and pink and fuchsia.

Alastors grin grew wider at the sight of it, tilting his head as his knees pushed his body even higher, the bed creaking. The sound was familiar, comforting even. He settled above you, one hand slipping under your nape, softly lifting your face up to meet his and the cold claws on the tips of his fingers brushed against your heated skin, just like your icy claws ran down the column of his exposed throat, caressing the length of his neck down to the knot of his bow tie.

"Yes..." He hummed the word out low and long, an eager purr-growl that rumbled his chest and throat and made him grind his hips against yours. Your head fell back in bliss as his knee slotted in-between your legs and pressed, just right, against your crotch, with perfect pressure against the sensitive flesh. A whimper of his name tumbled past your lips, followed by a soft moan. You moved your leg upwards and ran it against his, just so, and his breath, too, came out a stuttering, gasping sigh. "Yes. My mind has been set on this matter for a long while."

His ears flicked again and you watched in rapt fascination as his antlers grew and eyes went darker. And without another word, your lips clashed together in a messy, passionate kiss that left your head reeling and your stomach dropping. Your hands pulled at the silken material of his tie, desperately fumbling with it in order to make it loose enough to allow him to breath as his own claws pressed into your thigh, possessive and demanding, leaving deep cuts in your long, flowy skirt.

A groan escaped your mouth, almost unrecognizable to you. So different from your usual smooth demeanor, so raw, wanton. A moan, loud and hoarse, that shook you with the power and force you put into it and reverberated through both of your bodies, tangled around each other, pressed together. Your vision swam before your eyes, his delicious scent filling your lungs. You drowned in his everything - his smell, the feeling of his weight pinning you down to the bed, his lips, moving against yours in a violent dance and his tongue, swirling around yours. He kissed the same way he hunted, taking no prisoners and leaving no escape - you could still taste traces of the coffee he drank before you arrived, it had been laced with bourbon, a drink you now craved in your blood, and needed inside of you.

In a faraway, dazed state of mind, a realization crossed your cloudy, hazy thoughts. There was no going back now, not that you wanted to, anyway. But now, everything between you and Alastor was going to be different. Unshackled. You were ready to cross that line, more than so, but now, after waiting and building that expectation for so long, there was an even bigger anticipation, so strong, even your arms were shaking, the black fabric of his harness brushing against the skin of your arms as he shrugged his overcoat off.

Every touch of him felt new, electrified by the knowledge and expectation of waht to come. His palm brushed over the thin fabric covering the skin of your stomach. His lips pulled from your swollen ones, tracing a path downwards. Down, towards your neck. Your ear. Your collarbone. Teeth grazed your soft, delicate flesh and his lips captured the skin his hands revealed as he undressed you.

You cried out, eyes tightly shut as he bit and kissed his way down the valley between the soft, malleable flesh of your breast, the heated muscle of your belly, his palms softly digging in the expanse of skin of your legs. His long, glowing, red claws traced the sensitive skin inside of your thighs.

You gasped, almost breathless at this point. So utterly overwhelmed by the sensations of it all, senses oddly heightened by the way he teasingly bit down onto the inside of your thigh - just where the cloth of the undergarments, his last barrier to reach your actual core, ended. The feeling of your own tail stroking over his back, in tandem with his claw cutting the cloth made your vision go white for a moment, the feather light touch making you tremble and breathe his name out like an unholy prayer, repeated over and over.

"So divine and yet so corrupted...", he mumbled against your heated skin, before he shoved one of the plush pillows under your arched back.

"So holy and yet so blasphemous..." you felt his breath cool on the wetness of your exposed folds, so, so close to what you needed, and felt his tongue, carefully, sliding along the folds of your quivering core, just an almost and not yet a finally in sweetest torture, his body a veil between you and the world.

"Only yours to offer...", his eyes shot to you, intense and hungry under his twisted antlers, awaiting your decision, and you nodded with baited breath at which he refocused on the slick heat before him, "...and only mine to take."

His tongue parted the lips, delving inside and licking a broad stroke between them, before the tip danced around your aching clit and just for a moment, you forgot how to even breath anymore, your mind blanking out for an endless, timeless, perfect second.

All you felt was bliss, the sheer pleasure washing over and drowning you in it, the all encompassing, fulfilling sensation of something you had not even dared to dream of was now your present reality and there was nothing else, nothing beside his tongue. A gasping whine filled the silence, breaking through the crescendo of white noise, a cry, a plea for more as his long, pointy, impossibly dexterous tongue lapped against and slipped inside of you, thrusting in and out with torturous drag.

Your hands curled tightly into the fabric beneath you, preventing yourself from bending like a hunting bow as he added not one, but two of his fingers. His rhythm was unforgiving and almost too intense, so perfect, with just enough change for the friction not to burn into an unsatisfactory numbness.

"Mmmh... I could live on the taste of you, love.", Alastor breathed the words against the inside of your thigh, before biting down into the skin with a possessive growl. His claws dug into the plush flesh of your hips, holding them up as blood dripped in heavy drops from the bite. He sucked and licked on the wound and the sight of him, macabre and beautifully latched onto you, was almost enough to make you come, fingers still working against your heat.

You were almost there, you could feel it in the way the muscles in your stomach clenched, the tightening coil deep within, the way your breath hitched and became quicker and shallower, the way you started to tremble, the feeling of pure pleasure and joy.

