#oh to be a silly little man in a quiet soft room for a few months to try and cope with the suffering that is EXISTING sometimes

[whump-on-a-string]

I probably will need to do Physical Therapy for the rest of my life but at the moment mental health makes that feel SO OVERWHELMING that I wish I could check myself into a magically ethical institution that would only let me eat after I do my Required Physical Therapy because I just can't self-motivate to even cook food and EAT half the time. Adding excersize to that sounds IMPOSSIBLE rn. I wish I could just exist in a tiny quiet room with no worries about rent or food money for a while, and hope I can process everything and catch up with the world around me. I'll get through it but I'm still gonna process my brain thoughts with weird little doodles!

[euthymiya]

innocent ploys ft. jiyan

stealing moments of intimacy is difficult when the man you love is away for war so often. still, you and jiyan make the most of the few moments you can spare

contains: gender neutral reader ; established relationship ; brushing jiyan’s hair ; kissing tacet marks—the headcanon that they’re sensitive is so real to me ; slightly suggestive ending

it’s quiet in jinzhou when jiyan comes home to you, late into the night. you perk up as the bedroom door slowly creaks open, eyes brightening clearly even in the dimmed room.

“you’re back,” you breathe, grinning as you sit up.

he sighs, fond and exhausted as he lets out a soft chuckle and murmurs, “shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“i’m cold,” you pout, pulling the blankets around yourself for proof as you add, “if only there was something—maybe someone to keep me warm so i could sleep.”

his lips curl into a wider, breathtaking smile—so tired, so worn, yet so peaceful as he stares at you. he shakes his head in amusement, slowly shedding the layers of clothes as he murmurs, “i’ll come join you in a moment. i should brush my hair first.”

you admire him, the planes of muscles, the faint scars, the bare skin as he stands in nothing but his boxers, ready to join you in your shared bed. a bed that you often use alone, admittedly, but shared between the two of you in rare, stolen moments all the same.

“no, i’ll do it,” you offer enthusiastically, patting the spot in front of you on the mattress.

jiyan’s hair is long. sometimes, you wonder how it doesn’t interfere with him in such heavy combat he faces so often, but you appreciate the long, soft strands for their beauty. they make him feel a little normal sometimes. they make him feel like he’s just yours to love, laid in bed beside you for your fingers to run through the locks instead of the lover you sacrifice to war.

he’ll be gone in the morning, the bedsheets lingering with his scent and the ghosts of his body residing through crinkles in the fabric beside you. he’ll go back to harsh nights and rough battles, the aching muscles and sore bruises, the limited supplies and lonely nights—and you’ll be back to empty halls and a quiet home, worry making itself comfortable under your skin where the fantoms of his touch remain fresh in your memory.

but you love him—it’s easy to do, even if not easy to have. you’ve come to terms with the limitations loving a general comes with, but when he caves and sits in front of you, quiet with his shoulders slumped in a rare moment of being relaxed, and your fingers can undo the high ponytail with gentle fingers, it feels normal. it feels like he was never gone, like he’ll never leave again.

you allow yourself to believe the silly, wishful dream for just tonight.

“you don’t have to go through the trouble,” he whispers quietly, but he leans into your fingers as they thread through his hair and gently scratch at his scalp soothingly.

such empty words, you want to tease. he loves it practically more than you do—you know it from prior experience. instead, however, you giggle as you reply, “it’s the least i can do for all the hard, cruel battles you face just for the citizens of jinzhou, my dear general.”

“if you keep calling me general instead of my name, i’ll be inclined to believe you only like me for my status.”

“oh we can’t have that,” you gasp, bantering easily as you bite your lips to suppress a wide smile, “it’s the least i can do for your sacrifices, jiyan.”

slowly, with a delicateness no other corner of the world affords him, you brush through the knots from the bottom, carefully working your way up so as not to hurt him. gentleness is not something a general who lives on the battlefield comes to know with familiarity—still, you make him feel fragile, like he needs soft, kind touches to survive instead of the abrasively harsh blows from war.

“no need to repay me,” he breathes a low chuckle, sighing as you gently glide the bristles through his hair, letting them rake against his scalp in place of your nails like earlier. his tense muscles slowly relax from the long day, leaning back as your fingers gingerly part his hair, sweeping the strands to lay over his shoulders on either side.

“any new injuries i should be made aware of?” you ask quietly, gliding a finger along the faint scars on his bare back.

he hums, eyes fluttered shut as he responds, “not this time. we haven’t run into too many tacet discords yet.”

“should i be relieved or worried by that?” you sigh, leaning forward to rest your chin on his shoulder, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his shoulder blade as goosebumps raise against his skin.

