#it's not that the church is against sex it's just pen is Too Much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rorywritesjunk · 5 months

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There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

Crocodile brings on a former assistant to manage Buggy and his workload. Buggy realizes he likes it when Taron praises him for the littlest things.

Rating: R-ish for this chapter. Warning: Male msturbation towards the end. Buggy is starting to pine. Mentions of sex. Buggy feels pathetic. Word Count: 1,934 A/N: My self indulgent submissive Buggy fic.

Title comes from “Take Me To Church” by Hozier.

Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6 + Chapter 7

Chapter 4

Buggy hated admitting to himself how much he wanted Taron giving him praise. Hated himself for it. They sounded so genuine too: a hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze with a smile on their face as they leaned down to him to say, “Good boy.” And he hated how uncomfortable his pants would feel afterwards, his face burning red when they'd pull back and step away to refill his drink or look over the paperwork.

They’d been keeping their sleeves rolled up, letting Buggy see the tattoos on their arms. It wasn't anything too eye-catching, just flowers and plants decorating their skin, but Buggy found himself often stopping to stare at the works of art.

It was a few days after his little meltdown outside. Buggy expected something from Crocodile, whether punishment or mocking for how he behaved around Taron, but nothing was brought up in the meeting that morning. Did they not tell him anything? They had left him that evening to go visit Crocodile, though stayed back in their room the last two nights. What were the two doing if not discussing Buggy’s assassination?

Buggy, against his better judgment, decided to ask.

“If you're not plotting to assassinate me, why do you spend so much time with him?” He demanded as he leaned back in his seat, choosing to ignore the stack of paperwork in front of him. “Well?”

“We just spend time together.” Taron told him teasingly as they brought him a fresh cup of coffee before taking a seat. They looked at the stack of paperwork then back at him. “Keep working.”

“Not until you tell me what you're doing with him!” Buggy shot back. “How can I trust that you're not here to kill me when you spend hours with him in the evening?!”

Taron looked at him with an amused expression as they tilted their head to the side. He was adorably dumb in a way. Did he have no clue what two adults might get up to in the privacy of a bedroom?

“What do you think we are doing?” They asked him. “And no, it's not planning your death or having a sleepover.”

“Well, how would I know?!” Buggy snapped. “I don't know what you two would be doing other than-” His mouth snapped shut and his face turned red. He stared at Taron in shock. “Wait-”

“Jealous?” They chuckled. “Get back to your work, Buggy.”

Buggy’s face burned and he looked away from them. Why did he bother to ask? He grabbed his pen and started scribbling his name on the forms. Taron had marked the spots he needed to sign or initial which made it a little easier for him to get it done, but his mind was suddenly elsewhere, thinking of Taron and what they did after dinner, disappearing for hours away from Buggy to spend time with Crocodile. He almost wondered what it was like.

“Once you finish that stack you’re done for the day.” Taron told him as they looked through the appointment book. “No meetings or appointments today so you're free to do what you'd like.” They closed the book and set it aside. “A whole day without me bothering you, how does that sound?”

“Terrible.” He muttered. He could spend the day with his crew, checking in on them and seeing how they're doing, but he found himself disliking the idea of Taron not being around him and he didn't understand why. He glanced over at Taron before looking back down. “...do you want to spend it with me?”

Taron shrugged. “I figured you'd jump at the chance for me not to be breathing down your neck over every little thing.”

“Maybe I don't mind it, ever think of that?!” He snapped at them. Taron looked at him amused as they leaned back in their chair. “M-Maybe I should get to know you since you're working so closely with me! Gotta make sure you're not going to kill me!”

“Buggy, I am not going to kill you.” They chuckled as they reached back to take their hair out of their ponytail before shaking their hair loose. Buggy couldn't stop himself from staring at them. Why did a simple little thing capture his attention so much? “But if you really want me around, I don't see why not. I don't have anything else to do.”

“Or anyone?” Buggy asked before he could stop himself.

“Not much of a filter on you, is there?” They replied as they grinned at him. Buggy was relieved he didn’t offend them. Even if Taron claimed they weren't there to kill him, Crocodile could. “Don't worry. Crocodile's busy today. We won't be meeting so you can have me all to yourself if you'd like.”

They winked at Buggy and his breath caught in his throat. He hated this.

Why did Buggy suggest they spend the day together? Why did he think that was smart to offer? Taron had their sleeves rolled up again, the top few buttons undone on their shirt. They cuffed their pants. They looked so casual and comfortable and Buggy wondered how they were able to do that. They had worn the cravat earlier, the one he put in their wardrobe, but chose to leave it behind at the table when they came outside.

Off-work Taron wasn’t much different than Work-mode Taron, just a little flirtier, at least Buggy thought so. Buggy didn’t understand why his heart skipped a beat when they smiled at him or how he had butterflies in his stomach when they touched his arm. He almost fainted when they caught him after he stumbled over a root trying to get away from them.

This was a normal reaction when you are waiting for someone to kill you right? Even though Taron assured Buggy they wouldn’t harm him, he was still on edge at times.

Eventually Taron opted to return to the tent, wanting to lay down for a bit to rest. Buggy returned with them though he went to his office while Taron headed to their bedroom. He was fine by himself. It was a nice walk, he liked being outside, but now he was by himself and… he didn’t really like that. He wanted to be with Taron but he couldn’t just ask to lay down with them. That would be weird.

He hated how he was feeling.

Buggy entered his office and sighed heavily. At least the mountain of paperwork was gone for now. He could go relax for a little bit, take a breather. Maybe he wouldn’t need to worry about anything.

He went to put his coffee mug at the sink to wash later, pausing for a moment when he saw Taron’s cravat on the table. Maybe he should return it to them so it wouldn’t get lost. That could give him a reason to go see them even though it hadn’t even been ten minutes. He picked it up, feeling the soft material. They didn’t have to wear it after he entered their room and tried to change their wardrobe, but he liked that they did. It was nice seeing a bit of a bright color on them.

Buggy rubbed the material between his thumb and finger, glancing around to make sure he was alone before he brought it up to his nose to sniff it. He didn’t know what to expect. He never noticed if Taron wore any sort of cologne or perfume, but he picked up scents of lavender and mint on the cravat. Maybe their soap or shampoo? He glanced around again. He had shut the door behind him so he was alone. No one would just barge into his office.

He took another sniff at the cravat, inhaling deeper, closing his eyes as he imagined Taron standing in front of him, praising him, saying how good he was for doing all his work, for how well he listened to them, and that good boys get rewarded. Buggy let out a low groan, gripping the cravat in one hand as his other hastily undid his pants. What was wrong with him to get turned on by the smell of someone’s soap and the praise they gave him? Was there something wrong with him or was this normal?

His hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, finding himself growing hard. He had been feeling it ever since Taron told him what they did with Crocodile after dinner for a few hours. He had to think of the larger man beating Buggy senseless to keep himself from getting aroused at the thought of Taron touching him, telling Buggy he was such a good boy, that he was wonderful, all the praise he wanted to hear.

It was embarrassing to think of them in that way. They flirted with him, praised him, touched his arm and shoulder but what would ever make them consider touching Buggy in the way he was imaging right now? He was almost 40 and no one ever did, he never even came close. And he was up against someone like Crocodile in Taron’s eyes and he couldn’t imagine them even thinking about Buggy the way he thought of them now.

It was a little awkward leaning against his desk as he stroked himself, pressing the cravat to his nose, biting on an edge of the fabric as he shut his eyes, imagining Taron beside him, telling him what to do, to touch himself slower, don’t want it to be over so soon, right? Be good, Buggy, slow down. There you go, you’re so good at listening.

He tried, he tried to be good at listening to them even if he pitched a fit and was stubborn about it. Anything to hear them say good boy, knowing those words were just for him and no one else. Only he got to hear the praise, it wasn’t for others. Only him.

His hand pumped faster, whining pitifully as he thought of Taron kneeling on the ground in front of him, eyes on his leaking, hard cock, waiting for him to finish, coaxing him with praise and kind words as they waited. Their hands on his hips, as they leaned forward, opening their mouth for him. He imagined their breath on his cock, their mouth taking him, eyes closed as they moaned around him.

Buggy came, grunting and hissing quietly as he made a mess in his pants. Without much thought, he used the cravat to wipe his hand clean, only to panic when he realized what he did. Oh, oh no. He was dead. Taron would find out what he did and beat him like Crocodile had, but for a second he actually liked that idea, his cock twitching at the thought of Taron being the one to do it.

No, no, no, you dumbass. He scolded himself as he wiped his hand clean. He could get the cravat washed, it would be fine. Taron wouldn't have to know what happened. He looked around the room again, knowing he was alone but wanting to triple check, before he took the cravat and slid it down his pants, using it to clean himself.

The material felt wonderful against his warm cock as he wrapped it around, stroking himself slowly as he cleaned himself. He wondered if he could cum again, overstimulate himself a bit, but there was someone at the entry of his office, calling his name, so he hastily shoved the cravat into his pants before buttoning back up. Hopefully it wasn't obvious what he was doing.

#buggy the clown #taron x buggy #buggy the clown x oc #buggy x oc #one piece oc #one piece original character #nonbinary oc #nonbinary original character

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daydreamtofiction · 2 years

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Thou Shalt Not Covet // 1: Providence

Contents | Masterlist | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Fem Reader) After an unsavoury encounter with a stranger, you find yourself seeking safety within the walls of a quiet church.

Word Count: 3.8K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, descriptions of stalking/being followed, explicit sexual content including awkward/unsatisfying sex. Readers must be 18+

Divine Providence is defined as 'God's intervention in the universe; the idea that all that occurs takes place under his sovereign guidance and control.' In other words, there is no such thing as coincidence or fortuity. Those sliding doors were never Gwyneth Paltrow's to miss.

Scumbag is defined as 'a contemptible or objectionable person; often dirty, despicable, leery.' Much like the man you were certain had smelled your hair on the bus, the one who had been following ten steps behind you ever since you got off.

No one expects a scumbag to be part of their providence; that instead of some sliding glass doors on a train, they could be herded towards their destiny by a creepy, middle-aged man in a khaki coat. But in your case, that seemed to be exactly what was happening. Though you wouldn't realise it until much, much later.

You should've stayed on the bus. You knew you should've stayed on the bus even as you were getting off; every last fibre of your being had been screaming at you to just move seats, to tell the driver, to turn around and punch the guy in the face, anything but get off the fucking bus. Still, you found yourself pressing the bell two stops early, hoisting your bag on your shoulder and stumbling to the front, like all logic had left you the moment you felt his breath on the back of your neck.

Your heart sank when you realised he'd followed you off. It was dark, cold, lampposts flickering as you listened to his gait against the wet pavement behind you, the occasional mucusy cough muffled by a fist or a handkerchief. You glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of him as he kept his distance, his features skewed and unclear by the dark. You slid your hand into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone, dialling Alfie's number and holding it to your ear.

Your outgoing calls have been disconnected. To reactivate your network features, please pay your outstanding balance of £56-

Fuck sake.

"Hey, babe, just walking down now," you said loudly, the automated voice continuing to play on the other end. "Yeah I'll be there in a second, are you waiting for me?"

You glanced behind again to see him still there, and for a moment you thought about just letting him catch up to you. Because even if you did manage to make it home in one piece, as soon as you explained what happened, Alfie would kill you anyway, Gina would kill you too. At least if a stranger did it, they'd have to pretend to feel somewhat bad for you.

"No you stay there, I'll come to you."

You crossed the road abruptly, turning back on yourself and walking down a nearby street, hoping that would be the end of it; that he hadn't been following you at all and it had all been in your head. But after a moment, you heard his footsteps return.

If you would like to pay this amount now, press 1-

You huffed and hung up the phone, slipping it back into your pocket and picking up your pace. You thought about calling the police; surely the phone company wouldn't stop you being able to dial 999. But what would they actually do? And how long would they take to even show up?

You crossed the road again, turning your head slightly to see him doing the same, always ten steps behind, like a greasy, phlegmy shadow. You began thinking of the things you had in your bag; you could mace him with your perfume, could stab him in the neck with a ballpoint pen, jab him with your keys. You made another sharp turn, swearing under your breath at the lack of lampposts along the street ahead, the pavement swallowed by darkness, only the occasional stepping stone of dim, orange light.

When you were a child, your mother would always tell you that if you ever found yourself being followed, you should go to the first house you saw and knock on the door. She'd reminded you of this so often that you'd grown up believing the scenario to be much more common than it was; like everyone must find themselves being chased down by a stranger at some point in their lives, otherwise why were you all being trained for it? It was rather disappointing to you as you grew up, that you never got the opportunity to outsmart a kidnapper by rushing up a garden path and knocking on a door. Maybe this was your moment.

You turned into the grounds of a church. Well it's sort of a house, you thought, don't they call it the 'house of God' or something?

You walked straight across the wet grass, feeling the earth sliding beneath your shoes, until you made it onto a stone path. You looked behind yourself, squinting in the dark to see if he was there; every rustling bush or shadow of a tree making your heart race. You couldn't see him. But still, you turned and continued walking towards the steps of the church, growing more and more concerned the closer you came.

You didn't know if the doors would even be open or if you'd walked yourself into a dead end; maybe churches closed at night, like shops or cafés. But as you reached the top of the steps and pushed on the large wooden door, it opened smoothly, silently. So serendipitous that if you believed in a God, you would have dropped to your knees in that moment to thank them.

Inside the church was empty, even the slightest sound echoing against the tall, vast ceilings. The stained glass windows seemed almost black, their beautiful patterns lost against the backdrop of the night sky. The statues, paintings and sculptures seemed to watch you as you wandered further in, so eerie and still, it was as if they could move when no one was looking at them. You hadn't set foot inside a church since you were a child, yet somehow the smell was still so familiar; wood, rose, beeswax, frankincense. It reminded you of your grandparents, though you weren't sure why.

You sat down in the back row of pews, putting down your bag and relaxing back slightly. You took out your phone and began searching for free wifi connections; just one message, that was all you needed to send. God, you thought, send me a wifi connection and I promise I'll pay my phone bill.

You sat there for a while, refreshing and refreshing until eventually your phone died. You let out a sigh, closing your eyes and bowing your head in defeat.

But a shuffling sound disturbed the silence, followed by an awkward 'oh' that echoed in the tall ceiling. You looked up to see a man standing near the front of the church; dark hair, dark shirt and trousers, a bright white clerical collar around his neck.

"I-I'm sorry," he said, putting a cardboard box down on the floor and tentatively making his way down the aisle towards you. "I didn't realise anyone was in here."

"Sorry," you replied. "I wasn't sure if churches closed at night or if they were a 24 hour thing, y'know like A&E, or McDonalds."

He stopped a few rows ahead of you, his eyes creasing with amusement, a throaty laugh escaping through a half-smile.

Oh shit, you thought. He's hot.

"Well I suppose it is technically 'closed'," he said, running a hand through his hair and leaning his hip against the pew beside him. "But I'm not in the business of turning people away if they're in need."

Extremely hot. So hot. So painfully, sinfully, will-get-on-my-knees-and-beg-for-it hot.

You almost couldn't believe he was really a priest; the dark curls that fell over crisp blue eyes, features so beautiful they put the artwork around you to shame. He was tall, slender yet firm, his arms and chest straining slightly beneath the fabric of his shirt as he moved.

He closed the distance between you, leaning forward to shake your hand before sitting down next to you.

"I'm Father Benedict," he said. "I'm new to the parish so I still haven't had the chance to meet everyone-"

"Oh I'm not a member of the church," you answered quickly. "Actually I'm not part of any church. I think the last time I set foot in one was at a wedding when I was little."

"Ah," he said. "Sorry, I just saw you here praying and assumed..."

He thought you were praying; he saw you with your head down, mourning the death of your phone, and thought you were praying. You'd have almost felt bad if it wasn't for the way he was looking at you, making your stomach flutter, though you weren't sure he meant it to. His head was cocked to one side, his jaw sharp and strong as he clenched his teeth slightly, eyes flitting over your face like he was trying to see inside you.

"Do you... wish to be a part of the church?" he asked hesitantly.

"Hm?"

"Are you here seeking salvation of some kind?"

You wanted to tell him no. Fuck no. Absolutely not. You wanted to tell him you were an atheist, maybe agnostic at a push, but either way you certainly did not seek fucking salvation. You wanted to tell him all of that, but he was still looking at you; making your stomach flutter, your mouth dry, mind wandering to less-than-holy places.

"Yes," you said with a gentle nod.

Shit.

He smiled, like he was genuinely pleased to hear it, before shaking his head and laughing softly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't think I ever asked your name."

"It's Ellis."

"Ellis," he repeated, like he was acquainting his tongue with your name. "Well I'm honoured you chose my church to begin your journey."

You smiled, but on the inside you were screaming. What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

He went and got you a handful of leaflets, even pulled a pen from his pocket to circle a date on a newsletter, told you to come and watch him give a sermon, he'd keep an eye out for you. The entire time you sat there wanting to tell him the truth, but you couldn't seem to find a delicate way of phrasing 'I don't want to join the church, I just wanted to fuck you.' So instead you nodded, thanked him and slipped the leaflets into your bag.

You left through the door you'd came in, standing there for a moment as water dripped from the roof onto the stone steps in front of you. It must have rained while you were inside, you hoped it was enough to wash your creepy stalker away with it.

You swallowed hard and tentatively made your way off the church grounds, looking over your shoulder every few seconds as you began to walk down the dark, deserted street. You didn't need your phone to know you were miles away from home, even the bus stop where you'd got off was at least twenty minutes away. So you decided to just keep walking, following the street as far as it went, hoping you were alone and that you would eventually stumble across a place you were familiar with.

The beep of a car horn startled you, making you freeze in place as a set of headlights approached from behind. You turned around, brow furrowing in confusion when you saw a hand waving at you through the window.

"Father Benedict?" you asked, bending down to peer into the car.

He leaned forward and smiled. "I hope you're not intending to walk home at this time?"

"Oh, it's not that far."

He didn't seem convinced, pressing his lips together and eyeing you up and down. "Come on, get in, I'll drive you."

"No, really, you don't have to-"

"I don't mind."

You hesitated, glancing down the dark stretch of street you still had left to walk.

"Hey, I'm one of the good clergymen, I swear," he said with a laugh. "Plus you're not a twelve-year-old boy so you'd have nothing to worry about anyway."

A smile began to creep across your face. Was that a joke? Did the sexy priest just make an incredibly dark, twisted joke? You gave in and climbed in the passenger side, pulling the door closed and turning to look at him.

He was sat quietly with his hands on the steering wheel, brow furrowed slightly as he stared straight ahead. "I'm not a paedo," he finally said.

You laughed. "Good to know."

"And I- please don't think I find that sort of thing funny, I- I honestly don't know why I even said that..."

You laughed again. "Stop worrying, it was funny."

He nodded, holding back a smile. "Well that's a relief. I made a joke to June, one of our volunteers, on my first day. Went down like a lead balloon and now I don't think she likes me very much."

"What was the joke?"

"Oh," he began reluctantly. "She asked me why I chose to come to this parish... I said it's within the radius of my ankle monitor."

You giggled, biting your lip to suppress a more liberal sound from escaping.

"Stupid," he said, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. "I mean just stupid, how I ever thought a 70 year old catholic woman would find that funny."

"It is funny though, if not slightly concerning that I just willingly got into a car with you."

"No ankle monitor, promise."

Your eyes fell to his mouth; admiring his smile, his voice, the sound of his laugh.

"So, where to?" he asked as he released the handbrake.

"Erm, if you just-"

The car jerked forward, the engine stalling and cutting out suddenly.

"Shit," he hissed, before glancing over at you. "Sorry. Pretend you didn't hear that."

You smirked, watching as he restarted the car and began to drive.

Was getting into a vehicle with a man you barely knew the smartest idea you'd ever had? No. But for some reason you felt comfortable with him, and it wasn't because of the collar around his neck. He was so normal; awkward yet charismatic, laidback and secure in who he was, what he was. When you finally gave in and told him how far away you actually lived, he just rolled his eyes at you, made a joke about how next time he'd charge you a fee. You really wanted there to be a next time.

"So where were you heading when you stopped for me?" you asked.

"Tesco," he said, his matter-of-fact tone making you laugh. "I just moved in a few days ago and still haven't done a proper grocery shop."

"You could just get things delivered."

"Yeah. Not sure it's a good look getting cigarettes delivered to a rectory."

Sexy priest smokes too? Maybe joining the church wouldn't be so bad after all.

You directed him the rest of the way, the car finally crawling to a stop outside your house. You turned to find him staring up at it with raised eyebrows, equally as impressed as he was surprised by the sheer size of the place.

"It's not my house," you said with a laugh. "Well I mean, it is my house, but it's not. We just rent it."

"We?"

"I have housemates."

You weren't sure why you'd left out the fact that one of those housemates was your boyfriend. Maybe it was because you didn't particularly want him to know you had one; didn't want him to assume you were happy, taken, unavailable. Or maybe it was the way he'd said 'we?' Like he was hoping your answer wouldn't involve a significant other. But that was probably all in your head. It had to be.

"Ah," he said. "Well get inside, I'm sure they're wondering where you are."

"I will, and thank you, Father. You're a lifesaver, in more ways than one."

He smiled. "I hope to see you at church. You have all the information I gave you?"

You lifted your bag and patted it gently. "I do."

You said your goodbyes and you climbed out of the car, pushing through the front gate and hurrying up the path as you rummaged through your bag for your keys. You pulled them out and unlocked the door, turning around and giving one last wave as Father Benedict finally began to drive away.

You shut the door and stood for a moment in the hall. You could hear Gina and Sam in the kitchen, a few other voices you didn't recognise. You didn't have the energy, so instead you made your way straight upstairs, the events of the night seeming more and more surreal with every step you took.

Did that really just happen? Had any of that actually just happened?

You peered your head into Alfie's room but he wasn't there, which meant he was either downstairs with the others, or in yours. You sighed and continued to the bottom of the landing, unsure of which one you'd prefer.

You pushed your bedroom door open and stepped inside to find him lying on the bed, face illuminated by his phone screen.

"Hi," you said as you shut the door behind yourself, sliding off your coat and draping it over a nearby chair.

"Hey," he replied, eyes glued to his phone.

You paused for a moment as you looked down at him. "Did you not notice I'm almost two hours late?"

"Hm? Oh, are you?"

"Yeah."

You waited for him to ask why, to show some concern, to look up from his phone for one bloody second. But he didn't. You couldn't believe you thought he'd be worried.

"A creepy guy sniffed my hair on the bus so I got off and tried to walk home," you began, your voice completely monotone, bored. "He followed me on foot for about 20 minutes, I thought he was going to murder me, so I went into a church. Got driven home by the priest."

"That's nice," he replied distractedly.

"Mm."

You sat down on your side of the bed, dumping your bag on the floor at your feet with a sigh. You slid off your shoes, still caked in mud from the church grounds, and took off the rest of your clothes, replacing them with a t-shirt you'd left hanging over the headboard.

"Wait, did you say you got a lift home from a priest?" he asked.