"Stop, amour. Please stop...", you panted, not wanting to come alone, not selfish enough to be serviced like this, the pleasure too good to end so soon without him in it. You gasped for air, forming the words in your head.

His head whipped upwards, his glowing red eyes narrowed in concern, but you just smiled at him in reassurance, face hot and body sticky to the touch. "Réclamez-moi entièrement pour que nous puissions atteindre la fin ensemble...", you pleaded.

Alastor understood your words perfectly and his eyes widened. He took a shaky breath, before he chuckled and rose up, ripping his dress shirt along with the black harness away and revealing the expanse of his torso, the muscles, the soft fur, the countless scars. His belt came loose, his slacks fell to the ground, kicked away. He was magnificent when dressed - But he was unearthly beautiful when naked, every inch of him on display and for you to devour.

The tip of his member brushed against the slick opening of your core, making you whine.

"Always the one to choose a draw, darling."

Your hands reached for him, pulling him on top of you, the heat of his naked skin pressing onto you. He felt so wonderful, his hair falling forward, covering the side of his face, his breath tickling your nose. He leaned down, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, and your eyes fluttered close.

"You know I always prefer to lose if it's a win for both of us in the end, mon cerf..."

Alastor's lips captured yours again and his tongue entered, claiming and dominating the kiss in the same moment he pushed his hips into you, sheathing himself fully. He felt so, so much bigger than he looked, the stretch a delectable pain, an utterly delightful kind of burn. Your walls stretched around him, trying to adjust and get used to the feeling. It was almost overwhelming, how perfect he fit into you, how his thick, throbbing length brushed against that sweet spot inside of you, his girth stretching and filling you to the brim.

You both groaned, his head dropping forward as his hips rolled and he started to move. Slow, shallow thrusts, testing the waters. He pulled out, almost all the way, before rolling back in and setting a slow, savoring pace, dragging his hips just so to make his cock brush against your most sensitive spots.

Your hands grabbed his shoulders, your claws digging into them until you drew blood. With a growl, Alastor picked you up, letting himself fall back into a sitting position and pulled you upright on his lap. Equals, both able to be in control, both dependent on the other. Connected, not just by your cores, but also by your eyes you sat still for a moment. He was inside of you, and you had never felt this complete. He was a part of you, and the feeling was intoxicating, addictive, all consuming.

And then, he started to move you. Alastor let his head fall into the crook of your neck, whispering your name against your throat and you cried his out aloud, his claws digging into your hips and moving them, lifting them and pushing them down in a growing rhythm, matching his own eager movements, the drag of his cock inside of you utterly divine. You rolled your hips, chasing the feeling of him, while your own claws painted red lines on his back. You tasted blood, your canines biting your lip so hard it opened the delicate skin, and on a whim you nudged his head up to share it with him. He moaned, tasting the metallic fluid on your tongue, and it was enough to drive you both over the edge.

He spent himself inside of you with a hoarse growl, the hot, sticky fluid painting your insides as he wrapped his arms around you to press you even deeper into him, the sensation alone enough to make your head spin and your eyes water with hot tears. Your own high followed, you were desperate to sink your teeth in something, so you latched onto his neck, biting down as your walls tightened around his still twitching cock, milking it dry and coating him with the proof of your mutual ecstasy.

For a while, all either of you did was pant, breathing deeply, trying to collect yourselves and regain any kind of composure. Your eyes were still closed, but you could feel the slight movement of his chest, the beat of his heart under your palms that rested on his chest, your teeth still deep in his skin. You couldn't bear to let go, fearing the loss of his skin on your lips, but his hands came up to your face and gently pulled you away.

A small chuckle left his lips as he looked at you. His face was smeared red with the residue of your blood, and you might as well must've looked the same, coated in his.

"Now, isn't this the best way to christen a new bed? The unholy trinity: Blood, sweat and tears."

You laughed, the sound of it a little weak and a bit hoarse.

"You didn't happen to buy a new couch, too?", you asked, voice playful and low.

"Oh, I certainly do plan on it now, darling. I'm thinking of refurnishing the whole damn house." He grinned at you, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips, and it was impossible not to mirror his impish grin.

A rattle on the doorknob made both of you snap your heads to the entrance of your bedroom. In an instant, you made yourself - and to your delight, Alastor, still sheathed in you, too - invisible, just in time before Niffty broke through the door, in a loud bickering fight with Alastor's shadow.

"....and the coffee is getting cold if they.... oh, they're not here. Why didn't you tell me they're not here? Oh, maybe they are searching for me, maybe I should go look for them? Maybe they're downstairs, or in the garden? Oh no, wait, maybe they're on the roof? No, no, no, maybe..."

She rambled as she ran back down, and with a giggle you made both of you visible again.

" 'Completely off-limits to young miss Niffty' you say?", you grinned at him, a sadistic smile on your lips as you leaned in to kiss the small wounds on his neck.

"I also said to not underestimate her...", he sighed, commanding his shadow with his hand to close the door once more. And this time, with a poignant look and glowing red eyes, to lock it up.

Translations: loin des yeux, près du cœur - absence makes the heart grow fonder Réclamez-moi entièrement pour que nous puissions atteindre la fin ensemble... - Claim me fully so we can reach the end together…

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