“you don’t trust me on the field?” he teases, reaching a hand back to grab yours, toying with your fingers.

“no, actually,” you say flatly, raising a brow as you purse your lips, “i think you exert yourself too much.”

“it’s my duty to keep the citizens safe,” he sighs.

it’s my duty to keep you safe, he means to say. he doesn’t, if only to avoid the scolding you’ll give him for pushing himself for your sake, so he keeps the words locked away for the battlefield, instead—a lingering reminder that he keeps at the forefront of his mind so every fight has a purpose.

but you seem to know the unspoken words anyway, because as if reading his mind, you mumble, “it’s also your duty to come back to me in one piece, you know.”

“and i’ve yet to fail,” he says smartly, making you huff.

finally, you pull away, grabbing the hair tie to collect his hair back into a ponytail, but not before a small, mischievous smile spreads thinly over your lips.

he doesn’t suspect it—the slight jolt of surprise tells you that much clearly when your lips gently graze the tacet mark on the back of his neck, humming into his skin as your soft breath fans over the heated surface. your lips trace the mark, mapping it slowly one peck at a time as he shivers, breath hitching in his throat.

“that’s true,” you whisper, fighting back a grin when he groans slightly at the way your lips speak against his mark, the movement sending shockwaves down his spine. “you do always come back to me whole.”

he’s always been sensitive there, always shivered under your touch right over the large mark that litters the back of his neck.

“don’t tease,” he chides, voice strained as you giggle, a shaky breath releasing when you pull away.

but he tenses right back up again when you lean back in and trail your lips along the end of the mark, the part that’s lower on his back along his spine.

“tease?” you gasp, “oh, but general, i’m only being affectionate. surely someone as disciplined as you couldn’t be so riled up over a few kisses?”

“this innocent ploy is hardly believable when you wear it,” he says through a hoarse voice.

you grin as he turns, his hair still loose and cascading freely along his back. he’s pressing you back against the mattress in an instant as he hovers over you and cages you with his arms. the soft, teal strands curtain you from the rest of the world as they fall to the side of his face while he stares down at you.

“well,” you press a finger against his bare chest, tracing a line down the middle with a teasingly feather-light touch, “aren’t you going to make the most of your visit home?”

“oh yes,” he laughs, shaking his head as he leans down to kiss your jaw sweetly, “i assure you, i intend to do just that.”

okay but seriously how does he maintain such gorgeous luscious locks of hair at that length in the middle of war that’s kind of impressive i breathe and my hair knots 🥲

[moonstruckme]

I would love something similar to the attending dr Remus story but maybe with ceo!sirius? All of his employees see him as a ruthless business man and are scared of him and maybe reader shows up to have lunch with him and she’s been crying or upset about something and Sirius just melts into a little puddle in front of everyone trying to comfort her 🥲🥲

Thanks for requesting!

ceo!Sirius x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You swear, Sirius’ office has to be soundproofed. You hadn’t heard a thing on the way over, anticipating him to be quietly working at his desk, but when you go inside he’s standing behind it, all but shouting into the empty room. 

“I’m looking at the numbers right here.” Sirius has his hands braced on the varnished wood, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he jabs one finger into the stack of papers in front of him as if for emphasis. “Do you have any idea—”

At the sound of the door opening and your quiet oh, he looks up. The severity melts from his expression, replaced by a familiar smile. “Hi, sunshine.” His voice seems to have melted too, the bark you’d heard when you’d come in replaced by something soft and crooning. “Lunchtime already?” 

“Sorry,” you say, hand inching back towards the door handle. “Len said I could come right in, I didn’t—”

“No, I told him to tell you that,” Sirius waves you forward, coming around his desk to kiss you hello. “I never want to keep you waiting, I…hey.” His brows furrow as he moves closer. “Hey, baby, is something wrong?” 

You blink. “No.” It comes out sounding like a question. 

Sirius palms your face. You lean into the touch instinctively, but then he thumbs at something on your cheek. “You’ve been crying,” he murmurs. 

Shit. You’d forgotten to clean yourself up. Have you been walking around with mascara tracks down your face all day? No wonder Len had looked at you the way he had. 

“Oh, that’s from earlier,” you say as breezily as you can. “I’m good now.”

But Sirius isn’t having it. He frowns, taking your face in both hands and inspecting you carefully. “What happened?” 

You try to shrug, but it feels futile and pathetic when he’s looking at you like that. “I got yelled at by some guy on the way to work.” 

“What?” he asks, dismayed. His hands slide down your shoulders to take your hands, guiding you to his seat. “Who yelled at you?” 