"Yep," you replied as you lay down facing away from him. "Is that really the part you're choosing to focus on?"

He laughed, the sound followed by his phone locking, a quiet clatter as he placed it on the bedside table. "Just a bit random, isn't it."

"I suppose."

He rolled towards you, cuddling up against your back and wrapping an arm around your waist. "You're freezing."

"Am I?"

"Mhm. Shall I warm you up?"

You shifted onto your back and turned your head to look at him. "Was that a come-on?"

"I did wait up for you."

You pressed your mouth into a straight line, unamused. He hadn't even realised you were late, hadn't put his phone down until you were lying next to him in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of knickers. Yet now he was claiming he waited for you? You rolled your eyes as he placed a kiss on your jaw, another on your neck, but you finally gave in with a sigh when he brought his lips to yours.

Alfie had a very particular way of making love. Particular being that he would suck on your nipples the entire time, like he was nursing. You hated it. But you'd waited too long after you first got together to bring it up, so now, after three years, telling him felt like a conversation too awkward to bear.

It was the same reason you never told him that his slow, weak, languid thrusts just didn't do it for you, or that he'd only ever made you come twice in your entire relationship. You just wanted to be fucked. Manhandled. Driven into like he hated you. But instead you got his mouth on your tits while he slid in and out of you, holding you like you were made of glass, leaving perpetual hickeys on your nipples.

You wished you were more like Gina. She was the kind of woman who would stop a guy in the middle of sex to give constructive criticism, who never faked an orgasm or moaned unless she meant it. You'd even heard her one night through the bedroom wall giving step-by-step instructions to a man on how to go down on her. It was equally as intimidating as it was inspiring, and you were sure that if she wasn't your friend, your housemate, your confidant, she would be just plain terrifying.

He'd been rocking in and out of you for about five minutes when he sucked too hard on your nipple, making you gasp quietly. He hummed in response, making his thrusts longer, deeper, like he'd mistaken it for a gasp of pleasure. You rolled your eyes, reaching down between your bodies to work your fingers over your clit, like an unspoken signal that you were ready for this to be over.

You'd gotten good at unspoken signals; when you squeezed his hand beneath the table, he knew you wanted to leave the party, when he went to his room instead of yours, you knew he wanted to be left alone, and when you touched yourself during sex, he knew you wanted him to just get it over with and come. It was foolproof, because before you knew it, he was groaning against your chest as he finished inside you.

You stopped touching yourself and brought your hand up to his hair, brushing it out of his face as he lifted his head to look at you.

"Did you come?" he asked.

Of course I didn't fucking come. I never come.

"No, but it's okay," you said. "I'm tired anyway."

He nodded and pulled out, kissing you on the cheek before rolling onto his side facing away from you. "I'm tired too."

You lay there staring at the ceiling for a while, legs still parted, t-shirt still bunched up exposing your breasts. Alfie had begun to snore softly. It was one thing you'd always loved about him, how quickly he fell asleep, how once he was asleep, almost nothing could wake him.

You wondered if the priest was a heavy sleeper too. You wondered what he would look like as he lay next to you in bed, if he'd ever lay next to anyone in bed. You wondered if his hands had ever caressed another's body, if he'd ever heard someone moan, if his lips, his tongue had ever tasted another person's skin.

You slowly returned your hand between your legs, closing your eyes as you began to see an altar, a cross, moonlight through stained glass, his praying hands parting to grip your throat.

Part 2: Temptation

#benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch #fanfiction #fanfic #smut #fanfic writing #smut writing #lemon #benedict cumberbatch smut #benedict cumberbatch fanfic #benedict cumberbatch x reader #Benedict cumberbatch x you #priest kink #hot priest #eventual smut

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sohmiya · 1 year

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Nikka! I’m crying and banging my head against the wall at how talented you are when it comes to songwriting because I could neverr have the skill set 😫 however I do have angst & Evren lyrics for you <3 (they’re shit though so don’t perceive me!!)

Less angsty to start with—after Second Coming and Evren meet and become friends, I see him happily name-dropping them in their new song (I’d like to think the song is just a fun vibe, it’s currently title-less though):

More angsty! Evren going to the studio at like 3am after that ‘breakup’ argument with Max, and he’s hurt and pissed off.

I imagine he called Cypress on the way there because ✨rant about the girl you love to your best friend✨ and Ev’s all like “Cy, you’re awake!” “I’m more worried that you are” “it’s cute you’re concerned about me, I’m driving to the studio anyway” “why…? Evren, wait, are you still hung up over Maxine? you can come over and we can chat, my siblings are asleep” and Cypress is genuinely upset and concerned bc he’s seen Evren heartbroken before “Cy, as much as I’d love that, I do need to let some frustrations out”

He calls his band and FaceTime’s them whilst he’s at the studio too—and they all pretty much know about Max and him—but also that when any of them call each other at stupid o’clock it means that there’s a song idea brewing.

Obvs had to name the song after their ship name:

I imagine when he performs this on stage that the fans sing back the bits that are in italics.

And when he has to go on talk shows and social media and promote the song, the question he gets every single time is “who’s the pretty red head?”, and he’ll just genuinely smirk and come up with witty answers like “well, listening to the song won’t be fun if I tell you”

And when nice interviewers ask how he’s doing I imagine him saying, “oh, yeah, I’m okay now. it happened, I wrote a successful song about it, and the good things I said about her are true and that won’t change”

But also him being nervous af to contact Maxine bc she could absolutely hate the song and he’d be ready to apologise for the argument in the first place, but he’d text after a few days like ‘hey, are we good? x’ and then like another one an hour later like ‘by any chance, do you know if your ex hates me??’

MILA SHUT UPPPPP OH MY GOD

no wait cause after the second coming name drop i can imagine max hitting evren up as soon as she hears the song and tease him like “if you wanted to collab all you had to was ask” NDJSJSKSKSK and the tennis references mhm i think he did it for me 😌🥂

and oh my god the cypress cameo 🥹 my favorite boys talking about love problems 🥹 no cause you don’t understand. i love ev’s friendship with everyone but his bond with cy just sits SOOOO right with me. it’s like cy acts like a big brother to him and evren acts like a cool uncle to the mini de veras <3

“i could never have the skill set” NOT YOU LYING TO MY FACE AS IF THE LYRICS OF SOMEWHERE THIS WORKS DONT FUCKING SLAP ?????????

knows i’m better than her ex, ain’t even talkin bout the sex

like after every ride we weren’t fucking high and she hits me with “we should be friends”

SHADE HER EVREN!!!!!! SPEAK YOUR TRUTH!!!!!! HDJSSKKSSJ PLS IM GOING INSANE OVER THESE LINES ACTUALLY

and the miracles verse….. “prayed to lady jesus in church”……… i just know your pen was on fire like i’m not kidding i wish i wrote that verse i’m gonna steal your brain

and the “calm during our storms” he really said OUR 😭😭😭😭😭😭

evren acevedo if things also don’t work out with miko i’m single and ready to mingle

i don’t think maxine could be pissed at him calling her out at the “we should be friends” line even if she tried like. she’d be impressed tbh 😭😭😭😭 like she would reply with a spotify screenshot with stw on repeat then she’d quote that line in the first verse to him and go “YOU DID NOT” NDNSMSKS but before evren could think she was serious she’d send another text “JK YES WE’RE GOOD EVREN THIS IS SOOOO GOOD” and considering the emotional weight of the argument that inspired the song, maxine 100% would stop herself from making a joke about how he “prayed to lady jesus in church” because she definitely had him kneeling a few times 🫢 sdhdjskkaks

‘by any chance, do you know if your ex hates me??’

HE’S SOOOOO 😭😭😭 the contrast between the wild ace and evren is so funny yet so endearing to me he’s such a cutie pie <333

max would say something like “idk and idc. i like you- *backspacebackspacebackspacebackspace* “idk and idc”

#i never realized how nice it feels to have someone write lyrics about my character too mila you literally made my day thank you ilysm 😭😭😭😭😭😭#we love an author lyricist and future nurse in this household #au: somewhere this works #mila ✨#nikka answers

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softnightvoid · 2 years

Text

A flash a inspiration after a month of blank page. Also, I'm in a pro formation so little to no time to write. Enjoy!

TW: reference to past self-harm

______________________________________

How To Raise Ghost's Child

Chapter 2

The second satanic Papa was tapping with the tip of his pen on the reunion table. Those were strangely getting longer and longer since Satan gifted him his precious egg. He was supposed to focus on the presentation board filled with ideas of promotionnal merch about his little brother, but his mind couldn't help but return every second to his baby, loved in his warm crib and calmly gestionning his own birth.

Dante's work book had a huge number of scrumbled notes about the current subject Sister Imperator was talking about, but the margings were even more full with baby names. He was quite surprised to notice he listed double more girls' names than boys' ones, but brushed it aside. He would certainly know for sure the moment he would see the baby's face and, well, sex. He couldn't prononce their gender so soon, and certainly not for the few firsts years. Maybe he should go for a gender neutral name?

He scribbled a few ones he could think of. Did they sound too much "ghouly"? He liked the Churchs' ghouls, and respected them of course, but should a Papas' child be named in the same way a ghoul was named?

He shifted against the back of his chair; maybe he should let the public…? No, definitly no. His adepts were beloved by him, but his child was too personal to let them choose. And it was taking the risk to end up with a baby named "Tornado" or "Magma". It would not be suited.

He vaguely noticed that Imperator was glaring at him and he gestured to dismiss her gaze. What was she talking about again? Ah yes, Terzos' plushies. What a dumb idea. Who would buy something so ugly on purpose?

The reunion finaly ended and Dante rushed out of the room with as much distinction as he could summon. He really only wanted to join his room with a pack of work and watch his egg all day, and that's what he did. Who could stop him?

He entered his appartments, locked the door behind him and almost run to coddle the egg in it's crib. Dante brushed the very soft blanket he had pulled over the shell to keep it warm, humming a song under his breath as he did so. Who could have thought caring for a gestionning baby could be so exausting and calming at the same time? Well, not him. And here he was, checking the budget of the month next to the biggest egg he ever saw -the shit wouldn't stop growing, and he had no idea why and how an egg could grow. It just. Did. And it seemed fine, so he wasn't about to complain.

Dante was filing his brothers' allowance for the week when he heard a crack. He stopped writing for a second, alert. Nothing. He resumed back to his writing, cursing his expensive brother under his breath. A crack stopped him in his track. He carefuly placed his pen down on the deck and bended over the crib. A long and but fine crack scarred the pale and smooth shell. Very gently, Dante petted the egg, his heart beating so fast it could escape his body. Was it it? Was it…

He couldn't conjecture any longer because another crack, way much longer and larger, almost ripped the shell on all it's length.

Holding in his breath, the Second Papa took the risk to slice his fingers and took a hold of the two edges of this crack, pulling slowly and firmly. The shell resisted a few terrifying seconds, then broke in half.

Dante holded dumbly the pieces before setting them aside. His whole focus centered on the wiggling creature inside the remains of the egg.

It has two legs, two arms, a single head. It's skin was a delighful color, very smooth. It… well, it simply looked like a human baby.

Very suspicious, coming from the Lord of Hell. Dante sofly poked the creature, half expecting it to burst into flames. It didn't. Instead, it -not litteraly- exploded into giggles.

Perplex, Dante watched that small being. He had been waiting nine months for this moment, and he… he had nothing to feel. Or he was feeling too much to actually feel anything in particular. Maybe he was expecting something more… explicit? A firework, congratulations, even physical pain? But he had a truly wonderful baby in front of him, and he had absolutly no idea where to start.

What did the books about maternity said again? He couldn't remember for the life of him. He bended closer, his hands hovering over the baby before touching him like it could disappear. It was warm. Wet. A bit slimmy? Where was he supposed to put his hands. How could he… hold… wait, the head, he had to hold the head. Ok. And then? The body? Ok ok, here goes nothing…

The only time he acted so carefuly in his life was when he have had found his brother with a bunch a razor blades in the bathroom. It was the same sensation of panic to break someone, but a complete different context.

He slowly setted the baby against him in his arms, the warm little body wetting his shirt a little -who fucking cared- and his so special scent ascending to Dante's senses. It was a human being. It was his humain being. Wait, that was creepy. That was his… his…baby. His baby. Baby.

His mind was blank, really. It could only think one gutly thing: Baby. Baby. Baby.

The more it reverbered in his mind, the happier he felt. It was like taking the first sip of coffee in the morning. It was like finishing all of his work before 9pm. It was so much more than that, but he couldn't express it. The feeling was deeply setling into him, leaving him with a growing euphoria. A deep humming escaped from his chest, finaly content. He rocked the baby in his arms, drowning himself in the -he could have said divine- vision. His baby. He was a father.

After an almost infinite moment of transe, he struggled to place the baby in his left arm only and threw the remnants of the shell on the floor. The crib cleaned, Dante lied the baby on the sheets, checking three times that it could not hurt itself, before rolling his sleeves up and rushing to the bathroom. He had to give the baby its first bath. Dante grabed the bassin he had prepared, filled it with warm water just at the right temperature, and placed it on a safe plane space he had left.

Jogging back into his livingroom, he lifted the baby with a bit less hesitation than before and took it to the improvised bath. Extremely careful, he bathed the then half-asleep child. Its skin was smoother than anything he ever had the chance to touch, he thought in wonder.

The slimy texture was washed away, leaving the baby neat and clean. Dante struggled intensly to dry it in a sponge towel, but when he succeded he coddled the tiny creature in its bed. Falling back on a nearby chair, he stared in marvel at the baby. His baby. Damn, he couldn't quite believe it yet.

Two thoughts strucked him at the same time: what was he going to name the child? And: how was he supposed to declare a satanic child to the State?

#chapter 2 #the band ghost #ghost b.c #papa 2 #papa secondo #papa emeritus ii #papa 2 is not used to children #but he'll learn #he'll fucking learn #How To Raise Ghost's Child

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noceurous · 3 years

Text

𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

summary: the priest was scaring you, but you knew he was just a man with secrets and a dark side.

warnings: smut, oral, spanking, semi-public sex, degrading kink, a bit biblical reference, softdark!priest!bucky, everything is with a concent, 18+ (minors dni)

a/n: i still can’t stop thinking about priest!bucky, and i’d love to get some feedbacks

You felt so small against the large stained glasses, which were almost reaching to the ceiling. A typical neo-Gothic Church, you felt like all the figures on the glasses had their eyes on you. Watching your every move; judging.

“Is this your first time in a church?” You heard his voice, as you turned to him, your eyes meeting his.

He looked cool, for a priest but the way he looked at you, and how he made you feel with his words made you feel exposed.

His tone wasn’t sarcastic, just curious as he watched you look at the windows like hypnotised. “Just first time in a fancy one like this.” You answered him, eyes looking around to find your friend standing at the end of the aisle.

She was talking with her fiancé Jim, he couldn’t make it so you jumped in, taking his place as the lovely maid of honour.

“You liked the windows, I suppose.” He said, smiling at you, the sun was at the perfect angle, giving the focus on the windows, it was poetic, no surprise why your friend chose this church for her wedding.

“More like terrified, but sure that works too.” You answered him as you giggled at your joke. Him smiling at you in return.

He turned towards your friend. “I hope you two are working on your vows. There is not much time until the wedding.” You tried hard to not laugh at that. You knew how this was, your friend would write something cliche, long, and boring and you would have to rephrase the whole thing, end up writing her vow.

“Yes, Father.” She answered.

“I’d like to have a personal meetings with the best man and the maid of honour.” You looked at your friend with horrified eyes; you had no idea about this. Before you could make an excuse you saw the look on your her face, looking stressed since her fiancé wasn’t there.

Her fiancé was a useless man. You were arguing with him every chance you two could get, and you were getting sick with the excuses he was giving to her. Such as this one, and you knew didn’t even bother to schedule his so called important meeting to another day. So you came along, not to leave her alone, and you would try to do your best before she could have a break down.

“Uhm, Father I can have my meeting today, and if you’re not busy, and the best man can have his meeting with you some other time. If it’s okay with you too.”

“Sure. let’s go to my office, you can get her back after the meeting.” He joked as he guided you to the office.

You felt like you were back in high school, at principles office. “So how do want to start?” He asked as he sat on his chair.

“What is the purpose of this meeting?” You asked.

“Just to get to know you better.” He said as he took out some papers in front of him and a pen.

“Oh, you don’t want to know me. I’m not much of a saint, I should better not mess the picture of me in your hea—“ You mumbled as you got up, heading to the door.

“If you don’t sit, your friends will have to find another priest. I’m taking this very seriously.”

“Fine.” You said as you sat down, fixing the hem of your dress. “What would you like to know about me?” You said, even your best fit for a church was like four inches above the knee.

“You can tell me about the basics, job, family, whatever you want to talk about.” He suggested; already taking some notes.

“My parents are divorced. I’m currently in between jobs, went to same school as my friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear about the divorce.” He said as he raised his head, joining his hands in front of him. You just chuckled at his state, the same saying people whose parents are together say when they hear about yours.

“They weren’t good for each other. I’m glad they did something that made them happy.” You explained. “I know divorce is something you don’t approve.”

“I’m not fund of it of course, but living in a house full of stress and hatred isn’t good for the soul either. Also for the kid, I’m just assuming you were a kid.”

“I was five. Had no idea until I was ten, since my dad wasn’t living with us even before that. The memories I’ve are blurry.” You answered.

“Did the divorce affect your thoughts about marriage? You and the groom don’t get along. I also know you came to church because he didn’t want to.” He asked as he continued taking notes again, this was worse than being in the principle’s office, this felt like you were sitting with a doctor, like a psychologist.

“This is important for my friend, so it’s important for me. If she says she wants to get married than she has my full support.” He smiled at your answer, getting comfortable in his chair.

On the contrast, you were getting more uncomfortable with his questions and with his gaze on you.You saw his eyes sometimes lowered, checking your exposed legs. You gulped as you could feel yourself get wetter, when he licked his lips before he spoke again. “When was the last time you attended church?”

“My grandfather’s funeral. Before you ask, it was when I was eight.” He smiled at you, nodding as he wrote something on his the papers in front of him.

“I’d like you to have a confession, before the wedding. It seems like one would be useful, the day and time is totally up to you, but I’d be glad to see you as soon as possible.”

“Do you think I have something to confess?” You raised an eyebrow as he shook his head, smiling at your reaction.

“Don’t we all? There is always something to confess.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah, I believe I’ve all the information I need. See you soon.”

“Goodbye Father.” You said as you quickly left his office.

~~~

You couldn’t believe yourself as you found yourself in the wooden cabin of the confessional.

“Hello?” His low voice break the silence, and you tried to hold your chuckle. “Are you with me?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry I must’ve blacked out.” You mumbled as you cleared your throat. It had been three days since you last saw him, and two days before the wedding.

“’s fine.”

“I should start I guess... Bless me father for I’ve sinned, it’s my first confession.”

“Oh, since it’s your first, we can start with something easy. What’s going on your mind my child?”

You smiled at how he called you, shaking your head, even though you knew he couldn’t see you. “I don’t know where to start actually, I thought of different things to say to you on my way but I couldn’t choose where to start.”

He didn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue.“I guess I can tell you something though, there is this man, he frightens me.”

“Is he someone close to you?” He sounded worried.

“No, not much.”

“How does he scare you?”

“The way he looks at me; it’s like looks directly into my soul. He says that wants to know me, but I believe that he wants something more than that.”

“So his actions scare you? The way he acts around you?” He asked to clarify.

You gulped, closing your eyes before speaking. “No, I’m scared because I want him.” You answered. “I want him to do whatever he wants to do with me.”

He felt jealousy was running through his veins. “What do you think he wants to do with you?”

“I believe he wants to use me.” You chuckled. “He wants to have his way with me, he wants to fuck me. I know that I compel him.”

“How are you so sure?”

“A woman can tell. I’m the white rabbit, to his dark wolf. I’m a total sin, and he is a saint. I’m afraid I want him to want me.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I want you to tell me what do you want him to do with you.” His voice was low, feeling blood run through his cock, he understood that you were talking about him.

“I want him to fuck me, till I can’t stand.” You said smiling. “I want him to touch my forbidden places and see how wet he makes me by a simple look.” You could hear his groan, smirking to yourself. “I know I’m forbidden to him, but I also know we only need one sparkle to set this whole place on fire.” He was going to choke on his spit when he heard your words. Feeling his cock getting hard.

“So what should I do Father?” You asked innocently. You knew he understood your little game, hoping that you didn’t put your friend in danger.

“Step out of the confessional.” He said under his breath.

You did as he said, feeling uncomfortable because you knew he would see you. You were looking down, teeth between your lip.

He followed you seconds later which felt like centuries. “You are very brave don’t you? Thinking you’re the forbidden fruit, even though you are just a snake.” He said, degrading you.

“I’m sorry Father.” You said as you raised your head. Flames were leaving his eyes, breathing through his nose as he grabbed you by your chin.

“Oh, you’ll be sorry. I’ll make sure of it.” He said through his greeting teeth.

In the blink of an eye, you found yourself back in his office; but it was different even though he was behind his desk, you were sitting on it.

His hands were on your exposed thighs, slowly caressing the skin, the strap of your dress was down, showing him your laced bra. His fingertips played with the hem of it, it was only an inch away from showing him your matching thong. Your legs were seperated, he was looking at you right in the eye.

He leaned close to you, to do the only thing when he first saw you. Kissing you. It was not his first time, nor it will be his last, but he felt like a naïve kid as he pressed his lips to your. He smiled at the cherry taste of your lips. You opened your mouth to the kiss, his cold tongue dancing around yours.

You broke the kiss as his hands got dangerously close to your core. “I thought that you wanted me?” He spoke, his voice was calm and low.

“I—I do.” You answered, a soft nod. He took a deep breath through his nose as he pressed fingertips to your wet core, smiling at the feeling of the lace.

“So wet.” You hummed as he dipped his finger in, playing with your folds. He was slow. You whimpered as he got close to your hole and then up again. You bit your lip, trying to be quiet.

“Don’t be so shy now. You told me you wanted this and I’m giving it to you.” He pulled your lip free, you were lost in his eyes when suddenly he pushed his finger inside of you, making your back arch.

“Father!” You said, hand holding onto the edge of the dark wooden table. He chuckled at your state.

“So gentle...” He whispered to your ear as he curled his finger. He held you by the back of your neck. “I’m using just one finger, are you that desperate?” He asked as he added the second one, fucking you with his fingers, his pace was slow like he was mocking you. His fingers were stretching you, he was so deep, but somehow it wasn’t enough.

He leaned towards you, but didn’t kiss you. His other fingers found the zipper of your dress, tugging it down. The dress flooded off your body like it was water, pooling around your waist. Upper half of your body was exposed, he planted soft kisses around your chest.

“Take of your bra.” He said, after taking off your dress. His fingers left you, your walls clenching around nothing. He wiped his finger on your exposed chest, it was glistening with your juices. He smirked at the sight in front of him, leaning down to lick the swell of your breasts as his hands took off your underwear.

“Look at you, a sinner all spread out for a priest.” He smirked as he turned you around, making you bend over his table. Your warm cheek was pressed on the cold table as one of his hand stayed on your neck, making you stayed still, as his other hand caressed your butt.

He spanked your soft flesh, making it jiggle with his hard smack. “Count.” He commanded as he landed another smack.

“One.” You said.

His loud smacks were echoing in the room, making you feel dazed out but you never missed your count. You could feel yourself drip down between your thighs, knew he was enjoying this.

“T-ten.” You said, breath itched as the last smack was on your pussy, not on your butt.

“That’s a good girl.” He said, seeing how you got wet as his fingers separated your folds, brushing his ringed finger between them.

You shivered with a whimper, “I think it’s time to make your wish come true.” You heard the sound of belt, and felt him rubbing his hard cock between your folds.

“Can you feel what you’ve done to me? My filthy little girl.” He said as he shoved himself in one move, making you moan at the pain he caused you.

His hand grasped your hair, pulling it as he fucked you through his desk. “The dresses you chose, the boldness of your words are enough to drive a man insane.” You moaned at his confession as he kept on fucking you.

He was fast and rough, not caring one bit about your comfort. “Those things you’ve said at the confessional. I knew you wanted me from the start.” He whispered to your ear.

His lips found the back of your shoulders, he slowly left a kiss, his cold lips burnt your skin. “Yes father. I wanted you to have me from the first time.” You answered him, couldn’t stop sounding like a needy girl.

“Such a dumb girl, drooling over a God’s man. You like this don’t you, getting fucked by a priest.” His words stung you but you couldn’t help to keep your moans to yourself. Why this was feeling better than it should?

“Answer!” He said as he pulled you by your hair, your back hitting his naked chest. You looked at his face, there he was, the monster you unleashed.

“Yes Father! I love the way you fuck me! It feels so good.” He laughed at your answer as his other hand went to your jaw, grasping it hardly.

“Open your mouth.” He said and you obeyed him. He spit in your mouth, closing it with his hands again. “Now be a good girl for once and swallow it.” You did as you said, feeling your walls clench around him.

You loved how he was manhandling you. He was fucking you so good to be true, your legs already gave out from carrying you. A tear from pleasure slowly fell down your cheek.

He heard all your cries and moans, but never showed you any mercy after all you were just a sinner who needs to be taught a lesson.

Your walls were clenching around him as you felt the familiar tightness forming. “Father, I’m going to cum!” You confessed feeling guilty.

“Cum for me, my sinner. I want to feel you cum all around me.” He said as he pulled your hair again, his hand going for your breasts as he pinched your nipples as he rode your orgasm.

He turned you around, now you were facing him. He took his cock in hand, it was really big and you could see his veins. He palmed himself in his hand, it was already leaking precum. His other hand pushed you down by your shoulder, making you sit on your knees.

“Open your mouth.” He said as he guided the tip inside your mouth. You obeyed him without a blink, trying to take as much as you could.

He was just like you imagined him to be, thick and heavy. You twirled your tip around his head, licking him clean.

“My filthy girl is so desperate for her priest’s cock.” He groaned at the warmness of tongue around him. You slowly started bobbing your head, taking in as much as you could.

This was too filthy even for your but you loved it. His cross necklace dangling on his chest, the only thing he was wearing right then.

He held you by holding your cheeks. He started fucking your face, his cross shining with the yellow lights of the room. “You feel so good, I’m going to give you what you want.” He moaned, his chest raised up and down quickly before he emptied himself down your throat. He held you, making sure that you swallowed all of it.

You were almost going to choke on his cum, if he didn’t set you free. You even coughed after you swallowed all of him.

His smile was back when he saw your state, your mascara ruined, lips swollen, on top of that you had a dinner with your friend in an hour.

How could you explain to her all of that?

Would you even try to?

He held out his hand, you were hesitant to take it, but he helped you get dressed. “I hope you learned your lesson.” He said as he zipped your dress back.

“But again, if you keep having those dirty thoughts, you knew where to find me.” He said as he kissed your cheek.

“I’ll see you at the wedding.” He said, as he got back on his chair, like nothing happened. “Until then...” He said, his smile was back. You hated that smile.

You nodded as you closed the door behind you.

—

a/n: please give me some feedbacks too (reblogs/comments)

#bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes au #priest!bucky barnes au #priest!bucky barnes #priest!bucky barnes smut #priest!bucky

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tales-unique · 3 years

Text

FAITH, LOST VI

The softness got me like 😩 I hope you enjoy it! ♥

@maddi-bug & @chelseareferenced & @actual-trash-goblin

Chapter 6

Heisenberg is gone for longer than usual. It's to be expected, given how swift and intense the explosion was, only this time you're aware of just how much you miss him when he's not there. It’s cathartic, no longer having your feelings hidden in the deepest parts of yourself. Upon reflection, you realize that you enjoy the power struggle between the two of you and that there is no shame in it. Pleasure, you had come to learn, wouldn’t compromise your dignity or pride in yourself, and wasn’t something to be demonized or resented. Weightless from this revelation, your mind drifts to the last words he spoke before leaving you; we aren’t done here . Fire blooms in your stomach, dripping lower until you’re squirming where you sit cross-legged on Heisenberg's bed. Your skin still tingles from where he held you in his rough grasp, white noise erupting all over your body. It’s clear just what the phrase implies , but at the same time you have no exact idea what to expect when he returns and that’s part of what makes this all so thrilling . Though even with all the positive feelings that come with this, you can’t help but still feel conflicted. You find yourself lost in the moment, sent adrift in a vast ocean with no lifeline.

Now, it wasn’t as though you hadn’t had sex before, because you had. It was only once, in the hayloft of the village stables with a young man named Nicolai that you were fond of. He worked in the fields and you often saw him on your way to Church, where he’d smile and wink at you. He’d happened upon you when you’d lingered near the edge of the fields one day after morning Mass, bashfully accepting when he proposed that you go somewhere quieter together. You remember that his kisses were soft, but he was a little pushy, and once he was done that was it. No real connection, no real passion, just motion until you were both done, and even then you weren’t completely sure if you were done. Then a week later he was dead, mauled to death in that very same hayloft by a Lycan, along with a girl from your congregation named Irina. You can only imagine the reason why she was there with him that day. It sat, bitter like poison, within you for some time after their deaths, knowing that this hadn’t been the special thing you had been led to believe; this divine virtue that needed to be protected until you were lawfully wed, where all would finally make sense. Then you met Lord Karl Heisenberg and everything was suddenly turned on its head. Since you had come to the Factor you had been exposed to a more sexually charged and free environment, with Heisenberg's flirtatious teasing a regular occurrence, as well as his sarcasm and moods, culminating in the spark that set all this motion when he had you pinned to the desk in his office. You were given no room to avoid it, no chance to hide behind demureness and virtue, and because of that you were able to grow . You now embraced what this freedom could give you and it was all because of his pushing. At first it didn’t sit well with you, it squirmed and fought, but the disquieting sensation dissipated easily and you were left with an insatiable hunger for all things you had been denied, scandalous or otherwise. Biting your lip, a devious little thought fills your head; you needed to thank him when he came back.

When Heisenberg does come back to you it's already well into the night, and in anticipation of his return he finds that you’re not in your room when he looks, instead, amusingly, you’re actually in his . Sound asleep, you’re curled up on his bed with the sheets clutched in your dainty fingers up to your face. He watches from the doorway the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe and the way your long lashes kiss your cheeks. You’ve clearly been busy while he was gone, having ordered the disheveled work desk to semi-neatness so he can at least still find his things. Straightened papers, pens put in the holder, lined his tools up for easy access. It’s something he doesn’t outwardly thank you for, but has most certainly come to value. You don’t overstep, you merely aid, and it’s in these quiet moments of downtime that he realizes how much he appreciates the little things you do for him. Yes, it began with your faith and devotion to Mother Miranda and her decree for you to serve him, but he isn’t naive enough to believe that’s all there is to it. Not now, anyway. You don’t have to be caring towards him in your servitude, in your own little ways, like becoming annoyed with him when he tells you he hasn’t eaten all day or hasn't drunk enough water while working. Soft, kind-hearted things; things he isn’t used to. Trying to be as quiet as he can, Heisenberg walks over to where you lay, settling on the edge of the bed by your side. You squirm in your sleep as his weight dips the mattress but you don’t wake up, merely curling up tighter with a soft sigh. He watches your sleeping form with pinched brows, the uncomfortable intensity of yearning twisting knots within him. A hesitant hand comes to brush your cheek with his thumb, cupping it gently. Such tender affections were not something the Lord was known for, or used to receiving from others, given the magnitude of sins he had performed at the behest of his hatred for Miranda, her manipulations and betrayals, and his insatiable need to be free of the confinement he was forced into. Ulterior motives were second nature in his world, the lesson that kindness and affection were a means to an end instilled in him from an early age. Yet the compulsion, new and alarming, to give in to your motiveless warmth had wormed its way deep inside, threatening to shatter him from within. Not that he wasn’t trying to fight it, he was . Like a wild mustang refusing to yield to anyone, he twisted and pulled and snapped at the feeling, it’s tendrils repelled as much as he could, but he was slowly weakening to its constant attacks. It just wouldn’t leave him be . The realization was harsh and unforgiving that you are well on your way to becoming someone that would, in time, serve to weaken him, grinding down his walls just as the sea wears away the rocks on its shores until they resemble nothing of their former selves. The thought irks him and in a childish display of spitefulness he pulls his hand back from your face, lips curling into a snarl. His fingers burst with static, punishing him for prematurely cutting the contact, and he tries to smother the sensation by tightening his hand into a fist. It doesn’t help. He can still feel it and he hates that he misses it, like some love-sick pup! It ties his stomach in knots and sets his blood aflame. He’s hyper aware of you laying behind him, overwhelmed when you turn over and your knees press against his back. Lulled by your gentle, slumbering breaths, a calming serenade, Heisenberg’s hand slowly unfurls to rest on his leg. Though he’s still very much on edge. The dizzying free-fall into such conflicting emotions sends him nauseous, reeling from the sudden severity of it. You were just a weak, pathetic human , for fucks sake! You had no right to come barging into his life and start wrecking shit up with your pretty smiles and warm eyes! All those selfless moments he tries so desperately to poke holes in, only to find that they’re as sound as a concrete wall. It has him doubting, however minutely, the thought that everyone was out to get

him and that scared him. Quickly standing, he decides even being in the same room as you is too much. Everything is suddenly stifling, the heat cloying and making his throat burn. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s disturbed you as he exits the room, head throbbing mercilessly. There’s nowhere left in the factory that’s safe from your influence; the rooms smell of you, the hallways echo with your voice, his things marked by your touch — you’re everywhere , encasing him. And he doesn’t help that fact when he finds himself standing in the middle of your room. His keen senses are overwhelmed by the space, your space, but it isn’t so disarming this time. No, now he’s growing to like it against his better judgement. You’ll ruin him and he’s slowly coming around to the idea of letting you do it, too. It makes him sick, that thought, but it doesn’t really matter as he sits down on the couch where you sleep, fingers smoothing over the sheets you’ve neatly folded over it. There’s a twisted sense of irony in how he finds comfort in being surrounded by your things, as little as they are, when trying so desperately trying to get away from you. It doesn’t make sense, but since when did anything in his fucked up life? "Fuck," he moaned, the word drawn-out in his frustration as he laid his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

"Heisenberg?" The Lord tilts his head to look at where you stand in the doorway, your tender question alerting him to your presence. You're a picture of post-slumber beauty; hair dishevelled and fluffed up on one side from where you had been laying, eyes hazy with sleep, your top languidly slipping down one shoulder, creased from your rest. Your brow is pinched as you regard him, gently padding over to where he sits. "Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up, huh?" He chuckles, casually slinging his arm over the back of the couch. “Did you enjoy sleeping in my bed?” He teases with a smirk. “You were gone too long,” you retorted, fixing him with a tired glare, pulling your legs up as you settle down beside him, “and you don’t let me down into the lower levels with you, do you?” “I know, but this was serious,” Heisenberg sighed, his free hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut in frustration, “one of the fucking conveyor lines decided to go ka-pow !” He punctuates his statement with a mimic of the explosion, both hands involved before dropping down limply. “It was jammed. I got it under control but the fallout was, well, messy ,” he explained, taking off his glasses and putting them aside on the couch arm, along with his tossed coat and gloves. You frown at the way he drags his hands down his face, sighing deeply. He’s exhausted and there’s nothing you can really do that you haven’t already tried. “At least it’s fixed now, yes?” You ask softly as you turn to sit cross-legged, facing him. You have a look of worry creasing your features and Heisenberg is quick to hide the rising emotion with his usual swagger. “Of course it is, why do you think I’ve been gone so long?” He scoffs, shaking his head. His leg begins to jiggle under the weight of your wary gaze, knowing that he’s not fooling you in the slightest. You’ve seen enough of him, the vulnerability he has, to know an act of bravado when he’s conjuring it. It’s unsettling to know that you have a means of undermining his power over you now, that you can call his bluff with somewhat decent accuracy, and he fully expects you to embrace that power. So when you gingerly move to nestle into his side, back resting against him with your head leaning against his arm where it lays slung across the back of the couch he’s pleasantly surprised. He should know better, you’ve always been soft . Even when you’re being fierce towards him and you blaze like a thousand suns it comes from a place of tenderness and care, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly understand about you. “I missed you.” It’s barely a whisper and even his keen hearing is strained to pick it up. There are a million sarcastic and teasing responses that he could choose from to say, and very much would have, if not for the fact that you’re right there , disarming him with a distant, non-threatening kind of affection that has him weak. It’s easier, he assumes, for you to not look at him when you tell him your truth and he’s grateful. Those big doe eyes, filled with gentle fondness, that you have when you’re being this way might just send him into overdrive at this point and he hasn’t yet come up with a game plan on how to deal with it. “Yeah?” It’s a simple response, but there’s a slight break to his voice that betrays the tempest of emotions swirling within. The air is charged with anticipation, a prickling static that is so close to erupting, all because you’ve got him going fucking soft . “Mhm,” you hum, pressing your feet into the cushions to distract yourself. Your face is ablaze with colour, your skin burning. To be so open, so raw , in such an intimate setting as this was completely foreign to you, and it didn’t help that the one you were experiencing it with was Lord Karl Heisenberg . A silence, pregnant with the onset of a coming storm, rolls over you both and you sit, listening to the sound of each other's breathing. Your heart is hammering in your chest, the hummingbird threatening to break free. White noise suddenly erupts across your body when you feel him shift, ever so slightly,

and his arm comes across your front to pull you closer. The movement is awkward, marred by a lack of experience with this kind of action, and you too have to move in order to be comfortable. It takes a moment or two but soon you both find a happy medium.You rest your cheek against his arm, nose lovingly brushing against one of the many raised, white scars that littered his skin. If only he could be so bold in this way. His body stiffens instinctively when you continue with your ministrations, resisting the urge to pull back, to push you away. His scars were a source of contention for him, among many other things, some known to you and some not, given how he had come to have them. But you didn’t seem to mind. That he now knew for sure from the way you lavished them with gentle attention, carefully tracing the lines with your dainty fingers. You even dare to press a gentle kiss to one that curls into his wrist, feeling the way his pulse jumps wildly under your lips. “I didn’t realise you had so many,” you murmur, looking over his arm with interest. He’s never spoken outright about them, but they were hard to miss. There was nary a patch of skin, seen or unseen, that didn’t have one of some kind, or so you presumed. You had no doubts in your mind that he would keep their origins from you and you wouldn’t presume to have leave to ask, but in this moment anything could be possible. Stranger things had already happened, after all. However, when he remains quiet you frown, pressing a lingering kiss to the spot, a silent apology for having been so prying. His pulse jumps again and suddenly you're pulled in closer, tighter. You gasp at the sudden shift, feeling him lean in, nosing your hair, taking in it’s scent. “You’re pretty brave tonight, huh?” He rumbled low into your ear, making you stiffen. He wanted to touch you, only this time it was different from before. It was driven by an unfamiliar desire to give intimacy as he had been given, to gain back the power you had taken. Or so he told himself. You were his, Mother Miranda had said as much when she gave you to him, but now he wanted to be yours , too. “I—” You swallow your nerves, turning so that you could look up at him with wide eyes, “—did I go too far?” It was hard to know when you had crossed a line until you were already well beyond it, incurring his wrath, so you were understandably wary, and it irked him to know that he was the source of your constant insecurity. He really was a shitty person, like you had said before. “Not at all,” he stated, lips quirking in a smile at the way your gaze softened, a bashful smile crossing your face. This thing, whatever it was that you had, was a delicate, fragile little bloom that he was striving to keep, to protect . In his mind he knew there may not ever be another chance for something like this for someone like him and so he was determined not to lose it. Not to his siblings, not to that bitch Miranda, not to anything or anyone . This time the silence is more comfortable for the both of you, his fingers drumming a nonsensical tune on your arm as you rest against him — the last vestige of his anxiousness and nerves. You don’t hold it against him, instead allowing it to lull you into a peaceful doze. Your weight, like an anchor to his wayward ship, is pleasant and he finds that quietness can indeed be peaceful. With you at his side he’s grounded, electrified but contained. It’s surreal, but he’s addicted to the odd sensations your affection gives him. It’s nothing like the sexually charged tension of before but in some ways it’s even better . He doesn’t ever want it to end, you and him, in this still, secret moment, and that worries him to no end.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE8 Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heisenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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potentialproblem01 · 3 years

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Come eat kids! Padre Domingo Part 3: Feast

Part three lets go! This wasn’t supposed to be this long but here we are, things get away from you sometimes lol. Usual acknowledgements to @creme-bruhlee for the invention and to my Daniel server fam for the encouragement, for this one particularly @daniielbruhl

This will stand alone, however there is other content in this universe:

Part One

Part Two

If you’d prefer to read on AO3

Herein contains: 7.3k of smut, continued disrespect to the Spanish Catholic church and its holidays, NEEDLES, breathplay, bondage, vibrator torture, wax play, improper use of a rosary, gags, oral, wine, nipple torture are the big ones I think. Also like, this is stylized sex so salt generously.

You had gone over to Padre Domingo’s house as usual only to be quickly ushered in and invited to disrobe. Your hoodie gets tossed towards a peg but misses and lands on the floor. Usually he wasn’t nearly so forward but today seemed to be special.

The dining table had been cleared off of the place settings and table runner and ornaments. He stopped you at the head of the table, coming up behind you and running a hand over your shoulder, leaning in close to drag his nose along the low back of your shirt’s neckline. He runs a hand down to the hem before tugging it up. You get with the picture and raise your arms so he can take it off.

You’re left in your skirt, boots, and bra. You lift your foot to the table to start working the laces undone before yanking the first one off and repeating the process as he runs his hands over your back before unhooking your bra and throwing that to the floor.

You unzip your skirt and let it fall, stepping out of it and pushing your panties off. Completely nude in his dining room while he’s still in his pale button up and black slacks. He takes out his obsidian cufflinks, setting them on the side table and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. His oversized rosary peeks out from his open collar.

“On the table.”

You follow the order without hesitation, popping up on the table, swinging your legs over the side.

“Flat out, Princess.”