“It was—I don’t know, just some guy.” Tears press at the base of your throat, but you refuse to let them loose. It was a silly thing to begin with, and you’ve cried enough about it. “I was driving, coming up to a light, and I—okay, I know I was in the wrong, because I wasn’t paying enough attention, and I stopped right in front of a parking lot.” You cast your eyes down, chewing your lip. Sirius crouches by the chair so he can see your face. Clever maneuvering, but you suppose he didn’t get to where he is by poor planning. “I should have left a space for them to turn while the rest of us waited at the light, you know? But I just wasn’t thinking, and then I couldn’t back up, because there were people behind me, and this guy—” You swallow. Sirius rubs your knee, the crease between his brows deepening. “This guy got out of his car and came up to my window and was, like, screaming at me about what an idiot I was.” 

Sirius has got one hand on each of your knees by now, his perfectly pressed trousers wrinkling from his crouch. He looks up at you, indignation and upset warring in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, that’s awful. Fuck, I’d be crying too. Everyone messes up that stuff sometimes, who gave that prat the right to yell at you about it?” 

You shrug again, biting your lip to keep it from wobbling. Sirius can tell, and he coos, rising enough to needle his arms under yours. “C’mere, baby.” 

You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing your face into his collar and inhaling the faint musk of his cologne. He scrubs a firm hand back and forth between your shoulder blades. A few seconds of silence pass before the phone on his desk crackles to life. 

“Uh, sir?” 

You jolt away from him as if you’ve been caught, but Sirius doesn’t seem all that phased. 

“Yeah, that’ll be all for now,” he says insouciantly. “We’ll have to pick this back up later this afternoon.” 

“You’re on a call?” you accuse. 

“S’just a conference call, sweet thing. Ran a bit long.” 

A conference call?

“What time did you want to reconvene?” a different voice asks tentatively. You cover your face with your hands. They feel cool against the burning heat of your skin. 

Sirius rubs your shoulder lightly. “Say, four? And John, take a closer look at those numbers. You could save us all a lot of time by seeing sense.” 

“Yessir,” another voice—John, you assume—says. “And, erm, very sorry about your incident, miss. Sure the other bloke was just having an off day.” 

“Thanks,” you squeak, but Sirius says over you, “Mind your goddamn business, John,” and hits a button to hang up the phone. 

“Sirius,” you say miserably after making sure to check that the light on the phone is no longer on. “How could you not tell me you were on a call?” 

“Excuse me, I had other priorities at the moment,” he argues, taking your wrists and prying your hands from your face. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’ve no reason to be embarrassed.” 

“I complained about my road rage incident on your conference call!”

“It was a call full of accountants, love. You’ve probably just reminded them they’re alive.” 

You give him a look. “I’m very cross with you.” 

Sirius smiles. “Rats, if only there were a way for me to make it up to you.” He stands, grabbing a paper bag you hadn’t noticed from beside his desk. “Would my favorite girl’s favorite sandwich from her favorite sandwich shop be a good place to start?” 

“That is a lot of favorites,” you allow, but the words don’t quite process until he pulls a wrapped sandwich out from the bag. You gasp, reaching for it. “Oh my god, how long did you have to wait in line for this?”

“I didn’t,” he says, somewhat sheepish. “Len waited over an hour, though.” 

“You owe him a raise,” you say sternly, but accept the peace offering, peeling off the wrapping. 

Sirius laughs when you bite into your sandwich and moan. “Damn, baby, you’ve never made sounds like that for me.” 

“It’s a different kind of love,” you say through a mouthful. 

“Enough to make your shit day a bit better?” 

You slow in your chewing to give him a soft look. “More than enough. Thanks, Siri.” 

“You’re welcome.” He gives you a saccharine smile, leaning forward for a kiss, but you dodge him. 

“Wait, m’chewing!”

“And?” He takes your face in both hands, holding you captive as he pecks you firmly on the lips. “There. Waited way too long for that.”

[dira333]

Old Man and the Sea - Tsukishima Kei x Reader

Best Friend's Brother and confession - for @fuzztacular - for the Milestone Event Week 1 - Words: 4,4k

- Age 4 -

You meet Akiteru first, of course. 

He’s tall for his age, towering over the other kids even at four years old.

“You can play with me,” he declares with a smile when he notices your excellent aim and non existent fear of getting dirty.

“Do you wanna walk home with me?” He asks that first fateful day at kindergarten, your mothers chatting at the gate.

“Sure,” you say and clutch your bag a little tighter, excited to have found a friend on your very first day too.

“Do you have a pet?” Akiteru asks as you walk.