You follow that too, laying down flat against the dark grain, keeping your eyes on him as he sweeps around the table, disappearing to the next room before returning with the ropes, worn smooth with oils and mileage. He moves to the head of the table, taking an arm and looping the wrist in a knot before tossing the length under the table. He crosses to the other side and bends down to retrieve the rope and loop it around your other wrist before pulling it taut and knotting it again before letting the excess fall to the floor. You pull on your left hand and feel it yank on your right wrist. In your periphery you can see him smirking.

He grabs another rope and moves to the foot of the table, capturing your ankle and pulling it to the corner and tying it to the table leg as tight as he can. He repeats for the other ankle and you’re spread out on his table, a meal for one.

He stands at the foot of the table, watching you, legs spread. “Do you know what day it is?”

You have a moment of panic, did you miss an anniversary? A birthday? A holiday? “December eleventh?”

“And what does that mean?”

“That it’s Friday?”

“That it’s my Feast Day.”

You had missed a holiday. “And you’re eating me.”

“Knew you’d catch up.” With one last look up your legs, he leaves again. You hear him rumbling around in the bedroom.

He returns with his hands full: prayer candles in slim glasses, tapers, blindfold, gag, lighter, a wine bottle, wand vibrator. He sets his effects on the side table and goes to retrieve a wine glass from the kitchen rack.

He pulls the cork and fills the glass before returning them to the side table. He retrieves another rope and the vibrator before perching on the edge of the table at your hip. He winds the rope around your thigh loosely and then slides the vibrator through the rope so it comes to rest against your clit. He tightens the rope while holding the wand's position, the pressure sending a light shiver through your pelvis, tensing your thighs as he cinches up on the rope, finally tying a knot in it to keep the wand in place.

He flicks the switch to it’s low setting, vibrations humming up your body through your clit. It feels good but it’s not enough to get you off. You squirm in your restraints, trying to up the contact, create a contact rhythm. You can’t move much and earn a slap to the inside of your thigh for the effort. You wriggle a little more in protest, earning a slap to your other thigh.

“Be good.”

“Yes, Padre.” And maybe you shouldn’t have said it like that as his warm eyes narrow and he glances at the side table, considering the O ring. He gets down off the table and grabs it, walking around to the head of the table, leaning over your face.

“Don’t interrupt.” He traces a finger over your smile before forcing a thumb in, pressing against your teeth and tongue, pushing at the piercing to try to force your tongue back. He levers your jaw open and places the ring against your top teeth, pulling his thumb away to be replaced by metal. He trails the wet thumb down your chin before using one hand to raise your head and the other to latch the buckle at the back of your head.

“Better.” He walks away and you turn your head to track him. He grabs a chain from the supply pile, turning back around and cupping your breast before slapping it. He comes to twirl the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing it to hardness. He tugs on it a few times, pulling at the elastic skin before pinching it between a clamp.

He reaches over you to play with your other nipple, running a fingernail across it before getting it between his thumb and forefinger, tugging on it. He retreats to massage the breast before placing a slightly harder hit to the underside, watching it jiggle. He twists lightly at the nipple before clamping this one too. He tugs on the connecting chain, the cold metal sending a shock through your chest.

Next he grabs the silk blindfold, it’s a new one you note. A rich Byzantium purple. He leans over your head again, his rosary threatening to leave his shirt as he places the fabric. He lifts your head to knot it, the silk softly hissing against itself and your hair. He removes his hand and lets your head fall back to the table. The impact reverberates through you.

He moves back to the side table, opening the drawer and pulling out his personal copy of the good book, the only thing that stays in that drawer. It sounds like he’s flipping to one of the many tabbed pages and then the scratch of one of the barstools as he sits on it. He sets his book on the counter, turning his back to you.

You hear the pages turning as you stay bound to the table, writhing against the low-grade clit torture, unable to see or move or speak.

You're unsure how long he leaves you like that, but you heard the scratch of pen against paper, ostensibly to take notes for the weekend's sermon. You start to feel warmth ease out of you, dripping down your folds and pooling on the table, sticking in your thigh creases and crack. The head of the vibrator is starting to slip and slide and you wiggle trying to keep the contact maximized. He must hear you struggling as the barstool screeches as he pushes back and air is displaced at your hip as he arrives.

He runs his hands over the rope tying the vibrator to you before turning it off and shifting it around your thigh, ceasing the delicious contact. He runs a finger through the mess, smearing it over your abused clit before drawing back down, teasing a finger at your entrance before plunging in with one finger and then another, his cool fingers a relief against your overheated cunt. He pumps twice before pulling them out, the sounds of him licking at your juices reaches your ears and you squirm again, trying to beg but coming out a mess of consonants.

“Princess, you taste so good, all for your Saint Daniel.”

He moves again, to the foot of the table before getting on top of it and laying between your thighs, his shirt dragging against your skin with a cloud-soft touch. He rests his hands on your thighs, coaxing them farther apart as he dives in, gathering as much of your slick on his tongue as he can, stubble catching on delicate skin.

He swallows and goes back in, lavishing your clit with attention, a persistent pressure as he eats you out. He moves his face down, curling his tongue to catch every last bit of your moisture, drinking it down. He goes to suck on your clit, a gentle vacuum causing you to wriggle.

You’re getting close and trying to warn him, your toes beginning to curl inwards before he lets up and drags his teeth quick and vicious across your clit, the pain sharp against your arousal, pushing you into an orgasm. You thrash, trying to close your thighs but only being able to pull at your bindings, rubbing your wrists raw. He dives back in to lick out the newly released fluid, lapping at it with harsh flicks of his tongue.

His fingers bite into the fat of your thigh, kneading it before using it to push himself up from where he laid on the table. You hear the clinking of the wooden beads of his rosary as he fiddles with it, drawing it from his shirt and taking it off.

His weight shifts, snaking over your body, beads trailing where his fist ghosts across your skin. A hand comes down by your ear to brace himself. You can feel his breath as he levels his face over yours, cool inside your held open mouth. If you had been able to see, you’d see the wicked little glint in his amber eyes.

The beads slide down the side of your throat as he drags them to your lip before dropping the cross through the ring, the silver unpleasant and sickly sweet against your teeth. He holds it there, just inside your mouth for a second before he exhales a little harder and begins to lower it further. The taste of the worn and aged silver is acrid on the back of your tongue as it drops down your throat. The cross and beads chime against your bar.

One of the arms catches on your molar, altering the even deployment down your mouth. The cross wobbles, descending the long way as the first of the oiled wooden beads slide on your tongue and past the cross, weighing the cross enough to dislodge it from your tooth. The silver and wood tangle together as they tumble down against the back of your throat. You try to be good and suppress the reflex to gag but you can’t. The silver and oil are unpalatable. Your body spasms once before you get your involuntary movements back under control.

He holds the rosary there, letting you struggle to contain your reactions, spit welling in your mouth as you resist swallowing it and the cross down. He shifts his weight again, setting the beads in the corner of your mouth and letting the rest trail across your cheek to the table, changing the way the cross sits in your mouth, beads between teeth. He runs a hand over your brow, teasing the edge of purple silk before he dips his head beside yours, nipping at your ear, “So good for me.”

He shifts again, the collar of his shirt a scant sensation on your overheated skin. He runs a finger over your lower teeth before a quick swish results in a wad of his spit dropping into your mouth, sliding down your tongue, the hint of ash and mint.

He traces the ring before grabbing the train of beads and pulling on it, dragging the wood and silver across your tongue and teeth before removing it entirely. He winds it around his fist with a wet glide as your spit sticks to him. For good measure, he bites at your top lip before dropping another wad of his spit down your throat. You can’t stop the swallow. He sits back before trailing his beaded fist across your breasts, tugging at the clamps and chain, the drying spit a pleasant stick against your skin.

He moves further down the table, setting himself between your legs again, coming level with your cunt once again. He licks at you again before bringing his rosary down your stomach and over your clit, still over-sensitive and swollen.

He rubs the beads fisted in his palm, warm and wet wooden pearls, washing them slow and sure over you. You start to edge near another orgasm, the fluttering of your thigh muscles giving it away and he lifts the beads away.

The rosary slinks off his hand, starting with the metallic clink of metal on wood before the dull thuds of the beads hit the table between your legs.

He dives back in for another quick swipe of his tongue through your folds before inserting a single digit, swirling around in the heat of you. He withdraws it, sucking it into his mouth with an obscene slurp before the rattle of beads proceeds again.

You feel the first bead as he slips it in and each subsequent pair as the rosary is pushed into you, clustering up right inside your entrance before he takes a finger and pushes them farther up your cunt.

You're dripping for it but with such minimal preparation you start to feel stretched long before he nears the end of the beads. He keeps forcing them in, the wood spheres knocking against each other and into your walls smoothly in contrast to the rough twine stringing them together which absorbs your slick, causing a dry drag.

The feel of his finger combined with the beads, the contrasting skin and wood grain driving you insane. The big center bead is roughly forced in, the angles of its triangle sharp as they breach you, his finger forcing it far up your channel.

The rest of the pendant is drawn in as he inserts his finger as far as it can go and the cross catches, too wide to easily follow. He withdraws his finger before placing the cross between two fingers and easing them in, cunt admitting the cross with a gracious hand. He widens his fingers to pull them out and leave the cross inserted. The barest hint of the base is left visible.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, the ghost of his breath cooling the metal and dusting across the spread of your slick.

You feel him tug on the vibrator again, moving it back into place and you whimper, nudging against your slit and the base which jostles the rest of the beads and you shiver. He snuggles it back against your clit and tightens the binding before flicking it back on the low setting. The vibrations run through your clit and spread through the sensitive and nerve dense tissue causing your muscles to spasm, the walls of your pussy fluttering and clenching around the beads. Your legs flex, pulling on the bonds but all you can manage is to move your arm over the edge to pull uncomfortably at the awkward bend of your wrist.

You can hear the smile in his voice as he tells you how good you take his beads, how good you take his fingers, how delicious you taste, lilting as he moves around the table, examining you from every angle.

He returns to the side table. You hear the click of a lighter, the hiss of a fresh wick catching and burning. He doesn’t move, not that you can hear but the soft scent of warming paraffin wax filling the room.

The whisper of heat draws closer and the first drop of wax causes you to flinch even though you knew it was coming. A large drop begins to gel in the center of your chest, dead between where gravity pulls your breasts toward the table, congealing and cooling to soothe the pleasant burn of it.

Another splatter drips down into the hollow of your throat, the thin skin there heating up quickly and you struggle to stay still to keep it from running down your collar bones and making a mess. You’ve been punished for making messes with the wax before.

You breathe through it, careful to regulate it: exhale to relieve the tension, inhale to distract from the burn. It takes longer to cool, a thicker pour. It sticks and you can feel the glob every time you swallow.

Next he trails an irregular spill down your stomach, letting some run and pool in your navel, the burn acute as the wax envelops the piercing there, a deep sting and you can’t help flexing your abs and arching off the table a little, pulling at your wrists. For your disobedience you receive a sharp slap to your breast and a quick flick to the clamp. Your muscles jump again and the vibrator makes a particularly delicious moment of contact with your clit with the movement and the unexpectedness of it sends you over the edge into a trembling orgasm. You strain against the table, actions no longer your own, involuntary convulsions radiating through you.

He laughs at you, “Unable to contain yourself today?” There’s a cruel edge to it, something dark lurking in the level accusation. “No restraint? No wonder you’ve fallen so deeply into sin.”

He moves back to the head of the table, tilting the burning candle carefully over your brow, a single melted tear landing in the middle of your forehead, a mockery of ash. You can’t contain the flinch when the wax hits you and he runs a thumb over your brow to hold you still, “You’re doing so well for me, Princess.”

He runs a finger down the silk covered bridge of your nose before dipping a finger into your mouth, the taste of wax clinging to his skin. He runs the finger over your tongue a few times, twiddling with the piercing there, before removing it.

He moves down the table again, a hand skimming fingers and provoking shivers in its wake. A pinch here and there, a tug on the chain, a light slap, further tenderize you.

He comes even with your hip, nails digging into the prominent bones of your pelvis. A splat of wax below your navel, another further south, a thin line tracking down across your bikini line and stopping before it reaches the head of the vibrator.

You hear a whoosh as he extinguishes the flame and then you writhe as one last smear of wax is dumped from the rest of the melt perpendicular to the line, a desecrated cross.

You hear him set the stub of the candle back on the table and then the clink of shifting glass: the thin prayer candle you saw him carry in. The tall, thin glass is set beside your ear as he carefully slides his hands under your head, searching for the latch of the gag before he undoes it. The leather comes away from your head. “Keep open,” and he pulls the ring from your mouth. You try to keep your mouth in the same shape but you still need to adjust your jaw. He tsks at you.

You hear the metal parts of the gag on the wood of the side table where he tosses it. “Open wide for me.”

He picks up the candle and you feel the cold glass against your teeth, “Wider.” It compresses your tongue as he fits it in, the glass unpleasant against your teeth and clinking on your bar. He leaves it shallow, telling you to bite down to keep it in place. This candle is a special one with notches in the glass to fit your teeth against. He removes his hand, the full weight of the candle and glass resting in your mouth. There’s a whisper as he moves back to the side table for the lighter before there’s a spark of heat and flame above you as he gets the wick to catch.

He sets two other prayer candles beside your head and lights them too, the wicks burning away with soft snaps.

He puts the lighter down and picks up the filled wine glass and goes to stand at the foot of the table. If you could see, you’d see him raise the glass with both hands, brown eyes closed. It’s quiet outside the buzzing of the vibrator and the occasional crackle of flame.

He begins: I yield Thee glory, Jesus Christ my God, for all the blessings which Thou hast heaped upon me, and for the grace which Thou hast given me that I should embrace this manner of life. But Thou knowest that in ascending this pillar, I lean on Thee alone, and that to Thee alone I look for the happy issue of mine undertaking. Accept, then, my object: strengthen me that I finish this painful course: give me grace to end it in holiness.

He drinks deeply of the wine, draining the glass. You hear the glass being set back on the table and the slosh of more wine being poured in.

You also hear the stripping of plastic, the thin sterile kind you know the needles he orders come in. You hadn’t seen him bring those in. You could snap if you wanted to end it. You don’t.

You grit your teeth against the glass in your mouth, trying to ignore what the vibrator is doing to your clit. The first pop of a plastic cap sends a slow creep of fear through your core. Several other needles are removed from the protective casing. The pop of antiseptic bottle opening and the sharp alcohol cut through the heady scent of wine and smoke that permeate the room.

It freezes against your skin, so very different from the heat of the wax. He moves the doused cotton over your chest, swirling it around the clamps; alcohol squeaking against the metal. The evaporation further cools you and makes you shiver, softly pulling at your bindings.

He pinches a layer of skin parallel to your collarbone, rolling it between his fingers. The anticipation of the pinch is worse than the actual sensation, the pierce and then the indistinct feel of metal gliding under your skin before the exit. He pushes it all the way through, until the plastic junction presses against the hole. He lets the skin go slack, the needle shifting under your skin. “Beautiful.”

He traces the length of the needle through your skin, his breath ghosting across the injury.

He moves around the table to the other side, displacing the air behind your head in his swiftness. He picks up another needle. He slaps at your other collarbone before quickly pinching another inch of skin and sliding it right through. The skin stretches back into place before the bite of the slap subsides. He emits a sound from so deep in his chest it could constitute a purr.

He reaches over you, grabbing another needle and discarding the cap. He scrunches up another section of skin at the top of your breast, parallel to the ones in place higher up. He draws the plastic end over the skin for a minute in a soothing and regular motion before in a moment of true dexterity he flips it around and rams it home, the delicate skin giving way to metal. A bead of blood wells. He swipes a finger to capture it before bringing it to his lips.

He grabs another needle and lays his chin up against your side, the scratch of his scruff unpleasant to your oversensitive and abused skin. He reaches over you to grab the corresponding skin on your other side. He makes several attempts to grab the exact right skin, shifting his face and eyeing the angle. He shifts until he gets a good match before exhaling against you slowly and with the patience and deliberation of a saint tunnels through your skin. When it’s fully inserted he moves back and stands, admiring his work.

He picks up another needle, moving to the head of the table and reaching down over you to align the next needle. It slides home through the center of the slope of your breast. Sharp and tender through such delectable real estate. He swiftly repeats the action on the other side, a ladder of needles up your chest.

He rubs your areolae at the same time, the silky skin elastic for him, playing with the wrinkles he causes. He blows over one causing it to tighten further. He tugs on the chain before moving for more needles.

He pinches again, thumb pressing into areola and forefinger rougher skin before running the length under the barrier between the two zones. It hurts. More than the last four needles and it makes you clench your teeth around the warm candle in your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose but it comes out shaking. He rubs apologetically at your shoulder, whispering about how good you are for him.

It’s a distraction as he grabs hold of your other breast and with merciful cruelty slips the corresponding one through. “So close,” he kisses your hair. “Almost done.”

He moves back to the table and you hear the wine rolling around the glass as he lifts it and sips. He sets it back on the table with a soft impact. You know what comes next.

He fondles your breast, running over the ridges of embedded needle, twisting lightly at the clamp before doing the same on the other side. He pulls at the clamp, tugging it as far away from your body as it will go, stretching the delicate skin and tugging uncomfortably at the other needles in your breast. He picks up another needle, the sound of the plastic hitting the floor loud. “Breathe in, mi cielito.”

It’s expected but the pain still burns as he pushes the needle through and it hurts more as it exits. He shushes the whimpers that escape your occupied mouth, raining praise and soft endearments. He is considerate in the rate he lets the skin return to it’s natural laxness.

“Can you do one more for me?” It’s a rhetorical question.

He completes the artistry with one final needle through your other nipple, the pain sharp and bright and more intense with the blight of it heavy in your working memory. He releases his hold on the clamp and lets your skin revert. “So beautiful for me.” A hand brushes through your hair, petting at you. It retracts and you hear him walk away into the kitchen. The freezer door opens and the crush of ice is heard slipping around in a bowl.

He comes back, setting the bowl radiating cold at your shoulder in opposition to the heat of candles at your ears. He fishes around in the bowl, trying to get ahold of a piece.

When he applies it to the first set of needles below your collar, the frozen water quickly warms and melts, water running down your chest, channeling against the wax in the middle.

He rubs another piece over your other collar, soothing the pinch, drowning it out in the cold. The water joins the other river through gaps in the wax, collecting enough to run all the way down your abdomen, pooling in the valley between your hips and falling back to the table, not getting to where you want it to fall. Your core is burning with the generated heat from the vibrator and your own slithering arousal and previous orgasms. You let out a frustrated noise and he shushes you again.

He repeats the process, melting ice over the needles in the top of your breasts before quickly moving on to the ones under your areolae. The cold hurts, the skin having been subjected to pain and stretched to its limits repeatedly. He leaves the ice on for almost too long, cooling turning to burning but not quite making it to numbing.

The cold water running over your body wracks you with shivers. The cold competes with your overheated body to dominate your nerves. It’s another added stress to the heated glass between your teeth and the heat between your legs and the shift of beads inside you.

The ice supercools the metal of the clamps, making them additionally unpleasant as he does both nipples at the same time. It soon turns to a modicum of relief as the pain still etching around your nerves is dulled by the chill. He waits for the ice to completely melt, dragging his wet fingers around your areolae before trailing them in the rivers of meltwater flowing over you. “So good for me,” he breathes, reverently, tugging at a solidified wax puddle.

He stands up again, grabbing his glass and drinking again. You hear him refill it and when he stands behind your head and raises his cup once again and recites the Lord’s Prayer you can taste the wine on his breath with each word. When he finishes he blows the candles out.

He removes the candle from your mouth, quickly setting the warm glass aside before it can damage his fingertips, and you instinctively go to work your jaw open and closed trying to relieve some of the stress it’s been under. He massages your jaw for you, wide fingertips digging into the joints. “Can you stay open another minute, Princess?” You want to please him, you really do, so you try to keep your mouth open.

He picks his glass up and drinks again before he tips it over your mouth, the first bitter rivulet a surprise and you close your mouth causing him to miss, splashing it across your face and down your cheeks, gathering in your hair and on the table. He tuts at you, “Messy and ungrateful. Receive your blessing with more respect.”

You obediently open again and this time when he pours, you swallow it all, mouth wide, fruity and bitter. “Good girl.”

You close your mouth again. You hear him take another drink himself before he extends an arm over you. The splash of wine to the center of your chest is cooling, mixing with the leftover ice water and diluting from a plum to a pale ruby, rills of pink stain your skin.

The sound of a fingertip singing across the rim of the glass disrupts the low hum of the vibrator. He dips his fingers into the pool of red before a spray of red flecks across your body. You hiss when wine comes in contact with a needle hole, the sugar and alcohol stinging. He does it again, a sudden shower of wine sticking to your skin.

He moves around the table, leaning down, his breath evident on your wet skin. His tongue darts out to lap at the fluid caught in the corner of your hip. You try to shift and get his face where you really want it but he holds you down with a hand to your thigh, pushing the vibrator further against you and changes the intensity to high. You convulse once before another shallow orgasm shakes through you, you don’t have enough left to give anymore. You flutter around the beads in you and hear the cross clink against the table followed by a few beads.

He clicks his tongue before setting his glass aside and moving to access your cunt to shove them back inside. He fights against the involuntary aftershocks still coursing through you, the beads drenched and not wanting to stay in place anymore. He struggled for another moment before relenting and pulling the whole strand free. You shudder for a second longer before you fall limp to the table.

He clicks off the vibrator, untying the rope and setting it aside with his free hand. You hear him slurping on the beads, sucking on the thoroughly coated rosary. He savors it, enjoying your taste as you recover from the last orgasm.

The rosary lands on your stomach when he’s done with it, wet with your juices and his spit. He picks up his wine glass again, chasing you with the blood of Christ.

He splashes more over your chest. The poured wine stings the tunnels in your skin, the wounds darkening but you don’t have the energy to move anymore. The wine glass is set by your hip. You hear his belt unbuckle and the glide of leather on wool as he removes it and then there's the click of his button coming undone and the muted sound of fabric falling to the floor. The soft snick of buttons undone.

He climbs on top of the table, situating himself between your thighs. He runs a hand through the mess you’ve made of your cunt before inserting a finger and hooking up to rub at the rough patch. You’re too wrung out to stop him, forced to take what he gives you. He picks up the wine again, spilling the rest across your breasts, the alcohol stinging your abused nipples and astringent around the needles.

He shuffles closer, hands finding your waist, and you can feel his cock slide around your entrance before he gets a hand on himself and pushes in past the initial resistance. He bottoms out with a wet noise, a loud groan escaping him. Your cunt is hot and slick and everything he wants. He pulls out and slams home again, gripping your waist. You cry out with the force of him. One of the hands leaves your waist as he sets a punishing pace. You hear the buzz of the vibrator as he returns it to your tortured clit. You smirk a little, this is a trick he only uses when he won’t last much longer and demands for you to come again.

You can feel it building inside you, sluggish and dark and thick like molasses. But he’s close too, no regularity in his thrusts, frantic, chasing, searching. The peak of fanaticism and zealotry.

He shifts the hand on your waist, pulling you in close, crushing the head of the wand against you as he pounds away. The table shakes with it. He leans over you, hand moving from your waist to your throat both to support him and cut off the oxygen in your brain.

You’re already so fucked out, so disconnected from your body that the next orgasm barely registers, a sudden clench of your muscles, wrists raw from pulling at the ropes, the pain of exerted tissue a clearer indicator than pleasure. You contract around him and his grip on your throat tightens before he pulls out of you, and grips his cock instead, allowing air back to your brain. He discards the wand before he strokes himself once before he’s shooting over your stomach mixing come with wax and wine. He comes for an age, ropes settling across your hips and the last spurts painting your entrance.

He pushes his cock back in one more time, dragging some of his come inside feeling the last of your orgasm as his cock starts to soften. He pulls out and hangs his head, breathing hard. You lie limp on the table.

He reaches up to remove the silk covering your eyes, the knot coming undone in his shaking hand. The light hurts, even through your eyelids. You’re slow to open them and when the world expands to include the rest of the room, the first thing you see is him hovering over you, blissed out smile adorning his face.

You cough a few times before mumbling, “Was the feast to your liking?”

He huffs a laugh before pushing himself off the table, groaning as his ankles click to support his weight. He wobbles, clarity slowly returning to him.

“Let’s clean you up, no?” He goes to the kitchen to grab a paper towel, the sound of ripped perforations seeming to echo.

When he returns he sits on the edge of the table, mopping up the wine and water and come painting your abdomen. He’s careful as he peels the hardened wax away, mindful of where it clings to body fuzz. Each piece strips away, dropped onto the pile of dirty towels, a malleable white mountain. He picks at the pool on your forehead, looking you in the eye as he peels it away, an easy smile that you return.

He places himself between your legs, kneeling as he works at the tiny dots making the cross above your cunt, touch placid and mindful of how sensitive the area is, the abuse he inflicted. It takes time to get it all and you float away as he works at it until he finishes by licking a broad stripe over your slit to gather up the wetness remaining there and a wave of heat crashes through you again, waking you back up. Evidently you’re not done with him yet.

He gets up to throw the wax and towels away and he returns with the needle container.

He moves to the foot of the table, yanking once on the knots binding your ankles to the legs of the table and letting the rope fall to the floor. He moves to undo your wrists one at a time before laying your arms palm up next to your body. Your joints are overcome with static as they come back to you, pins crawling up your legs and arms. You don’t try to move.

He removes the paraphernalia by your head and climbs up behind you, setting your head in his lap. The scent of sex is strong. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips, languid and spirited, devoted.

You can feel your hands enough to raise them and run them through his hair, scratching at his scalp. He breaks the kiss and you drop your hands back to the table.

He walks his fingers over your face before returning to your lips, seeming to admire the shape before running a fingertip along the seam and you open for him. An upside down smile, wicked for a blink before he’s letting his saliva ease into your mouth again. It collects on your tongue and when he closes his mouth you swallow, content.

His fingers continue to wander, under your jaw, down your throat, rubbing at the red left by the wax in the hollow of your throat. They walk across your collar before arriving at the first needle. With one hand he tugs the skin smooth and with the other tugging the needle out in a measured and deliberate motion.

The needle hums under your skin as it pulls free, somewhere between unfeeling and unpleasant, only registering since you know it’s happening.

He discards it, the crisp sound of metal on metal as it drops into the container. He returns to pull the next one out, rubbing at your collarbone before pulling it out in the same agonizing fashion. Another chime as it joins the others.

His hands separate as he prods at the ones atop your breast tissue. He catches your eye, holding it before he yanks the pair out. He sees you flinch clear as day, the slightly wicked shine returning to his eyes, an unapologetic, “Sorry.” You can feel his start to harden under your head.

He looks away to find the next set, the same spark of cruelty manifesting as he rips out the ones edging your areolae. These ones well with blood and weep with it. He bends over you to lick at it, a smear of blood visible on his lip as he pulls away before his tongue darts out to clean it off. He holds your gaze, heat curling in his eyes turning them dark.

The needles through your nipples remain and he tugs at the clamps, jostling the metal complex torturing you. He pushes down on the clamp before he starts to pull the first one free. He makes it halfway before he pushes it back through. He teases it in and out, a fucked up bow through the instrument of your breast, path changing under the pressure from the clamp compressing tissue.

It hurts. There’s no arousal to dull the pain, just steel ripping through nerves. You start to shake and he relents, sliding it free for good and discarding the needle and opening the clamp, the skin sticking to the pads and he has to manually peel it away.

He leans in and attaches his mouth to the nipple, swirling his tongue around, lavishing it in heat, elements to soothe and elements to hurt as the saliva swishes around the holes. He nips once before pulling back, a strand of spit connecting to his lip before he breaks it. He’s fully hard again.

He’s kinder to the other nipple but not by much. You’re sweating again as he pulls the other needle out, wiggling it to cause a little more damage before it completely exits and he discards it. He removes the clamp and tosses the chain to the side table.

He laves at that nipple in apology, running his hands over your chest, soothing your shakes away. Once they’ve subsided he lifts your head and folds himself out from under you, standing again. “Shower.”

Your limbs burn as you try to stand but he helps you, arm slinging around your waist and pulling you close, tucked into him. He helps you to the bathroom, turning the water on and helping you in before closing the glass door behind him.

Steam fills the space and you feel a little woozy but the solid and thick mass of him supports you from behind as he washes the blood and come off you, rubbing between your legs and over your ribs to work at the wine stains.

He soaps you up, his hands slipping over your warm and large and grinds his cock against you. He rinses you of soap, spinning you to get your back before he pushes at your shoulders. You can’t refuse, too tired to say no or stand on your own.

The tiles are warm against your knees. His cock bobs free in front of your face and you open your mouth despite the ache. He rubs himself across your bottom lip before setting his cock over your tongue.

He thrusts in gently, foreskin catching for the barest second on your piercing before you flick your tongue and free it. You don’t have the stamina to truly service him, a weak suction resulting in filthy noises as the air and saliva gets fucked around in your mouth.

His hands bury in your hair and he moves your head for you. The water runs over your face, collecting in your mouth when he pulls out. The water and steam obscure your sight and the warm setting sun anoints him with a golden light, shining off his wet skin, a dark saint.

He’s not desperate, taking his pleasure like he savors good liquor, the last course of a meal.

The faintest twitch of his thighs is all the notice you get before he’s coming, declaring something about you being blessed to receive his wisdom and that he rewards his most loyal disciples.

His come sits on your tongue before you remember how to swallow, light headed from the steam and exhaustion. He pushes your head back and tilts your face up to look at his. He thumbs as a smear of fluid that didn’t make it into your mouth and lets it wash away. He cups your jaw, pressing at your cheek. You can’t resist him. As much as you provoked him, he’s always been in control.

“Mi cielito.”

#daniel bruhl x reader #padre domingo #padre domingo x reader #daniel bruhl smut #daniel brühl #fem reader #priest!daniel bruhl #daniel bruhl fanfiction

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soliloquiums · 4 years

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You find him under a bench in Berlin, more skeleton than man. It is 1955. It is winter. It is the post war era. Behind every dingy, squalid corridor you're bound to find a hundred of them, the left over almost-corpses that god just wasn't kind enough to kill. Haunted by a memory of a Germany that just doesn't exist anymore with charcoal padded under their eyes, limbs trebling from one two many needles. You're sure that if you pulled that ratty, dark blue coat sleeve you'd find his similarly pockmarked with cowardice. Still, something draws you in closer, a shiver, something about him seems heavier, denser, like his very body extends with gravity. A planetary mass. His neck snaps up in a lightening motion and he smiles, his mouth a crooked line that resembled a mountain you swear you've seen in the horizon, somewhere in the east. Beggars aren't allowed to be this beautiful. You shudder. And you take him home.

To your surprise, his skin is deceptively smooth. Like untouched snow after a blizzard- and you search him thoroughly, almost desperately, during your intimate moments, for some sort of mark, some sort of human imperfection. He allows you, absently, as if he’s been through this before, and strokes your hair as his mind wanders into places you know you will never reach. But that comes after, first, you seat him on the rim of your bathtub. He is listless, almost bored, as you wipe the river of blood off his shoulder. There’s no entrance wound, exit wound, no highway crossing where it could come from and after 20 minutes of frantic scrubbing, his hand grips yours. “It’s not mine,” he tells you gently, with that same crocked smile, eyes a circle of glowing blue like the hottest kind of fire, and you pretend not to notice as a very, very fresh red droplet runs down your porcelain bathtub and streaks red onto the tile. There’s not enough of him and there’s too much. After a week, his presence on the couch, skeleton hands gripping a book or remote seems commonplace. His place at your dinner table, the second pair of shoes thrown carelessly next to your orderly ones. The permanent, watery brown stain on your granite countertop where he'd spilled tea and that neither of you bothered to clean up. He is an indelible and yet insignificant mark. Most days, it's nice, quaint, the gentle buzz from the television every time you come back home, his coarse laugh punctuating a mediocre sitcom joke, the way he threatens bodily violence on inanimate objects for refusing to bend to his will. Other times, he is something just north of uncanny valley. He is wearing human skin. Sometimes, at night, he doesn't seem to be breathing and every few weeks, for a second at a time, you'd swear his eyes flashed a macabre red. Two months in and he still doesn’t have his own clothes. Doesn’t have his own closet. You offer to take him shopping, to empty out another shelf but he only shakes his head gently, pityingly, “I don’t own things.” You’re not sure if he’s crazy or if he’s one of those communist philosophy types. You’re not sure if you’d care if he was. You press your lips together. Don’t say anything about how his old clothes seemed to have vanished from the laundry altogether. Three months in and you don’t know his last name. You ask once, casually, assuming that a man abandoned to the snow wouldn’t care much for family anyways. (You can relate, your strict, catholic mother and even stricter pastor father are tucked far away somewhere in a mountain village in Saarland. Out of sight and out of mind.) But he says nothing, or smiles in that whimsically gentle way of his, or stares blankly as if he isn’t sure what a last name is. Sometimes he carefully grasps your hands and kisses you as a distraction and in those moments you’re sure you could live without knowing. Sometimes, you see his gaze catch on the window and you know he is somewhere else. Doesn’t feel like he was ever here in the first place, a ghost boy that floats around your apartment and gives you frigid smiles in place of actual conversation. Once, he lays awake in bed with you and asks if you will remember him on your deathbed with an earnest that makes you want to climb out of bed and vomit. His eyes flash blood and pin you to the bed. Yes, you say, without really understanding why, yes even when you are gone I will remember you always even in the smallest things even when there is nothing more to remember. His eyes go back to blue and you drift off into dreams about an achingly vast field with no horizon and crooked mountains shaped like a smile All at once you are disastrously, cripplingly in love. Falling from a cliff. You try every method in the book to ground him. You bring him flowers in the middle of winter, you buy him books, watches, a cell phone, wine, chocolates, a car. You clean up your act, work out, pen him love letters in the candle light when you think he’s sleeping, insist on cooking the food you think he likes. You drive her to parks. A cottage by the sea, take him to every pretty place in Germany that might even slightly interest him. Cologne, Dresden, Munich, Heidelberg, Watzmann, Brocken. You He dismissed every material gift with an apologetic shake of the head, almost disappointed you don’t understand. His fingers wrap around your wrist and you can feel the cold from his skin drip into yours as he pulls you close, whispering gently, a reminder, “I do not own things.” And I cannot be owned, without saying. The places, however, slaps him out of despondency. He puts a hand to an oak tree in a park in Heidelberg and tells you, absently, his voice drenched in memories, “Someone I loved is buried here.” He sees things you do not. He stares at abandoned buildings with a remorse and vindication you do not understand. There is a tragedy under the bridges, in every lake, that he seems intimate with. In cologne, he strikes a match and lights up a car at 9:43 pm. The pretentious, red thing goes up in smoke a carcass of metal and charred leather seats. He is seething with rage and you don’t touch him because you know he’d burn you if you did but you watch. In rapture and fear. He seems to consider doing the same to the house, but doesn’t. It feels empty, the motion, like the brace before firing a gun. Except there’s no bullets. You watch as the dancing flames reflect on his face, still perfect as soot begins to gather like dark butterflies. “Why?” You ask, sacrilegiously. Breaking the silence of that distinctly consecrated night. Even the stars seem to be holding their breath. “Personal despair could never be desperate enough," he tells you, watching as the smoke gathered and swirled off into the open night sky. A translation of pain, “When tragedy happens, it needs to pass down the line, like a disease. There is an innate sin in the blood of some people.” Like most things, this escapes your comprehension entirely, and all you can focus on, even when the police sirens start blaring, is how beautifully the red reflects off his irises. He gives you a wayward grin. Like he’s done this before- and he has, you know he had- as he grasps your hand with a grip that for once feels real and solid as he darts the other way, dragging you along behind him in this mad dash. He laughs, the sound beautiful and loud and perfect, like church bells or sermon. Something holy, pure. You’re just sane enough to stop your ethereal, cackling lover from veering into oncoming traffic. He looks at you were a eerie intensity that makes you stammer an apology, an apology that he quickly cuts off as he pushes you against exposed brick and crushes his lips to yours. Your tongue flooding with the taste of him, a musky wilderness. There’s a sigh, somewhere, and even though you’ve had sex this feels like the most heart trending thing you’ve ever done in your life. You tremble. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer, as if forevermore. As if drinking god. It’s enough to make you forget that it’s the 50s and that you’re both boys and that if any police officer caught the way his fingers were tenderly, tenderly brushing against your cheek, both of you would be carted off to jail for a decade but you don't care, really you don't, for the first time you feel as if you know him. Gilbert. Your Gilbert. - When the story ends, you're on the floor and the coolness of his skin seems to finally have crawled inside you, making a home amongst your other fragile, human organs. He stands above you with his red eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He mumbled something about this before, in the beginning, about what it would be like once you knew, what the pain would feel like. A sigh from him and you know without looking that all the stars outside the glass have blinked out, that every single other person in the apartment besides you and Him have gone still, paused or maybe dead. Maybe it was the whole street, the country, a few million bodies and still, how can it said to have mattered? "Ignorance isn't safety," He quietly tells your quaking form, in some something that could've been kindness, "Tell me, how many poor weeds have you stepped on, unthinkingly, in your lifetime?" The clock doesn't tick but you can feel the universe moving, entropy. You can feel the vastness of it, remember those dreams with out any horizons in sight and the knowledge weighs down on you like a million bowling balls. "You promised to remember me," He reminds you, his voice still quiet but brimming with an emotion that hasn't quiet come to a boil, "We had more than this." All of Germany shifts slightly, as if moving in its sleep, and the stars blink back, your breath releases. "If I've hurt you," he begins, but shakes his head, stumbling over words that he knows you won't ever really understand, won't forgive him if he lets you know. Resignation, tinged: resentment, "You'll go on living just fine." You look up at him once, I love you, your look says, but he does not look back. The door closes. There are no footsteps down the hall.

#aph #prussia #x reader #hws prussia #prussia x reader #mine #hetalia #long post #mlm #male!reader #50s #internalised homophobia #exestential crisis #??? idk bro #i wrote this at 4 am dont @ me

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spencersawkward · 4 years

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switchblade faith // spencer reid - chapter 3

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid.

word count: 4k

content warnings: mention of rape and victim-blaming (talking about Clea's previous job in sex crimes— not her personal experience).

masterlist

this chapter is drawn from the season 1 episode 17 episode "A Real Rain," which is supposed to be in New York, but I didn't wanna write about New York so I changed it to Boston.

I drop a second sugar packet into my coffee before taking a tentative sip. my face twists in discomfort. previous to working here, I would bring my own thermos from home and it would last me all day, but I've had to up my caffeine intake to two or three cups.

"you get used to it." JJ walks over to me, steeping her tea. despite the fact that it's early, she's perfectly put together. her hair is tied up and her eyes are sparkling.

"how?" I laugh. she points to the coffee pot, which is fresh and yet somehow tastes slightly stale.

"when you've been up for twenty four hours, you won't care how it tastes."

I avert my widened eyes at this.

"you could do what Spence does and just add a bunch of sugars." she tilts her head towards Reid, who is rocking back in forth in his spinny chair with a huge volume open in front of him. he doesn't even notice us staring at him.

"ew, what?" I giggle. JJ nods.

"hey, Spence!" she calls across the office. his head pops up to frown at us.

"yes?"

"how many sugars do you use?"

"five. occasionally six." he says this without a hint of the shame it deserves. my eyebrows shoot up and I take another sip of the bitter drink, trying to ignore the taste. it coats my tongue.

"see?" she smirks. "just so you know, we have another case. meeting in five." she sashays away to the conference room, leaving me standing there with an overwhelming urge to sweeten my drink. I keep it at three and add a splash of creamer to drown out the bitterness, then walk briskly to my desk to grab a few of my things.

"we have a meeting, Reid." I say across the divider between our spaces. he holds up an index finger, slams the book shut, and grabs his things. I wait for him to get collected before we head up.

"what were you reading?" I ask, peeking at his workspace. books are lined up against the divider, loose papers scatter the surface, and there are three uncapped pens littered about. his disorganization surprises me.

"War and Peace." he replies, checking his watch.

it's not even nine am.

...

I'm staring out the window of the jet while Morgan and Prentiss battle out yet another card game with Reid. there's not much to see until we slice through clouds and fly over Boston, which is glittering in the early light. I sigh and turn back to my book, tucking my legs up beneath me.

"this is not how I planned to visit." Morgan notes, looks through his cards.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Boston." Spencer smiles softly. at this, all of us look up.

"you've never been?" Morgan asks doubtfully. Emily snorts.

"we've never had an unsub there." Reid doesn't seem to think this strange at all. Morgan and I share a glance before he speaks.

"Reid, it's an hour-and-a-half flight."

"I'll show you around if we have some time." Emily smiles reassuringly at the boy genius.

"it's an easy trip, man." Derek chuckles. Spencer isn't bothered by our teasing. instead, he draws another card from the deck and focuses on his game.

"I've never been either." I state. the team turns to me with surprised expressions, causing my cheeks to flush.

"you, too?" Morgan makes a face like I've disappointed him.

"I've been meaning to go." I shrug. "there's an exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts that I wanna see."

"what exhibition?" Spencer doesn't look up from his hand.

"uh, Titus Kaphar." I haven't had the opportunity to travel much, so a lot of the art I've seen has been from a computer screen or in class in college. it would be nice to actually get some experience seeing things face-to-face.

"Shifting the Gaze!" Spencer's face snaps up to beam at me, referencing the piece so vehemently that it makes me laugh.

"yeah, exactly."

"I went to his talk a couple years back."

"no way. really?" I shut my book and lean forward while he nods. Prentiss and Morgan are watching our conversation like a tennis match. while Reid rambles about all the things he heard at the lecture, I listen intently. it's good, because I don't really feel like talking right now; my head is pounding all over again, and this is distracting.

"do you ever go to the art museums in DC, then?" I ask once he's finished. Reid gets this crooked smile on his face like he wants to say a bunch of things, but is holding his tongue. his face is animated when he tells me about the other exhibits he's seen at the Smithsonian and apparently abandons his cards. Prentiss and Morgan have lost interest in our conversation; they start their own game and let us talk for the rest of the flight.

when we touch down, I immediately feel overwhelmed by the crush of people around us. our first crime scene is a taxi cab in Hyde Park, where the driver has been blindfolded, shot in the chest, and stabbed right through his ear. the blade, broken off from the handle, is lodged in his brain.

despite the fact that his kills are violent and seemingly random, the unsub definitely isn't disorganized. he carries his MO out the same way each time, which makes all of us question if we've missed a connection between victims.

"it's possible he's a sort of serial killer groupie." Spencer notes as he examines the inside of the cab, which is splattered with a mix of rainwater from the night before and blood. I shift where I'm standing to try to follow his line of sight.

"what do you mean?"

"Lawrence Bittaker and Roy Norris drove ice picks into their victims' heads and broke off the handle." he explains.

"well, if he's doing that, then he's presenting a mixed profile." I frown.

"exactly."

"mixed profile?" the police officer next to me asks.

"yeah. the fact that this guy is shooting his victims first suggests that he needs a quick and effective means of controlling the situation, which means that he probably doesn't think he can overpower them." I say.

"he could have a physical problem-- or maybe he's just not confident because he's small." Reid is still examining the taxi for any further evidence, but it seems sort of pointless.

"plus, he's organized and hunts at night. that tells us he most likely has a steady job."

"so," the cop stares between us with a perplexed expression. "we're looking for a small, angry white guy with a day job?"

the sarcasm in his voice makes me smile a little.

"I know it doesn't narrow down a lot right now, but we know that this guy isn't blitz attacking his victims. it's more of an execution."

the officer nods at this and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I turn to Reid.

"we gotta go."

Spencer nods curtly, straightens, and starts to immediately walk back to the car. I shake my head at his behavior, then follow after.

...

we get called to visit a new crime scene in the morning, this time in a church. Hotch holds the door open for me and I walk in to see a body laid out in front of the pews. an older woman sits towards the back, comforted by a nun.

"how'd they find him?" Prentiss asks the police chief as she leads us to the victim.

"night janitor." she nods to a man being questioned by cops in the corner.

"did he see anything?" I ask her.

"no, but he remembered a parishioner who was here earlier," we walk past the older woman. she stares at us expectantly as the chief talks. "so there could be a potential witness."

we stop at the body of a priest, his eyes covered and a blade lodged in his skull, unsurprisingly. Emily and I stare down at him, realizing the same thing.

"first public killing." she notes as she bends down to examine his wounds. "he's getting bolder."

"the presentation is just as important as the kill." I join her on the ground, snapping my gloves tighter on my hands and turning his head to the side to get a better look at the blade. semi-dried blood coats the tied fabric around his eyes.

"I'm gonna go talk to that woman." Emily leaves. the crime scene agent crouches down on the ground across from me, and I bite my lip before making a strange request.

"would you mind... sliding that thing out of his ear?"

the agent blinks at me in disbelief, probably not wanting to pry a knife out of someone's head, but nods and does so carefully. I squint down at the wound. then I realize something.

"Reid?" my voice carries across the room. Spencer is talking to an officer when he hears me and walks over.

"this doesn't look like a normal blade, but I don't know what it is." I point at the now half-buried weapon. it sits unpleasantly out, the blood catching warm light. Spencer gets down next to the crime scene agent and examines it more closely.

"this is flint." he says slowly, turning to me with a concerned expression.

"like the stone?"

"flint is the symbol for protection and retribution in Egyptian mythology. with hieroglyphics, they used to display dangerous animals like scorpions and snakes being cut with flint knives in order to render them powerless."

"oh." is all I can manage while I process what he's saying. Spencer waits for me to say something else, but instead I bend my head down to pull back the silk tie.

"there's no way that using flint is a coincidence." I reason. the blood is all on the inside of the tie as well, which gives me pause. Reid recognizes this a second later, his eyes lifting to mine. they look almost brown in the candlelight, flecks of gold sparkling in them while his mind whirs endlessly.

"I'm gonna call Garcia to see if any of the victims have been charged with a crime." he tells me.

"good idea." we both stand, the crime scene agent scurrying off to do something else. I head back over to Emily and hope that we're right about this. flint is too specific of a weapon for it not to be intentional, right?

...

we deliver the profile by the end of the work day, our unsub a serial vigilante with a personal edge to all of his killings. my body is slightly shaky from downing cups of coffee without any actual food, so the promise of eating out after we finish makes my stomach eager.

we go to a Chinese restaurant by the station and keep talking about the case, despite having promised ourselves not to do so. I sit between Prentiss and Reid while I dig into my dumplings. I like listening to them swap theories and past cases, how they weave together all their stories.

"you forgot to add something to the profile earlier today, Aaron." Rossi says as he piles more noodles onto his plate. our attention immediately focuses on the Italian.

"what did he forget?" Prentiss has a ghost of a smile on her face. I've noticed that she tends to speak like she's on the inside of a joke that other people don't understand. the intonation of her words feels like a secret.

"I didn't mention the possibility of our unsub being a cop." Hotch takes a sip of his ice water. there's a moment where we all reflect on this information before Morgan breaks the silence.

"I mean, they do know the system."

"they could easily take matters into their own hands, given what they see every day." Prentiss adds. I nod.