“Yes. We have a turtle. His name is Old Man.”

“That’s so cool!” He grins wide, astonished. “I wish we could have a pet. Or if I could have a sibling. Do you have a sibling?”

“Yes,” you nod. “My sister is older.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Is she nice?”

You think of her, towering above you. How she always does her homework when you want to play, how she doesn’t like when Old Man tries walking into her room.

“Sometimes,” you offer, because last week she helped you bake a cake for Mom and Dad, didn’t snap once even when you accidentally added too much flour.

“If I was a big brother,” Akiteru declares with gusto, “I’d be the best big brother in the world.”

-

“I have to tell you something!” Akiteru declares just a few months later during break time, pulling you with him toward the swings where there’s enough privacy to share secrets. “I’m getting a sibling.”

“Really?” Your heart beats hard in your chest and you smile. It’s hard not to, when Akiteru smiles so brightly himself.

“Really. Oh, I hope it’s a brother. I wanna teach him all my favorite games.”

“You could teach those to a sister too.”

“Sure,” he hesitates for a second. “If it’s a little sister, you need to teach her.”

“What?”

“Like how you do your hair so nice.”

You touch your braid, hesitating. “But my mother did it.”

“Well, you can teach my little sister then.”

And you think, surely you’ll be able to teach her. Surely it won’t be that hard.

-

- Age 5 -

Kei is born at the end of September. You remember it well, because the day had been unexpectedly rainy, drenching you on the way home where your mother sat, phone in her hand.

“Do you need me to get Akiteru? No, no, bring him over. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have each other until everything is done.”

“Akiteru is coming over?” You ask, dripping all over the floor.

“Yes, in a minute. His brother is coming.”

“Where?”

“Here, silly.” Your mother smiles. “He’s about to be born.”

And you wonder what that means all while feeding Old Man with Akiteru, while eating Ramen and watching TV, the rain hammering against the windows as if it’s just as eager as the grown-ups to meet the newest Tsukishima.

You, well… you’re a little more hesitant than eager.

Kei’s red faced and small, his skin wrinkly and weirdly fuzzy.

“He’s ugly,” you point out with surprise, flinching at your mothers disapproving glare.

“He’s just squished,” Akiteru defends his little brother. “I’m sure you looked ugly on your first day too.”

You consider that for a second. You don’t remember what you looked like that day.

Kei raises his voice in the silence, loud and determined and you think that at least he’s got something to say if he’s not good-looking before you’re being ushered out again.

-

To your surprise Akiteru is right.

Kei’s wrinkly skin smoothes out, the red turning into a soft, pale shade. His eyes are a warm brown and he likes to squeeze your pointer finger as if he’s shaking your hand. He grows quickly too, both in seize and weight, turning heavy in your arms whenever Akiteru allows you to carry him.

Kei likes Old Man and the space underneath your bed, crawling in there when you’re all playing in your room. 

He likes your dinosaur plushy and strawberries and sometimes, when everything is quiet and calm and Akiteru and you lay down next to him on his blanket, you wonder if your sister ever looked at you the way Akiteru looks at him or felt the way you do.

That quiet sense of wonder, that prickly feeling of astonishment, that warm love you can’t seem to stop.

-

Akiteru likes Volleyball. You don’t mind it. 

Ever since Dad got you your first Science kit you’ve grown obsessed with digging up rocks and examining the minerals, or picking bugs from trees to identify them under your little microscope. 

Little Kei has no choice but to share those interests.

Even at three years old he does his best to receive his brother’s spikes, not once crying when it hits him in the face.

“Look what I found,” he tells you on the daily, delivering a shiny beetle to your waiting hands or putting away the rocks you find in the park when your mothers eyes are averted, knowing she’ll never check his bags as thoroughly as she checks yours.

When you have to do a report on your best friend in school you hesitate for a moment. Is it Akiteru or is it Kei? 

-

- Age 10 -

You’re ten years old when your parents separate and although you don’t understand the full extent of it, you know you’ll always prefer your father over your mother. 

So when they ask you who you want to live with, it’s not a hard choice. 

It should have been, though, because no one told you your father was going to move you, away from Miyagi with it’s wide, open landscape and away from Akiteru and Kei.

“You’re going to visit, right?” Akiteru asks, so much taller than you already, both arms on your shoulders as he tries to instill something inside of you, maybe a sense of peace or belonging or something else.

Kei’s tall for his age and you often forget how young he still is, looking eight at barely five years old.

But he acts his age now, snotty nosed and crying, dirty hands curled around yours.

You’re dear to him like he’s dear to you, you know, and you don’t want to miss him growing even taller.