"when someone like our victim is killed, police refer to it as a public-service murder." Reid struggles to get the noodles onto his chopsticks, which I notice but don't say anything about. he tries again, the food slipping back onto his plate. Morgan notices this shortcoming of Spencer's and I see that he's about to start teasing him, so I change the subject.

"I saw a lot of rapists walk when I was in sex crimes," I put down my dumpling while I talk. Hotch watches me intently. I haven't spoken much about my previous job with anyone on the team, especially not him. in fact, he barely knows anything about me. "a lot of the victims didn't feel safe pressing charges, or the juries said they were asking for it. it's enough to make you wanna explode."

"it's a long way from feeling like that and actually committing a murder, though, don't you think?" Emily asks.

"not really." I turn my gaze back to my plate and start to feel nauseous. there's a clinking of plates and silverware as we continue in silence. Emily nudges my arm gently with hers and offers me a supportive smile.

I hear Spencer next to me, getting the attention of a passing waiter.

"excuse me," he says in a low tone. "can I get a fork, perhaps?"

Morgan snickers as the waiter takes off to get the utensil. at this point, there's a palpable tension as we wait to see who makes fun of Reid first. he drops his chopsticks into his bowl with a defeated clatter and Derek gently pushes his knuckles against Spencer's cheekbone.

"having some trouble, kid?" he asks. Spencer smacks his hand away.

"don't be mean." I giggle, reaching onto my wrist to grab a hair tie. "here, try this." I wrap the thing around the end of Spencer's chopsticks so that they're easier to use, handing them back to him.

Spencer tries again and it works-- if not somewhat clumsily. he gives me a little appreciative smile and I smile back before returning to my food, listening to the stories that Rossi doles out. he even pays for dinner despite our half-hearted protests.

the entertainment for the evening is pretty nice, but when I've stuffed myself with Chinese food, Emily leans over to me.

"do you wanna go to that museum you were talking about earlier?" she whispers. I peek at my phone to check the time.

"I doubt we'd have much time before they close, but yeah, definitely." excitement bubbles up in my stomach as I realize I might actually get to poke around for a while. Prentiss throws her napkin on the table abruptly.

"Clea and I are going to the Museum of Fine Arts. anyone wanna join?"

I look around to gauge some reactions.

"I'm interested." Morgan nods.

"I've already been several times." Rossi takes a sip of his drink as he politely declines. Hotch shakes his head.

"I have some paperwork I need to finish."

"again?" Prentiss complains.

"I'll go." Spencer sits up straighter as he looks at his brunette friend, folding his napkin neatly on his plate. my eyebrows raise a little, although I'm not surprised that he'd be interested in visiting any museum. we stand and get ready to go; Hotch warns us to be ready to go at seven in the morning tomorrow. a little weight is lifted off my chest as I realize that there will be some reprieve during this case, and then we're wandering out into the evening air.

we ate dinner sort of early, so the sky is still slightly aglow with a bruised shade, preparing to sink into its favorite darkness. after finding the route to the museum, we hop on the train.

Boston is lovely in the kind of way that aches of neat corners and airy lights. stores crammed with antiques and novelty products line the sidewalks, people wander about as they take in a pleasant night. somehow disjointed and cohesive all at once.

whatever bit of conversation we had on the way dissipates into breathlessness once we get inside the enormous entryway. it's cavernous, extravagant, gorgeous. we flip through brochures advertising different exhibits. Emily raves about Impressionism and decides that that must be our first stop, so we head off with the rest of the museum stragglers who have decided to feed themselves with art until they're forced to leave.

my head is constantly spinning to admire something else in the enormous white rooms. it's a bit overwhelming at some points, what with the gargantuan canvases that greet me at every turn. but it's impressive, too, and I find myself hungrily reading all the small plaques. I venture out of the Impressionism vein and into Korean art, my feet carrying me away from Morgan and Prentiss. Spencer broke off a while ago; to where, I have no idea.

I check out vases and pottery, sculptures, renderings of historical events. images from the crime scenes fill my head intrusively. there's no use in trying to shut them out; they've been in my dreams for a while now, the kind that wake me up in a cold sweat. I haven't told anyone about them— I'm sure others get them, too— and I don't want to seem like I can't handle it. every time I close my eyes, I begin to feel the pressure of a knife against my temple.

"a lot of these are from private collections."

the voice causes me to jump, my skin erupting in goosebumps as Spencer stands beside me. he holds his bag against his side and follows my line of sight to the 18th-century bookshelf screen.

"that's interesting." I reply. what else is there to say to that?

"really makes you think about what other art pieces won't ever be seen by the public." he turns and starts walking onto the next work, seemingly done with this conversation. my brow furrows while I watch him go, his posture miserable as a result of his skinny build. he's quite tall.

"what do you mean?" my voice comes out quiet, but it carries in the otherwise empty exhibit. Reid turns around and stops in his place, allows me to catch up briefly. we start to read another plaque by a silver basin.

"you could have a Cézanne just rotting in your attic and it would never be examined by the right scholars." he shrugs.

"I really doubt there's anything nearing that value in my attic." I laugh.

"you ever seen 'Antiques Roadshow'?" he asks non-sarcastically. I balk.

"sure."

"you never know." he's not a man of many words, apparently. I get his message regardless and we continue to walk, him setting out facts for me in neat rows, simple and easily taken in. he's definitely a know-it-all, but not in the way that makes me want to escape his presence. it's sort of comforting, having someone around who just understands everything. his absolute lack of social graces makes him easy to be around, too; I don't need to force conversation because he doesn't care.

we wind up in the mummy section, where the walls tingle with an energy that could only be described as magical.

"spooky." I nod to the domineering sarcophagus lid of Kheperra. a spotlight illuminates all of its intricacies and I make a beeline for it. Spencer trails behind me and we fall into silence as we peer at the exquisite details. it's intimidating, for sure, hulking and made of carved black stone. "you feel that?" I whisper to Spencer, who is enthralled in the image.

the way the spotlight spills over onto him is interesting; it emphasizes the shadow below his jaw and the delicate quality of his bone structure, his cheekbone prominent at the place where his ear meets his face. his lashes are long and lovely, his Adam's apple poking out of a slender throat. he turns to me with a curious expression.

"feel what?"

"the energy change," I smile. "from the ancient dead bodies."

"it's probably just the dark lighting and the media associations you have with mummies." but his eyes begin flitting about the room in a slightly panicked manner. I feel a smirk tug at my lips as I step closer to him.

"are you scared?"

"no," he scoffs and makes a face like I've made the world's most absurd accusation. "why would I be scared?"

"because we're all alone in here..." I use a lower tone to freak him out a little. "who's to stop them from coming out and... snatching us?" when my hand snakes around behind him to pinch his arm, he jumps.

"what the--" he catches sight of the devilish grin on my face. "don't do that!"

"sorry, Einstein." I laugh and turn in the other direction, him following me to the next piece. Spencer doesn't seem to have more thoughts to give on the exhibition, probably still a little creeped out. part of me begins to feel guilty for startling him, even though he constantly does that to me. his footfalls are weirdly soft.

I wonder what Spencer is like outside of work. what he does when he gets back to his apartment. how could someone like him entertain themselves? maybe he just reads books until his eyes glaze over. he definitely doesn't go out often, but maybe he has other nerdy friends. I hope he does. there's something in his eyes that's too viscous for me to grasp, something swimming and pocketed. I'd like to understand it, although that doesn't seem like a great idea to pursue. he barely gives his closest friends information about his life.

we end up at opposite ends of the room, him still examining an entombed husband and wife couple while I check out a canonic jar. the silence in this room is tangible. I wasn't lying when I felt an energy shift— it's like gold and clay and it smells like cracked cinnamon.

I'm trying to get a better look at the detailing when I feel a cold hand wrap around my forearm, easily encircling it. I jolt.

Spencer stands behind me with a playful smile, like he's quite pleased with himself.

"Reid!" I yank my arm away from his long fingers and see him let out that rare laugh. it's pleasant and fills the room with a warmer light as I rub my arm where his fingers held me. I'm surprised he was willing to touch me at all; it's pretty obvious that he's got a problem with germs, which is understandable.

"who's scared now?" he tries to defend himself with his palms when I reach out to gently smack his shoulder.

"you know, I was starting to feel bad for you." I laugh. he smiles brightly and keeps walking into the next room. I realize that the way we move is like two weighted ends of a string. he drifts out on his own, I follow, and vice versa.

I appreciate that he's beginning to loosen up around me, so much so that he smiles at a joke I make in the English Regency section. we walk quickly to absorb as much as we can before the museum closes, but we still don't get through all of it. Spencer isn't much of a conversationalist, and he doesn't really need to be. he listens to me talk, I listen to his erudite observations, smiling when he uses certain terms that sound like they're from someone much older.

by the time a curator tells us we have to go, we've completely lost Prentiss and Morgan and end up meeting back at the entrance. it's pitch black outside; Boston is still bustling, except my legs are tired and I'm ready to crash in bed. we have another packed day tomorrow.

#spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #dr. reid #criminal minds #mgg #fanfic #fanfiction #wattpad #friends to lovers #BAU #slow burn

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binniedeactivated · 4 years

Text

saint. || soobin (3.1)🌪

pairing: soobin x reader genre: au word count; 3k

“wow, you’ve really been studying a lot haven’t you?”. you say, seeing soobin’s notebook splayed out on the bed filled with notes that you had no supervision on. you were shocked to know that he took the time to study by himself. he was really taking things seriously. soobin nods,

“i want to pass”.

“it sure looks like it. you’re going to do more than pass with all this knowledge”.

soobin laughs, “good. maybe I’ll earn the ski trip”.

“ski trip?”. you question, having absolutely no clue as to what he was referring to.

“yeonjun told me that everyone who does good on the exams earns a ski trip as an incentive”.

you were kind of amazed, “wow. that sounds fun. when did our school start doing stuff like that? they must really want us to pass”.

“definitely. and I think if everyone doesn’t do well the school’s going to be shut down. so I already know my parents are to blame”.

you roll your eyes and smile a bit, writing down your chemistry notes to study. “must be nice having money”.

“stop saying that. you have money too now”.

“really? where?”.

“right here”.

you shake your head and laugh. soobin eyes you before going back to write his notes.

“seriously why don’t you ask me for money? you never ask”.

“you want me to?”.

soobin nods as if it were a stupid question. “yes”.

“why?”.

“because why not? I think every boyfriend does”.

“I love how you just call yourself my boyfriend in front of my mom and now that counts as us being an official couple”.

soobin laughs and takes your hand. you look at him like he was the biggest joke in the world. “what are you doing?”. you say trying not to laugh. soobin was holding in laughter also while attempting to look at you seriously in your eyes.

“do you want to be my girlfriend?”.

“i hate you soobin”. you laugh.

“I’m serious I’m serious stop making me laugh”.

you roll your eyes playfully. “fine. I guess I can be your girlfriend”.

“good. are we an official couple now?”.

you sigh scrawling your pen against your paper pretending to be frustrated. “I guess we are an official couple now soobin”.

“you’re always trying to act like you don’t like me”. soobin laughs again, flipping his notebook page to finish the rest of the notes on the backside.

“because if i act like I’m in love with you then things will be cringy”.

soobin lays his head on his hand, staring at you.

“are you in love with me?”.

you try not to blush. keeping your eyes on your own paper. his stare was eating you alive.

“of course not”. you mumble jokingly. soobin chuckles.

“your first time lying to me and this is what you waste it on?”.

you continue laughing leaving his rhetorical question floating in the air. he was still staring at you lovingly.

“tell me the truth. because I’m in love with you. and I’m not afraid to admit it”.

“why are you in love with me? I’m not shaming you I just kind of find it odd--I’m just a church girl. living a normal middle class teenage catholic life. there’s nothing special about me. and here you are every girl’s dream. you’re rich. good looking. everyone wants to be you. why me? I’m nothing”.

“do you really think I can fall in love with someone whose nothing?”.

you sigh. “I don’t want to put all my eggs in one basket. I’m scared of getting my hopes up and then one day you just leave. there’s so many girls out there that’s better. look better and dress better. and you can get with every single one of them if you wanted”. you ranted and you didn’t mean to take it this far but it’s honestly how you felt. you couldn’t help it.

soobin presses his warm hand against your cheek. “why are you getting so upset, princess?”.

“I don’t know”. you utter being swarmed in a sea of vulnerability.

“I’m not going to leave you. and if I did who would I even leave you for? some girl who only wants sex and clout from me?”.

“what about the ones who are looking for a relationship?”.

“I’m too in love to care”.

you sigh again, giving him pitiful eyes. being the cheesy person he was leans in and kisses you. that didn’t stop you from liking it though.

“I only want you i swear. now please admit to being in love with me because I’m tired of waiting for your answer”. soobin says gradually laughing. you smile a bit breaking out of your sadness. his reassurance was what you needed. to be this deep into a relationship and him leaving you? it was your biggest fear.

“I may or may not be”. you joked. soobin sucks his teeth playfully.

“fine don’t admit it then. guess you won’t be getting a car for Christmas”.

“soobin?”.

“yes?”. he grinned while continuing his notes, knowing he caught you by surprise there.

“a car?!”.

“you heard me”.

“don’t buy me that it’s way too expensive”.

“i’m totally going to obey your command”.

“soobin I’m serious”.

“so am I”.

“how am I even going to explain that to my parents? they’re going to think I did something for it”.

“something like what?”. soobin asks knowing exactly what you were getting at.

“you know. they’re going to think I had sex with you or something for you to buy me such expensive gifts”. soobin waited and laughed once you finally said it.

“that’s hot. they think you’re like a little churchy prostitute”. you childishly punch his arm. “that’s hot to you?”.

“if it’s you doing it then yes”.

“how is having sex with someone for gifts and money hot?”.

“I just like the idea of you being a whore for me”.

you laugh, wondering what else went on in soobin’s mind.

“you know--like the outfit you wore when you came over my house for the first time--god i wanted to devour you”.

“oh yeah? why didn’t you say anything?”.

“because you were most likely going to punch me. you didn’t know me yet”.

“I still don’t. I’m still learning”.

yeah, but you know enough about me now”.

“I wouldn’t say all that. how do I know you’re not some serial killer deep down?”.

“you sat on my face last night I’m pretty sure that whole ‘secretly a serial killer’ bullshit is out the window at this point”.

you laugh loudly, “soobin!”.

“you also didn’t call me soobin you called me daddy”.

“alright that’s enough!”. the both of you laugh in perfect sync. interrupting it was his mother obnoxiously calling him from downstairs. soobin promises you his return before he goes to stand at the top of the stairs answering her.

“yes?”. he says kind of annoyed.

“me and your father have a conference to attend. our flight leaves soon. if I come back and find out you’ve studied nothing words can’t explain your punishment. don’t just sit around this house making nothing of yourself”.

soobin rolls his eyes, “where is your conference being held?”.

“france”.

“for how long this time?”.

“why are you asking meaningless questions? did you hear what I said?”.

“it’s not meaningless if you guys just came back and spent less than 8 hours in the house with me before you leave again”.

“soobin don’t start. we’re leaders and we are also missionaries. you know what is required of us”.

“what about me?”.

“what about you? study and make yourself useful for something soobin. we were glad finally seeing you out with the sports team and doing things that don’t require a suspension”.

soobin’s breathing pattern changes swiftly. he could hear the nonchalantness in her tone and he hated it with a passion.

“study and make myself useful and then what? so you both can come home and beat me and yell at me anyways?”.

his fathers enters the foyer pointing his finger up at soobin.

“watch your volume”.

“for what! for what whose going to hear me?”.

“for respect soobin! don’t make me come up these stairs”. his father threatens.

“why should I respect you both if you guys barely respect me?!”.

“what are you talking about you have a house to live in don’t you? you have cars you have nice clothes you have gourmet food to eat and your bank account surpasses any number of ever seen in my life. you have nothing to complain about you need to be grateful!”. his mother spat.

“yes you’re right thank you mom thank you dad for subtracting the parental love I could’ve gotten in my life and supplementing it with material things! I appreciate it so much!”.

“what did I tell you about saying that? huh?! we love you. this is tough love”. his father replies. soobin ball his fists.

“that’s bullshit you’re only saying that because you don’t want anyone in this town to know that the two people they respect so much don’t give a damn about their son! half the shit that you do you only do it so I can never say that I don’t have anything”.

“soobin watch your mouth!”. he father growls.

“it’s true just fucking admit it and stop getting angry!”

soobin spat harshly and his dad was about to take off up the stairs in a fit of rage until his mother pulled him back.

“our flight leaves in less than a half hour we have to be at the airport. we can deal with him later”. his dad nods and points his finger at soobin again.

“consider yourself lucky”. he stated before clutching his suitcase. his mom clutches hers and they both approach the door. she shoots a disgusting look at him.

“maybe this getaway will help you clean up your act”. she muttered and closed the door behind him.

“What about me!?”. soobin stands at the top of the stairs still yelling.

“your getaways don’t help! they never fucking did!”. he could feel his heart racing and his cheeks growing hot.

“just say you don’t really love me. thats all you have to do”. he croaks without even realizing he was crying.

you’d been in his room overhearing the whole argument but unable to come out due to you not supposed to even being there in the first place. so you kept silent until you heard the front door shut. you snuck out of soobin’s bedroom to see him down the hallway still yelling, so it was hard to tell if it’s parents really left or not. you approach his tall frame timidly, touching his shoulder.

“soobin?”. he palms his face sniffling. you wrap your arms around his torso and glance up at him.

“it’s going to be okay alright? they don’t deserve you. you’ve made mistakes in your life and sure you weren’t the best behaved kid but you are still theirs and they should treat you as such”.

“I hate them. I fucking hate them both”.

“soobin don’t say that”.

“I will say it. because they don’t care about me”.

“look at me”.

soobin sighs, removing his hands from his wet eyes to glare down at you. he looked so miserable when he cried and you hated it. you’d only ever like to see him happy and laughing. this was cruel.

“I’m in love with you, okay?”. you say, reaching up to help him dry his eyes.

“do you mean that?”. he replies.

“yes I do mean it”.

“good because I fucking knew it”. soobin admits with a straight face until you playfully slap his chest and laugh. it was a relief to see his reddened face contort into a smile.

╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱╲╱❀╲╱

“babe! hurry up!”. soobin yells from the living room couch. he had the movie ready and he was just waiting for you to cuddle with him. you figured you couldn’t leave him alone while he felt like this. so you gave your parents your usual excuse for being out so late.

you promised soobin you’d do anything to help him feel better and guess what he requested? you guessed it.

four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches specially made by you. and of course the big baby was being impatient. you rushed and slabbed the layer of peanut butter on the last slice and sat all the sandwiches on the plate.

you carefully walked into the living room with it and soobin started the movie. you sat criss-crossed between his legs on the couch, trying to hand the plate off to him.

“feed me”, he begs. you turn your body and face him. “you’re a big baby do you know that?”. soobin smirks knowingly. you rip a piece of one sandwich and hold it up to his lips which he munches on adorably. you feed him a few more pieces and watch the crumbs fall from his lips.

“you’re the only person I know that can get fed and still make a mess”. you use a hand to dust the crumbs off of his lips and hoodie.

“you’re such a mom”.

“and you’re such a baby”.

“your baby right?”. you sigh trying not to blush once again.

“cmon. it’s okay to admit it”.

“I’m not going to make things cringy soobin”. you mumble and he immediately tackles you down on the couch playfully.

“soobin you’re going to make me drop all of these sandwiches on the floor!”. you laugh.

“admit I’m your baby”. he laughs.

he face was inches from yours. he looked so cute and cuddly in his big sweater and hood over his head. you pulled one of his drawstrings.

“fine. you’re my baby”. soobin smiles and softly kisses you.

“you forgot to get me something to drink with my food. I’m going to suffocate from this peanut butter”.

you laugh, “you didn’t ask for anything to drink”.

“I know. I should’ve asked for milk”.

“see, that’s your mistake not mine”.

soobin thinks for a moment before grinning. “i mean--if i wanted some milk I can just--”. he interrupted himself just to snake his hand up your shirt and massage your boob. you cackled loudly.

“soobin!”.

and your mornings were usual. this time around though you were encouraging soobin. he’d be taking his first history exam today.

“remember you got this. you are smart. you can do anything and you studied really hard for this”. you remind prior to kissing him. “I believe in you”. you added. you went into your classroom and let soobin put his skills to the test. he was even more inspired now that he had you rooting for him.

“I tried to call you yesterday but either your phone was dead or you didn’t pay your phone bill”. taehyun admitted.

“my phone bill is paid. my phone was probably dead”. you lied. you were declining his calls to keep from soobin’s wrath.

“we can study today after school if you’re down. I don’t have anything to do and plus the exam is coming up soon”.

damn. you couldn’t say no to his face. could you?

“yeah that’s fine. library?”. you ask.

“yeah that’s cool”. taehyun shortly replies. all the while you were wondering how the hell you were going to continue studying with taehyun behind soobin’s back. it wasn’t like you were cheating on him or anything. just studying. maybe soobin was being too overprotective.

soobin adjusts his backpack strap and attempts recalling his notes in his head while he walked to his classroom.

“ayo? you ready?”. yeonjun asked catching up to him

“hell yeah. I actually studied”.

“good. I uhh- kind of have some news for you though”.

“what is it?”.

“they found more evidence on the hotel case”.

“shit. why the hell would you tell me that right now?”.

“I’m trying to tell you all the shit I know before anything comes up later so you can be prepared”.

“how do you know this shit anyways? do you have a part time job at the police station or something?”.

“I have my connections. and i’ve been following it to make sure they don’t try and frame me”.

“why would they frame you?”.

yeonjun shrugs, “I was acting pretty hostile during interrogation. but still”.

“I don’t have time for this shit”.

“yeah that’s probably why you still haven’t told your girlfriend”.

“don’t start yeonjun”.

yeonjun shrugs again, “I’m just saying. you keep dragging this shit out she’s going to fuck around and leave you”.

#choi soobin #choi soobin smut #choi soobin au #choi beomgyu #txt au #choi yeonjun

89 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years

Text

blurred lines | dave hodgman

word count; 9237

summary; a few miscommunications almost ruin something that could be phenomenal.

notes; I had this idea, and I really liked it, so i just rolled with it. this is the dave insert for my birthday week celebration/7k follower milestone.

warnings; smut, public sex, car sex.

There weren’t many people that were more popular than Jane and her group of friends. They were like high school elites, and yet there was always that even more exclusive tier, those who were for all intents and purposes, teen royalty.

As he was saying, there weren’t many people more popular than the likes of Jane, Stanwyck and Brianna. However, Dave could without a doubt say that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was.

She had more likes on just one of her Instagram posts than that of all of Dave’s posts combined. If he added the combined sum of Big C’s and Simon’s, they’d probably still fall short, even collectively. There wasn’t a student or teacher that disliked her. She was well known not only in his own school, but in others too. Even Aubrey knew of her and liked her, and that was saying something, because Aubrey had a twisted sense of importance and political standing in every view of it.

That was why Dave couldn’t quite understand exactly how he’d gotten himself into this position.

Well, that’s a lie. He knew exactly how he got himself into this dreadfully embarrassing position, that would likely ruin not only the remaining months of his senior social life, but was so colossal that it may well actually follow him to college, too.

See, it had all started three days ago, a Monday lunch-time just like any other, as he sat pouting into his basket of curly fries as Simon once again scrolled through Aubrey’s latest uploaded pictures on Instagram with her new boyfriend and shaming him in an attempt to feel better. Dave was fine, he’d moved on, truly, but Simon clearly hadn’t, and needed his own closure on the situation.

It soon followed with “so David, which of all the lovely ladies in this school are you going to take to the dance, because you have two tickets, a dashing suit, and I refuse to let you waste them,” which had prompted Dave to snort a laugh, and make a joke about asking the heartbreaker (Y/N) (Y/L/N) dance, since he had nothing else to lose.

Apparently, he’d still had a shred of dignity, which was curling up and dying with every second that passes him by, but back to how this all came to be;

Unfortunately for him, his ‘good friend’ Jane had passed by at exactly that moment, and had been just thrilled at the prospect of him finally asking out the girl he’d “been pining over so long I thought you were going to turn into Ryan Gosling and rebuild he a house out in the country after hanging from a Ferris wheel”, which still left a bitter taste in his mouth, because how had the girl picked up in his pining for you, but never once picked up on the feelings he’d once held for her?

Despite that, a collection of kids Dave wasn’t confident in the names of but often followed Jane around had seated themselves at their table, and Jane - in all her innocence and confusion - was excitedly telling them about how Dave was finally going to ask out his crush.

That was exactly how he found himself here, almost two days later, feeling all pairs the eyes in the more-crowded-than-usual corridors as he leaned against your locker and tried to look as casual as possible as he waited for you, as though it wasn’t scaring him shitless and making him sweat like a sinner in church. He pulled at the collar of his shirt with one finger, trying to distract himself from all the people watching and whispering, waiting to see if Dave Hodgman could, in fact, score (Y/N) (Y/L/N), or if more likely, he was going to be rejected in a pile of flaming shame and the crumbling of what shredded remains he had left of his dignity.

“Hey, Dave.”

He felt like a moron. A moron that had been looking the wrong way down the corridor and now you were standing behind him, leaning back with a small laugh to avoid being hit when he spun around to face you with such speeds that his own head was spinning. “Hey! Hi! Hello!”

He cringed visibly at his ridiculous greeting, the confidence he’d held was slipping from him with every passing second, and you did a better job of avoiding the lingering gazes in the halls than he was, you barely seemed to notice them as you allowed him to step out of the way of your locker so that you could swap out your books, but he supposed you were used to it. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you, there are some rumours flying around.”

He wished he could hate the way you were teasing him, but he couldn't. It was playful, not mocking, and you were offering him such a friendly smile and making him feel comfortable once again, and he just couldn't find it within himself to dislike any part of you. “Yeah, I had a question for you..”

“You had a question for me?”

“I suspect you already know what it is” His shoulders sagged, he felt himself giving up, the stress and pressure were just too much, but he at least wanted to be able to walk away with dignity after his inevitable rejection, he didn’t want to be seen running through the halls in order to escape your soft voice trying to let him down gently.

“Will you say it anyway?”

He fixed you with a studious gaze, unsure as to what your angle was, but gave you a stiff nod anyway, and hooked his thumbs through the straps of his backpack as he stood tall. “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the ‘Night In Vegas’ dance with me? As my date. Y’know.. um.. yeah.”

“I’d love to.”

He gaped at you - blinking once, twice, three times - before his face was splitting in a grin, and he cleared his throat. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Woah.” You seemed to find amusement in his reaction, and you pulled his hand up to you and plucked a pen out of your bag, uncapping the lid with your teeth and moving the nib towards his skin, beginning to write down your number. “God, I was so nervous, and now I feel stupid. Nobody thought I would get you, not even me, and all these people are here an-”

“Get me?” Your pen had stilled on his skin, and he looked back at you, shrugging his shoulders as your face seemed to take on a neutral expression, unreadable as you watched him.

“Yeah. You’re like.. really popular, and pretty, and just way out of my league. Nobody really thought you’d go for me because it’s normally the other guys you want. Guess I’m proving everyone wrong.” Your expression flickered with something he couldn’t quite understand, but you were soon offering him a polite smile and finishing your number, dropping his hand again and tucking your pen back into your bag.

You stepped back from him, letting out a small sigh and glancing around everybody that was gathered around you, not-so-subtly listening in on the conversation. “Okay, well, text me. We can sort out details. I have to go, but we’ll chat soon?”

He nodded his head moving before he could control it, and he watched you walk away with a small grin on your lips. “For sure! I’ll text, soon! See you later!”

“See’ya, Dave.”

The weeks between the day he’d asked you and going to the dance had been filled with texts at night and flirty smiles in the corridors, and Dave couldn't be more excited as he pulled on his suit. It was odd, he thought he’d clicked with Aubrey more than he’d ever click with anyone, and yet even from the simple things he’d managed to learn about you during your conversations, he felt more of a bond with you than he ever had with anyone else.

You were like an enigma, you were a little bit confusing and you often ran him in circles, but he liked trying to work you out, as if knowing you was the prize at the end of a challenging puzzle. He told you as much as he could about himself, wanting to share everything he could with you. He had felt awkward and slightly robotic in the way he went about his conversations with you, to begin with, simple texts to ask you how your day was and what you were up to, but soon enough it had resorted to one of you starting a conversation with you about anything. The jokes on the back of biscuit wrappers, something that had happened in his day, movies on the TV or even just to complain.

The two of you would sometimes even be found talking in the corridors, sharing laughs and jokes, and he found himself falling for you a little more with each passing day. He was all but buzzing with both nerves and excitement, brushing his open palms down and over his tux jacket, Stella tugging on his pants as she whined for attention, but he was too nervous and too busy to play barbies with her right now, and she just wanted him to do the deeper voices of the only male one she owned when he made his rare appearance at ‘the dreamhouse’.

A flower in a box sat on the shelf under his mirror, his fingertips still a little sticky with the gel he’d used to style his hair, and so he didn’t want to touch the corsage yet and smear it with the substance. He’d planned or get ready early, his plan to pick you up at eight was not going to be ruined because he lost track of time in the shower and ended up being late. He had one chance, and he didn’t want to fuck it up. Now, though, it seemed he was ready a little too early, because he was stuck with a good thirty-minute wait before the earliest acceptable time to come and get you would roll around, and he had nothing else to fill his time with.

He was dressed, and ready. Clean and freshly styled and just enough of his special occasion aftershave spritzed on his skin to be alluring but no overwhelming.

Okay, maybe he had a little bit of time to play barbie dolls with Stella.

With fingers tapping on the steering wheel, he peered up at the driveway to your house, watching as the clock ticked over onto 7 PM, and he let out the breath he was holding, letting the smile that had been pulling on his features finally come free, as he slipped his phone out of his pocket, a finger under his collar to tug it loose for a second as he pulled up the string of messages the two of you had been exchanging.

hey cutie. i’m outside.

The little speech bubble at the bottom of the screen danced for a few minutes, the nail of his thumb caught between his teeth as he waited for you to respond, but soon it just disappeared. He waited, and waited, and soon five minutes had passed and he was beginning to worry for what was happening, the thoughts that this all may just be an elaborate joke was slipping into his mind when your front door opened, closing only a second later as you came walking down the driveway with a smile on your face.

He hurried from his seat, rushing up to meet you with the corsage in his hands, and you paused upon seeing it, before your eyes were finding his, wide and wondering as you closed the gap between you until you were standing right in front of him.

“Is that for me?”

“Yeah! Yeah.. you said you were wearing a gold dress, and I couldn't find a gold flower, so I got a white one, but it does have a cute little tassel on it that matches the fringe-tassel thing you have going on and-” He cut himself off with a series of stutters and breath sighs when you kissed his cheek, your thumb coming up a second later to clear away the red lipstick print you’d left on his skin from the freshly applied coat that was still a little wet. “I could have come up and met you, at the door. Do you want me to meet your parents, o-”

“It’s good, Dave, really. Let’s just go have fun, okay?”

He swallowed, glancing between your gaze and the front door, before giving it up and nodding, cracking the box open to present you with the flower to put on your wrist. “Sure, I can’t wait.”

He held the door for you, held your hand as you stepped into the car, and made sure you were settled before he got in on his own side. He was determined to be the perfect gentleman. This was his one shot to prove to you how good the two of you could be together, and he wasn’t willing to mess it up. When he got into his own seat and clipped his safety belt in, you were fiddling with the dials on the dashboard and tinkering with the radio channels, switching over to the CD he had in, and his cheeks flared a little as you looked over the back of the CD case at the songs. “You mind if I pick the music?”

“Knock yourself out, babe, whatever you want.”

You nodded offering him a wide grin as he set the car off into motion, and he peeled away from the sidewalk outside your house to head toward the school. It was a short drive, but he couldn’t help but notice every little thing you did that only made you seem more like a regular person to him, and not like someone who was miles and miles out of his league, it made him feel calmer, like this wasn’t all just some big and elaborate prank that was the punchline of, but instead like he was here with a pretty date to have a great evening.

Your fingers tapped along on your leg in time with the tune, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you, and before he knew it, he was pulling up in the back of the somewhat crowded parking lot, trying to find a space that wasn’t too close to the crowds gathering around the doors, and you were brushing your dress down and stepping out the car, grinning as you looked between him and doors.

Shooting a quick text to Simon and Big-C to let them know that he was here, he tucked the device into his pocket, offering his arm to you and grinning when you accepted it. His friends met the pair of you at the door, and this was the nervous moment he’d been waiting for.

Simon was quiet for all of two seconds, before he was smirking widely and holding his hand out to introduce himself, the slew of comments neither of you would be able to avoid all night beginning to pour from him without hesitation; “Simon Daldry. You look absolutely ravishing tonight, far better than Aubrey ever did, you really traded up, Davie-boy.”

“Don’t call me that, and don’t talk about Aubrey.”

“No, Davie-boy, do spill. Who’s Aubrey?” You turned to him, a teasing look on your face and he sighed, raising his eyebrows at him, his eyes flicking down to your hands when he felt your fingers slide down his arm and lace with his, squeezing encouragingly. You were telling him that it was okay, that he didn’t have to share if he didn’t want to, but you were staring at him intently and still giving him that look that was giving him the confidence to be by your side all night, and so he caved.

Instead of voicing his history himself, though, he turned to give Simon a pointed look, and Big-C clapped him on the shoulder as the shortest boy all but vibrated with glee at the chance to tell you the story.

“Aubrey is our dear boy’s ex-girlfriend. She wasn’t very nice, we didn’t like her very much.” Dave dropped his head back with a groan as his friend took the chance to throw some insults into the conversation and he squeezed his hand around ours to draw back your attention, cutting Simon off as the boy took a breath to start off on yet another rant;

‘How about we go and get our picture taken, yeah? I’ve seen some of the photos on Snapchat already, and they're pretty good. They really went all out; neon signs, props like the strip attractions, there’s even a red carpet.”

“A red carpet? Well, how could we resist?”

He guided you along, your heels carrying you at closer to his height and your strides wider as you expertly balanced in the shoes, thanking him when he held the door open, your jaw dropping form the second you stepped inside with the small group. The bass was beating through the floors and the music was loud, even from the main entrance, the hall holding the dance still a small walk away, and anticipation filled his body.

He may or may not be a sucker for school dances.

The room was decorated with dice, cards, flashing banners and shiny decorations with bright lights. Black, red and white hung from all of the walls, and everything screamed Sin City extravagance, but had been toned down to high school appropriate. The usual red solo cups that were always brought in for the punch and drinks had been swapped out for plastic champagne and martini glasses, which definitely looked funny being filled with the non-alcoholic and red fruit-punch, but it was a fun thought nonetheless, and he was impressed by how quickly it had all come together, being that none of it had been up when they’d been ins school earlier that day.

The flashes of the camera set up in the corner snapped him out from his wonder, and he looked over to find you in much the same way, and he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as you looked around. “Wanna’ take pictures?”

You nodded vehemently, the two of you making your way over to the setup, and bursting out with laughter at what you saw. Big-C was accompanying Simon, who had clearly manoeuvred him into a slightly less than formal dance photo pose. The pair of them were recreating the famous Titanic pose, the one of Jack and Rose at the front of the ship as she insisted that she was flying, and neither of you could contain your laughter as you watched on.

“Simon looks like he’s having the time of your life, but your other friend looks like he’d rather actually be on the ship as it sank.”

“Simon is insane, and I’m really not sure how Big-C put’s up with him.” He shrugged, allowing you to drag him into the queue for photos taken, the words you were running a mile a minute about different poses you could do were going in one ear and out of the other, because he didn’t care what pose you dragged him into, however formal or informal, because he was shocked by how seamlessly you were fitting into his friendship group, and how his friends had known you for less than ten minutes but already seemed to like you ten times more than they ever did his ex.

By the time your turn to take photos had come around, he hadn't heard a single one of your ideas for pictures to take, and simply let himself be guided by the photographer. He found himself standing behind you, hands sitting on your stomach as his arms wrapped around your waist, your own fingers lacing through his own. The first one was a formal shot, the sort of one his mother would have taken of the two of you had she met you, and he knew she’d love it when he presented it to her. In fact, she might actually frame it. He did look good tonight.

The second was a little more playful, his head was tipped up and chin balanced on the top of your head as he beamed at the camera, holding you a little tighter and pinching at your side, prompting your face to screw up and a laugh to bubble up from you as he did, and the final one featured him leaning around you, the tip of his nose brushing your skin as he pressed a kiss to your cheek. It was more you than him, his face was mostly obscured by his position and all that could be seen was his arms, legs and the top of his head, but he knew it would be his favourite simply based on the was your cheeks had been tinted red and your eyes glistening when he looked at you after hearing the ‘click’ of the camera taking the photo.

“They’re going to be cute photos.”

The pair of you were hurried off of the platform, and took your hand in his once again, the four of you walking along the halls, following the music as it got louder and louder, and he twisted his head to face you, a smirk on his lips and his eyes dragging along you, head to toe. “That’s because there’s a cute girl in them.”

“Dave, that was shocking. Appalling, actually. How the fuck did you get someone as out of you league as her to go out with you when you have lines like that?”

He felt his face blank into boredom as he looked over at Simon, but you simply laughed, pulling him through the open doors and telling him not to mind it, because you thought it was sweet, and your reassurance was enough to give him confidence on his statement one again. Bodies filled the room, some on the dance floor, some milling around the food tables, others sitting at tables and filling the seats.

Lifting your joined hands up, he spun you in a twirl, a surprised sound leaving you before you were giggling, his brows wiggling suggestively as he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. “Let’s start with a dance, yeah?”

You had danced, the two of you swirling around on the dance floor until your legs were aching and you were gasping for a drink. Some songs were upbeat, and these were the songs that the two of you busted out your best moves for, limbs flying in all directions as you cracked up with laughter upon watching the other move, and your hair flew around, pink coating both of your cheeks as the blood rushed underneath, heat flashing around you until you were slumped against one another and holding yourselves up, using your intertwined body for support as you gasped for breath and tried to calm your hearts as tears pushed at your eyes from laughing so much.

Then there were the slower songs, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, or your temple resting just below his as you leaned into him. His arms were around your waist, or his hands in yours, and your own fingers were looped around his shoulders, fingers in the shorter hair at the base of his neck and your nails scratching at the skin softly, lulling him into a feeling of peace so serene that his eyes were fluttering shut, his breathing levelling out, and he realised he could definitely get used to it. He liked being able to hold you so close, and being able to feel you pressed up to his chest, your lips almost brushing on the times you'd look up to talk to him and let your forehead press to his own as you mumbled quiet words of calm chatter between you both.

There were also the more sensual songs, the ones that had too much bass and sliding notes to be a slow song, and it was with those songs that Dave found himself suffering the most, his eyes closing and jaw dropping open, hands gripping your body tightly. Your body would roll into his, your ass pressed to him when you turned in his arms and your body swaying with his own, never stopping him when he dragged his hands over your body, never too much for the public eye but more than enough to get the two of you worked up, and you never flinched away when he began to pepper the bare skin of your shoulder with light kisses and the occasional flick of his tongue against your skin.

By the time the two of you had collapsed in your seats, you had thanked him with a kiss on his cheek when he brought you punch, and you’d pulled your chair up so close to his that your thighs were pressed together, your body facing his and elbow sitting on the back of his chair, fingers once again in his hair and playing with that sweet pattern that made his whole body sag with relaxation.

He’d leaned into you, barely getting a chance to enjoy the feeling of the quiet and intimate moment, the two of you feeling more like a couple than he had ever felt when he was with Aubrey. You simply enjoyed his presence, and you made him feel calm. He wasn’t nervous and sweaty and on edge when he was with you, the way she had made him feel was so entirely different that he couldn't even compare the two of you, because you were unique, nothing like anyone he’d ever met before.

Simon had soon interrupted you both, a deck of cards in his hands as he insisted that you played him in poker, and he pressed a kiss to the palm of your hand as you turned away to face him as he dealt up. The two of you were teamed up, and you had ended up in his lap, balanced across one of his legs as his chin popped on your shoulder, arms tightly around your waist to hold your back to his chest as you held the cards.

Not only had you won the game, but you’d done the whole thing while never once caving to Simon’s trash talk, meeting him with it and raising the stakes until him and Big-C were simply watching on as the two of you playfully slated one another, goading the other to break their poker face as you played, and Simon had even offered you a shake of his hand upon winning, and it was the most sportsmanly thing he’d ever seen his friend do. He was normally such a sore loser, but maybe that’s just because it was you that he’d lost to.

The feeling that he was waiting for the ball to drop, that there was something coming around the corner or a big joke waiting to be unveiled was gone, because you were so clearly enjoying yourself that it wasn’t possible to be able to fake that kind of joy. He was having one of the nights of his life, the flickering of the lights, the beat of the music in the floor, the taste of the fruit-punch hanging on his lips and the feel of you in his arms. You had managed to convince him into taking pictures, the two of you wandering around the room to take selfies with all the fun props and displays, wanting to truly capture the Vegas theme in all its flashy entirety.

His favourite one had to be the picture of you posing under a replication of the famous sign. ‘Welcome to the Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada’ was sparkling above your head as you looked up at it, your hands held out on either side in a way that made it look like you were holding up the sign, in the same way that tourists took pictures that made it look like they were leaning on the Eiffel Tower or holding up the tower of Pisa. It was cheesy, and he loved it, because you were so carefree and happy in the shot.

Being with you made his social anxiety melt away, your own carefree attitude washed over him and it sunk into him, taking it on himself. The lingering gazes and whispers never bothered him, or made him wonder. He managed to let it all go, because his only focus was you.

As the night went on, the pair of you were getting warmer and warmer, fanning yourselves with your hands as the sweaty bodies in the room rose the heat up, and you had only hesitated for a moment when he offered you a walk outside, sighing with what he assumed to be relief, before nodding and lacing your fingers with his as he guided you back out into the cool night, the sky dark now and the stars twinkling overhead.

There were far fewer people now, a few boys lingering on the other side of the field, clouds of smoke rising up around them with no surprise as to what they were doing, but the car park was empty, and your hands swung between you both as you walked along in comfortable silence around the outskirts of the cars. It was halfway around when he finally pulled you to a stop, pushing down the butterflies that were going wild in his stomach, and raising a hand up to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing over your skin delicately.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? You’re absolutely stunning.” his words were breathed out on a sigh, and your lips flicked up at the corners.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Hodgman.” He tilted your chin up a little more, watching the way your eyes darkened, and his jaw dropped when he felt your fingers hook into his belt loops, and tug his body towards your own, hips pressing together. Swallowing thickly, he dragged his eyes back up to yours, taking a quick inhale of breath as his eyes got stuck on the way your plump lower lip was caught between your teeth, seductive in ways he couldn't even fathom. “Are you going to do what you’ve been wanting to do all night, or not?”

“Fuck, yeah, I am.” With that, his mouth was descending onto your own, heavy and wet as his wet lips meshed with your own. He could taste the lipstick you wore, and the slightly sticky fruit punch residue in your mouth, the flavour of which only increased when your lips parted for him and your tongue dipped out to find his own.

It was needy and hot, and raw in a way that made his head spin, and one of his hands came up to lace in your hair as he backed you up into the streetlamp only a few feet away, your back arching into him as your skin met the cold metal, and the sound you made in your shock went straight to his groin. It was sweet and low, a little groan that was crossed with a whimper, and your hips were rolling up into his.

His other hand slipped down and around your waist, past your lower back until he was taking a handful of your ass in his palm, squeezing roughly at the flesh and this time, you both let out moans at the feeling. Your bodies were flush now, the heat from inside was back, like a raging fire between your bodies as you rutted against one another, pulling back for gasping breaths before diving back into one another’s mouths once again. Your lipstick was smeared around your mouth and his own, your hair was messy from the pretty style it had been in at the beginning of the night, and you were a picture-perfect mess, the sort of sight he wanted or wake up to, or fall asleep by after a long night of holding you close to him and showing you how much you meant to him.

It wasn’t love, far from it, but the spark that he thought could turn into so much more had never been brighter, it had never felt this good, and he found himself sinking into your bliss with every rock of your bodies and every drag of your lips over his, every sweet noise to meet his ears or every moan he made that you muffled with your own mouth. It was getting heavy, and you showed no signs of stopping and he didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want to get caught with your legs around his waist as he fucked you against a metal pole, because the way you were now grinding down onto his thigh was very clear, and he was only seconds away from pulling down the spaghetti straps of your dress to see whether or not you actually had a bra on underneath your clothing.

“We should.. um.. move. Car? I think we should go to the car.” He barely managed to get his words out, but you were pushing him away from the post, hands tight in the collar of his suit jacket as you tore your lips from his, looking around for the vehicle, and his mouth descended to your neck, licking and kissing along your skin. You seemed to find it, because only a moment later you were pushing him in that direction, his feet moving underneath him and your hand rifling through his pockets for the keys, before his back was meeting cold metal this time, and he hissed out at the feeling.

He forced himself to remove his hand from your ass, fumbling for the handle when he heard the car sound it’s unlocking, and when he finally managed to wrench it open, he was quickly being pushed into the driver's seat, the keys tossed carelessly onto the dashboard and his hands reaching to push the chair back as far as it could go as your own reached for the lever to flatten the seat back.

Suddenly, he was laying down, the door slamming as you straddled him in the vehicle, hair framing his face as your lips met yours once again, and now he was able to get both hands on your ass, and had his mouth not been so deliciously otherwise occupied, he would have been smirking as he groped at the fleshy mounds in bliss. The windows were fogging up, the tent in his pants pressing to your clit each time he thrust his hips up to meet your movements, and his cock twitching in his pants with every squeaky moan you let out, and every breathy moan of his name that sounded out.

Pulling away for only a second, his lips were still pouted, but his jaw soon dropped open when you pushed away the straps of your dress, the flimsy material falling away to pool at your waist, you breasts on full display to him, bouncing as you rocked down into him, and nipples perky and pointed out for him, skin showing a thin layer of goosebumps with your arousal showing clearly.

His question had been answered; you were not wearing a bra. He fucking knew it.

Dragging his palms up and over your smooth skin, he cupped your tits in his hands, the rough pads of his thumbs teasing over your nipples, and an entirely new sound left you, one that had his gut twisting with desire, and a primal urge raring up within him. You pushed your chest up into his hands, your head falling back and your own hands finding his wrists, holding his touch on your body as you rode yourself down onto him, the two of you nearing you peaks, even with the layers of clothing between you, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to still your hips atop him.

“Baby, as much as I love what you’re doing, if you keep it up then I’ll cum and the fun will be over.” His voice was hoarse, even to himself, and you took a steady breath of your own, leaning down to place a softer and gentler kiss to his lips, pulling his bottom lip with your teeth when you shifted away from him.

“Better put the condom on and put that cock to use then, huh?”

His eyes widened, spluttering falling from him, before he shut himself up by snapping his jaw shut and nodding quickly, sitting up with you in his lap and searching for his wallet in his jacket pocket. While he was up, he took the opportunity to shove the material down his shoulders, discarding the blazer to the back seat and popping the button on the front of the leather pouch, rifling through and praying against all known gods that he had replaced the condom in his wallet, only barely managing to contain the cheer of joy he wanted to let out when he found it.

The cards and that note were of no concern to him, instead, he was dropping that to focus on the silver packet he was holding in his hands, a low groan slipping from him as he watched your own fingers dip under the black panties he was only now catching sight of, the digits disappearing from his vision. Your head fell forward a split second later, your foreheads pressing together as you whined his name under your breath, fucking yourself down onto your fingers to the thought of him, and he’d never gotten his belt and pants undone faster.

The car was steamy and hot, windows fogged over to block any sights from outside, and now it was just the two of you, in a bubble of your own making as you barrelled quickly towards the very activities that Dave had been dreaming about since he’d first caught sight of you in Freshman year.

Finally dragging his cock free from its confines, he grinned happily to himself, pumping his already hard cock a few times, before using his teeth to help him tear open the wrapper and roll the rubber down over his shaft.

“Holy fuck, you’re amazing. So fucking hot.”

You flashed your teeth at him in a wicked grin, your hand coming over to take control of his, your fingers slick with your own juices, and he hadn't realised just how wet you were, but now as you were pulling your panties to the side and lining him up with your core, he could feel the heat of your entrance as the tip of his covered cock dragged through your folds. He felt as though he was panting like a dog, drooling and clenching his fingers beside his body, before he was lifting them up to sit on your hips, taking control as you erased him by pulling you down in one swift movement.

You sunk all the way along him, both of your eyes rolling in your head and your body shaking above him as he became fully sheathed in your warmth, and he worried that he was gripping you so tightly it may bruise you. His thighs were clenched and his head was pressing back into the cushions of the reclined seat, letting out a shuddering breath as he tried not to explode just from the feeling of being buried in your dripping cunt.

“Oh my God, Dave!”

“I know.” His words were wheezed out, a playful look on your face as the two of you took your second to adjust, but that seemed to shatter as the look you shared darkened, and only a moment later you were rolling your hips down into him. It started out slow, a series of simple and steady movements that were almost mechanic, the rise and fall of your hips as you moved up and down along his cock, slowly as you grew used to the position and the movements you could make within the car.

Once you had grown comfortable, you were spicing up your actions, slamming yourself down onto him with quick and rapid movements, and then slowing it down to tease him, rolling the muscles in your stomach and clenching yourself so tightly around him that he almost choked on his own tongue, his eyes crossing and hips bucking up into you desperately. He couldn't take it, the way you would drag him to the edge only to let him come back down, but he loved it, because you were with him, riding him in his car after having an amazing night, and he couldn't get enough of the way it felt to be completely and utterly surrounded by you.

You were taking over his every sense, everything he has was given over in surrender, because he was barely holding on at all.

Your lips brushed his, and your movements became weaker, less coordinated and more frantic as you chased your own high as well as his. Taking one of his hands in your own shakily, you folded his fingers away until only two remained, and he watched through hooded eyes and you sucked his long fingers into your mouth with swollen lips, warm and wet just like your pussy, your cheeks tightening around his digits as you soaked them with your spit. Your tongue lapped around his fingers, dipping and weaving between the digits and dips with precision that would be haunting his mind and filling his wet dreams for weeks, as well as the permanently burned-in feeling of your warmth around his cock.

Dragging the slick digits down your body, you lifted up the edge of your skirt and pushed the pads of his fingers up to your swollen and neglected clit, and he took the hint, taking control of his limb again and picking up the pace. Pushing down roughly on the button, he traced his name in jerky and needy movements, a possessive act that he took pride in, rubbing his name on the nub and only making it as far as the ‘O’ on his last name before you were exploding around him.

Your eyes were rolling back in your head, nails digging into his chest through the dress shirt covering his chest, and he arched up into the touch, your orgasm spurring on his own. Your mouth pressed to his, lips working slowly and tongue seven slower, simply dragging over the top of one another’s and tangled together in sloppy patterns as you muffled the cried of each other’s names and moaned out curses, prolonging one another’s orgasms until it was all too much to handle.

When you finally peeled yourself off of his cock and collapsed down into the seat beside him, you had a lazy smile on your face, your body slumping into the passenger seat, and he forced his seat back up into a sitting position Peeling the condom off of his cock and tying it off, hiding it in a handful of tissues that were left on his dash, he placed it in the cupholder to dispose of later, and tucked himself back into his pants, his mind still spinning from the events and his thoughts still swimming with only you, in his post-orgasmic bliss.

He undid the tie around his neck, popping a few buttons on his shirt to allow himself to breathe, and once he knew you’d adjusted your dress and cover yourself back up again, he rolled down the windows to air out the heat in the car.

“So, you can just drop me off at home now, then.”

His head whipped around to look at you, only you weren’t looking at him, you were looking at yourself in the mirror and wiping at the lipstick around your mouth, cleaning your skin up and removing any trace of the kisses he’d left on you, and the sight of you doing so made him rub at his own mouth the back of his hand, wiping away the red smudges on his skin. “What are you talking about?”

“Now that we’re done, y’know? You got me, you got your notch on your belt or whatever, and this night really has been an absolute blast, but I would love nothing more than a nice hot bath and some pasta, now.” He was speechless, he really didn’t know what to say, because right now there was a bitter taste taking over his mouth as he thought about the night, storm clouds coming in as your words settled over him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He knew he had all but spat the words at you, and he was angered by the audacity on your face to look shocked by the anger in his tone when you finally let your eyes meet his, a light shrug on your shoulders, before you picked up the keys and handed them to him, and he didn’t even look down at his palm as the cold metal met his skin. “Hey, don’t worry. I wanted to be here, I said yes to the dance and I initiated this. A lot of guys try it, want to sleep with me for the popularity boost or cool guy badge or whatever, and I think it’s dumb but you seemed so sad and nervous in the halls, and I figured, why not? You’re really cute, I like you.”

Rage swelled within him and he felt tears sting at his eyes as he let out a breathless laugh, before starting up the car and shaking his head, peeling out of the parking lot in silence. It wasn’t until the two of you had hit the main roads that he spoke over the dull playing of the radio once again. “What, so I was just a pity-fuck for you? Some kind of project, the whole night was a lie?”

“What? No!” Your hand landed on his bicep, but he shrugged you off, never even looking over at you as he flicked his way through the roads, nearing your house as he drove as quickly as the speed limits would possibly allow him to, not wanting to draw out the journey any longer than it needed to be. “I had fun tonight, I told you that!”

“You had fun on a date that I thought was real, and you thought was just something to fill the time with while you were bored?”

“I never said that!”

“Sure.” He sighed, flicking on his indicators as the two of you entered at the top end of your neighbourhood, and he heard you make a distressed little sound beside him, and even though it made his own body fill with sadness and regret, he was still angry, too angry to even consider letting those secondary emotions take over.

“Why don’t we just talk about this, I think mayb-”

“No. Why don’t we just finish this journey in silence, yeah?” He let his gaze flicker over to you for only a second, before he was looking back at the road, swallowing thickly to push down the way seeing you upset expression had made him feel. You did as he requested, and the rest of the ride was filled with tense and awkward silence, and neither of you spoke again until the car was coming to a halt outside of your house.

This time, he didn’t try to be a gentleman. He didn’t get out of his seat and open the door for you, and the evening routine he’d planned of walking you up to the door and hoping against all odds that maybe you’d kiss him was completely dashed, his newly fog-cleared mind full of regret for how fast things had advanced between the two of you, disappointment filling every nook and pore in his body.

You opened your own door, climbing from the car and walking away, the quiet click of your heels on the tiles was all that was heard, and he watched you go, eyes scanning up over you as you stopped in your place, turning and taking a breath as you prepared yourself to speak, but he cut you off before you got a chance; “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about tonight. Despite the impression you seem to have of me, I just wanted to go to a dance.”

Your face seemed to crumple in on yourself, your arms wrapping around your body, and he squeezed his hands on the steering wheel tighter, resisting the urge to rush from the car and pull you in close to him. “I-I..” Your voice cracked, like you were going to cry, and he felt his resolve crumbling, his fingers reaching for the handle of his door as you continued on, cleaning your throat. “I was just going to say thank you, I had a really great time with you, at the dance.”

He didn’t get a chance to speak, to ask you what had happened or why you’d ever thought of him like that, before you were turning on your heel, a near-run as you carried yourself up the driveway, slipping into your house and slamming the door shut. He didn’t have time to think about it or dwell on the thought because soon he was on the road, completely confused and a little bit heartbroken, and just wanting to curl up in his own bed.

Dave was walking at his locker, swapping out the books for his next class and keeping his head low, ignoring all the congratulatory pats on the back and hoots or hollers he had been receiving. It seemed that being with you had been a real boost for his popularity, because guys that have always believed themselves to be too good to talk to him were now stopping him in the corridors to start up conversations, and girls who had never looked in his direction were now batting their eyelashes and waving their fingers flirtily.

He didn’t care for any of it, but Simon was eating it all up as you went along.

He had barely gotten his fingers out of the way of the door when it slammed shut, his body jumping backwards and eyes widening, before he was turning to look at you, his shoulders slumping even further and he removed his bag from his shoulders, distracting himself with packing his bag, waiting for you to shot, or yell, or publicly tear him down. Whatever it was that you needed.

“You said it wrong. You are terrible with words.”

“Excuse me?” A flicker of anger shot through him, and he zipped up his bag with more force than was needed, swinging it up onto one arm and letting it hang there, wiping a hand over his face to calm his feelings before he turned back to you. “I was never anything but polite to you.”

“I know. But when you first asked me out, you said nobody thought you could ‘get me’. You made me sound like a prize to be won, like a notch on your belt. Do you have any idea how many guys try to ‘get me’ just to prove that they can?”

He shuffled from foot to foot, glancing around at the few pairs of eyes that had landed on you all, before a sigh on his lips helped him from his next words. “I didn’t want that, I never did. I just wanted to go to the dance with you.”

“Do you like me?”

“What?”

“Do you like me? In a real way, not a popularity-boost, make it a game, prove to people who looked down on your way.” You were vulnerable as you looked up at him, eyes wide and expression flickering every so often as you tried to appear strong, and his head tipped to the side before he could stop it, a small smile on his lips as he let his eyes scan over you, before he was looping a couple of his fingers loosely with your own.

“I really do, for a while now, actually.” Heat crawled up his cheeks at the confession, but you were giving him a grin wider than the sun, holding onto his hand a little more tightly, weaving your fingers through his until your palms were pressed tightly to one another.

“Do you want to go on a date, then? A real date. Like, to a restaurant or mini-golf, or something.”

He used his other hands to tuck some loose hair behind your ear, risking taking a step closer to you, until you were forced or look up at him as he stepped into your space, only having to whisper as he spoke to you now, the conversation only for the two of you to hear. “I would love that.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Cool.” His own smile finally matched your own, feeling his heartbeat steadily in his chest as you seemed to relax before him, your defensive stance slipping away, and for a second, you weren’t the popular girl that had always seemed out of his league and too scary to talk to, but right now you were just the pretty girl that he had a connection with like no other. “Can I kiss you in front of other people?”

“I’d really like it if you did.”

His other hand settled itself over your cheek, pulling your lips up to meet his so that he could press his mouth to yours in a sweet connection. It was nothing like the previous night had been. Last night was rushed and sloppy and just a preemptive action towards what the night had become. There was no ulterior motive or further action to be taken now, though. Instead, it was simply a brush of lips, it was the only thing either of you needed, it was an act of reassurance in order to make sure the spark between you wasn’t being ignored.

Your other hand threaded into his hair, your body pressing to his as you pushed up on your tiptoes, being sure he wasn’t pulling away or moving from you, and he let his arm drop to wrap around your waist to support you, to keep your body pressed flush to his your thumbs played together and smoothed over one another’s knuckles with the hands that were still connected. Your lips teased his, the occasional flick of a tongue through the smiles but never enough to go any further, and you were refusing to pull away, until the burn for oxygen was just too much to ignore.

Your forehead pressed or his, a satisfied and happy noise sounding in the back of your throat as you bumped your nose against his, and he let out a breathless laugh, bumping his nose against yours in return, a grin forming on your lips at the gesture. When you finally sunk back down to your height and were no longer balancing on your tiptoes, he was able to press a kiss to your forehead, before your hand was pulling from his to loop around his waist, letting you snuggle into his chest and rest your cheek on his shoulder.

“I really like you, Dave Hodgman.’

“I really like you, too.”

#dave hodgman #dave hodgeman #dave smut #dave/reader #dave x reader smut #dave hodgman/reader #dave hodgman x reader #dylan obrien #dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien the first time #dylan obrien imagine #dylan obrien fic #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien x reader smut #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien/reader smut #dylan obrien dave hodgman

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elizabethan-memes · 4 years

Note

Is there a specific reason why Thomas More’s writings about Martin Luther were so vulgar or did he just Talk Like That

There are specific reasons why More’s anti-Luther polemic gets so dirty. It’s one thing (of many) that historical fiction tends to misunderstand about More, they either make him too polite or assume that because he was so vulgar at work (IIRC, his polemic against Luther was by request/command of Henry VIII. He also wrote it under the pen-name Rosseus or William Ross) he must have been a potty-mouth in his spare time as well. (Which...lmao no, that’s like if you stepped on a Lego and shouted the F word and we made a movie where that’s a big part of your personality now. Luther is the Lego that Thomas More is stepping on.)

Certainly religious polemic could get very heated. Luther called Henry “a fat pig and a drunkard” and called Erasmus “an eel” Erasmus for all his “we must reconcile” talk could get very bitchy especially with Luther, and had a bad habit of alienating people. For his trouble Erasmus got labelled a mouse, a fox, a shortarse (or words to that effect), a corrupter of youth. Maybe the reason it got so heated was partly the strong feelings of all sides on issues that people based their lives on, and partly because profanity is attention-grabbing.

It’s important to keep in mind that his tone with Luther is very different to his other polemics. His tone with Maarten van Dorp for example (pre-Reformation) is almost patronising, and borders on emotional blackmail: he’s basically like “Dorp, Erasmus and I are absolutely baffled that you’re suddenly attacking Erasmus, he likes you, I liked you, let me correct you, you silly silly boy, and show you that Erasmus and I are right and you’re a nitwit who should stop acting like a lil baby and apologise to poor Erasmus.” With Tyndale, More is absolutely furious, but he addresses and answers Tyndale as a fellow scholar: scathing, caustic, mocking, but not vulgar.

It’s also important to remember that insults were a Big Deal in the sixteenth century and could land you in court for defamation. More, however, is safe because a) pen name b)Luther’s in Germany c) More’s Responsio ad Lutherum came out in 1523, at which point Luther’s already excommunicated.

More keeps referring to Luther’s marriage to Katherine von Bora in later polemic and some people claim this is evidence that More was repressed and/or obsessed with sex. This is flimsy at best, because More has a very good reason for bringing up Luther’s marriage: to undermine any claim to moral authority that Luther tries to make. More is arguing that because Luther has broken his monastic vows by getting married- to a nun- that he has betrayed God and all Christian decency, ergo he’s so low and vile and disgusting and untrustworthy we shouldn’t listen to his opinion ON ANYTHING.

I am of the opinion that More’s anger at Luther’s marriage might be partly personal. Erasmus was much more ambivalent about Luther’s marriage than More was. The way Erasmus saw it, though he wanted the Church to permit clerical marriage, Luther was in the wrong for breaking the rules. Nevertheless, Erasmus did hold out some hope that having a wife would essentially calm Luther down (make of that what you will!).

The reason I think More takes it personally, is that More keeps harping on about how disgusting Luther’s marriage is, even when it’s stopped being relevant. He’s like a dog with a bone, he can’t let it go. It gets to the point where it undermines his own argument because he keeps going off on digressions that weaken his argument’s structure.

We know that in his youth, More contemplated priesthood but according to Erasmus, didn’t think he could cope with celibacy, so he made the choice to choose marriage over priesthood. Then along comes Luther, and he chooses priesthood and marriage and gets away with it. I can’t shake the feeling that that...touched a nerve.

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ficforce · 4 years

Text

Foien Li Relationship Alphabet

A- Activity (What is their favourite activity to do with Y/N.)

Foien Li is a keen gardener, he likes to take care of the plants inside and outside of Company 1. He has his own little patch of garden on Company grounds and one of his favourite things is to go shopping with Y/N at garden centres.

They’re happy to hold hands through the greenhouses, looking at all the different kinds of flowers and once they’ve chosen He treats her to lunch in the cafe.

B- Beginnings (How do they act in the beginning of a relationship)

It was very difficult at the start.

Y/N hadn’t expected to fall in love with a man who had already given his heart, body and soul to God. He was very kind but firm in rejecting her at first. He had dried her eyes and apologised that he couldn’t be with her.

She tried to be a good friend to him, she tried to shove down her feelings but eventually, it was too much and she broke down.

Foien had felt his heartbreak at seeing her so distraught and all because of him, he had sought guidance from the church and during his confession, the Priest on the other side of the screen had told him that his heart was big enough for God and Y/N. There was no sin in falling in love.

For a long-time Y/N thought that Foien was going out with her because he felt guilty, it took a long while for her to believe that he had loved her too and had been trying to hold back.

They’re very much in love.

C- Communication (Are they good communicators? How do they normally talk about their problems or solve issues)

Once they were comfortable as a couple, Foien and Y/N talked about everything and anything. Y/N is a follower of Sol and can understand some of Foien’s hang-ups. As a priest, Foien is a good listener and gives advice freely.

They’re very honest with one another and rarely keep secrets.

D- Drunk (What are they like when they’re drunk)

He very rarely drinks, it’s usually one or two with food.

Y/N doesn’t have a high tolerance for alcohol and can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk, everything is funny and Foien usually ends up walking her home and helping her get ready for bed before leaving.

She once made him come all the way back to her home to kiss her forehead goodnight - Foien hasn’t revealed that to her… yet.

E- Emergency (How are they in emergency situations? Y/N gets hurt, they get hurt, someone is dying etc..)

When Y/N had met Foien at the hospital after losing his arm, she had been too shocked to speak. She hadn’t known what to do or say and simply wrapped her arms around him, hugging him close as if to protect him from the world. Afterwards, she was too attentive and he had to sit her down to talk.

Foien had been devastated when he had learned that Y/N had had an accident at work - he had been away for three days and he felt guilty for not being there. She had broken her leg in a fall and though he was relieved, Foien made sure to stay by her side, even taking time away from the Church.

F- Free Spot (I’ll give you any headcanon I come up with)

They’re abstaining from Sex until maybe one day they decide to get married.

They have a Sin Box; this is where they put scraps of paper with their sexual fantasies on. If they ever get married they’ll open the box and try every one.

G- Gifts (What kind of gifts do they give? What kind of gifts do they get?)

Y/N is an excellent calligrapher and often gifts Foien with pages of his favourite prayers on.

He has framed a few of them for his room but most of them he keeps in a book.

Foien knows how much Y/N likes pens and inks, he’s brought her some very high-quality stationery.

H- Hugs (How do they show affection/cuddle)

They hold hands quite often, the only time they don’t is when Foien needs to use his hand.

Y/N likes to cuddle into his side when they’re walking along and it’s chilly, when they’re alone she likes to snuggle up to him on the sofa during a movie.

I- Irritation (What is something that irritates them? How do they show their irritation?)

Foien gets irritated when Y/N tries to do too much for him, he’s a little sensitive about what he can’t do anymore since he lost his arm. She usually realises that he’s getting upset when he places his hand on her head and tells her point-blank that he can do it.

Y/N doesn’t have the same amount of patience as Foien, she can get irritated by people who walk too slow or people who simply don’t have any manners. She’ll huff and puff and mutter under her breath.

Foien finds it cute.

J- Jackpot (How would they spend their winnings if they won the lottery?)

They don’t need anything, they have each other and their faith, they both have a home too.

Most likely they’d give it all away to charities.

K- Kryptonite (What is their ultimate weakness?)

His faith.

As strong as Foien’s faith makes him - it’s also his weakness. Could he go against his beliefs even if it meant protecting Y/N?

Y/N is actually terrified of fires since a traumatic incident in her youth.

As much as she loves Foien, she does get anxious when he uses his ignition abilities.

L- Laughter (What makes them laugh?)

Y/N is easily amused, she’ll laugh at nearly anything - especially if she’s had alcohol.

Foien finds her amusement funny and he’s often holding back laughter when Rekka and Karim get into it.

M- Morning ( How do they wake up in the morning? Are they a morning person or a morning grouch?)

Both of them are used to getting up early for Church.

Foien is usually up and ready to go, he doesn’t like to rush so always gets up with plenty of time.

Y/N will sleep as much as she can, often having to rush around and miss breakfast to be on time - she’s unusually cheery despite that.

N- Needy (When do they feel particularly needy? How do they show it?)

Y/N misses him terribly when she doesn’t get to see him for a few days, she’ll want to be extra close to him for a few hours before she calms down a little. She’ll fuss over him a little more than usual.

He doesn’t tend to show it but he’ll happily let her fuss over him.

O- Oasis (Where is their happy place? Where would they go if they didn’t have anything holding them back?)

Foien wasn’t born in Tokyo, he travelled across the sea as a child and one day he would like to take Y/N to the little village he was born in.

For now, their favourite place is his part of the garden at Company 1, they enjoy tending it together.

P- Pain (How do they handle pain? How do they handle when Y/N are in pain?)

Her pain tolerance is pretty good, she’s quite stubborn in not taking her medicine until it’s too late and she ends up crying because it hurts.

Foien will gently scold her but sits with her until she feels better. He hates when he can’t do more.

When he lost his arm, Foien was on quite a few medications. He would keep quiet even when he was in pain as he didn’t want to worry anyone.

Q- Quote (What’s a quote that fits them and your relationship)

If I know what love is, it is because of you.

R- Reunion (How do they celebrate seeing Y/N after a long time of being apart)

They’ll arrange to spend a whole day together, they’ll go out for lunch, visit bookshops and gardens. Foien always leaves in the evening but it’s nice to know he’s only a phone call away.

S- Stress (What stresses them out? How do deal with stress and how do they relieve it?)

For Foien, prayer is his go-to for stress. He finds comfort in the beauty of the Grand Cathedral and being alone with his thoughts and faith. The thing that stresses him the most is not being able to save everyone.

Y/N takes long baths, she reads a book and gets lost in the story - eventually forgetting why she was so stressed in the first place.

Of course, talking to one another about their stresses always helps.

T- Terror (What are they afraid of?)

Y/N is terrified of fire. She will get up several times in the night to make sure that all of the electrics and cooking appliances are safe.

Foien is terrified that he’s not doing enough, he’s terrified that one day he’ll get a call that Y/N has become an Infernal. He needs to stop Human Combustion before it’s too late.

U- Unique (What is a quirk that is unique to them?)

Foien carries a spare hat around with him… in case.

Y/N is left-handed.

V- Violence (Do they fight a lot? Are they a good fighter? What is their fighting style?)

Y/N has no fighting skills at all, she’s not a violent person at all. She’s the type of person to cry during an argument.

He doesn’t fight unless needed. Foien abstains from practice fights to remain peaceful.

((No one even knows what his ability is!! There’s so little on our cinnamon priest!))

W- Wow (What does Y/N do that really surprises them? What do they do that Y/N really likes?)

Foien has a wonderful singing voice, Y/N loves to listen to him when he joins choir practice.

Y/N speaks three languages, the first time Foien heard her, he got really excited!

X- (Explicit headcanon. For all you degenerates)

They’re abstaining from sex but sometimes they’re innocent kisses get really heated and the making out can get out of hand.

They both usually have to take a day to cool off.

Y- Yucky (Is there something that grosses them out so badly that they can’t deal with it?)

They’re both pretty good about doing these things.

Y/N is no good dealing with other people’s bodily fluids and will get sick at just the thought of someone throwing up near her though.

Z- ZZZ’s (What are their sleeping habits? Both with and without Y/N)

Foien can sometimes get really into a book and he’ll stay up too late. He usually goes to bed by ten at the latest, unless he has duties and he sleeps on his back. He doesn’t move around too much.

Y/N has a terrible habit of going to bed after midnight, she sleeps on her front and hugs her pillows. She falls out of bed easily.

The one-time Foien had to stay over because of a typhoon, they agreed to share a bed but to stay on their own side. When they woke up in the morning they were holding each other.

#Foien Li #reader #alphabet #fire force #enen no shouboutai #enn enn no shouboutai

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