“You can keep my dino plush,” you promise him. “So you don’t miss me while I’m away.”

“What about Old Man?” He asks. “Are you going to feed him without me?”

“I’ll have to,” you admit glumly. “But I’ll take pictures whenever I can. He’ll not forget you, I’m sure.”

-

It’s hard, seeing them only once a month when you’re with your mom, even more so when she tries very hard to capitalize the little time you have in Miyagi.

“I’m trying to build a family here,” she tells you more than once when you’re on your way out and over to the Tsukishima’s. “You can’t just leave for the neighbours every time you’re here.”

But Kei grows so fast you feel like you’re missing everything and Akiteru’s got a new best friend at school you don’t know and can’t she understand that’s more important right now?

- - -

- Age 15 -

Something has changed this year. 

The House of the Tsukishima’s is quiet as you turn up, no Kei running down the stairs to greet you, no Akiteru training in the garden out front.

“Hello?” You yell into the quiet. “Anyone home?”

“Oh, sweetpea.” Their mother steps out from the kitchen. She looks older, much older than you remember. Has it really been just a month that you haven’t seen her?

“You’re growing so much,” she points out as if it means anything in comparison to her sons. “How’s school?”

“Good. Where are Akiteru and Kei?”

“Oh,” her brows furrow. “Probably in their rooms.”

“But it’s so nice out.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I know.”

You trample up the stairs with impatient steps, knock on Kei’s door first because it’s closer to the stairs. 

“What?!”

“It’s me,” you tell him, supply your name after an alarmingly long pause. “Can I come in?”

“Fine.”

You swing the door open to find him on his bed, reading. He’s grown yet again and the thick-rimmed glasses make his eyes look big, their brown still warm and reassuring even though all of him is cold and angry.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“What about?”

“Stuff.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No,” he huffs before hesitating. “Maybe. Did you know Akiteru-” He hesitates again. “Did you know Akiteru stopped playing Volleyball?”

“What?!”

“Yes,” he seems braver now in the face of your surprise. “He kept telling us he’s the ace at his Volleyball Club but he’s not even a starting player.”

“Oh no.” 

“Yes,” Kei’s voice is wet now. “It’s so lame.”

You sit with him for a while, pretending not to notice the tears rolling down his cheeks as you try to understand the world. Akiteru, lying? That’s unheard of. 

-

“Whatever!” Akiteru snaps when you ask him about it. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Yes it is,” you insist. “That’s a lie! You never lie!”

“I had to,” he bites back. “Like anyone would have still liked me if they knew I wasn’t even good enough to play!”

“I would have liked you.”

“Sure,” he scoffs. “But you’re never here anyway.”

“That’s not my fault.”

He falters at that, softens around the edges to the point he just drops where he’s standing, just a heavy weight on his bedroom floor.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got science. I only had Volleyball. Turns out I’m not even good at it.”

“Just because someone’s better doesn’t mean you’re no longer good.”

Akiteru scoffs again. “It’s not the same. You’re not the same.”

And maybe he’s right. 

You’ve finally found friends in your new hometown, some girls from your english class that like to dress up with you and go shopping and there’s the Science Club that you attend that has a lot of funny guys in it that invite you to Game Nights. 

You feel like you’ve finally found a foundation to build onto only to find your old friendships crumbling.

“I’m sorry.”

Akiteru looks conflicted. “You don’t have to be sorry about that. It’s okay… I think.”

- - -

- Age 20 -

“Hey, I’m driving back to Miyagi this weekend,” Akiteru declares as he picks you up from Lab. “Do you wanna come?”

“Uh,” you check your calendar. “Sure, why not. Anything new?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, wide and excited. “Kei’s playing Volleyball for real now.”

You snort. “He’s been playing for a while now, what’s the difference?”

“You don’t get the difference, because you never took it serious. But I can tell it means something to him. He’s started caring again.”

“Oh,” you think of Kei, the one you knew as a little boy and the cold, difficult preteen he turned into five years ago. “I’m curious.”

-

You can see it too, now. It’s in the way he holds himself up, shoulders wide and proud. It’s in the way he talks to his mother, his best friend - adorable Yamaguchi who always blushes like crazy in your vicinity - and his brother. It’s in the way he talks to you. Like he means what he’s saying. Like he almost dares to be vulnerable again.

“How’s Old Man?” He sidles up to you after Dinner, Yamaguchi already on his way back home. Your Futon waits to be unfolded but you’re not that tired yet and he doesn’t seem to be either.

“Good.” His shoulder presses into yours, warm and steady, like a promise.

It’s still there, that feeling you first felt when sleeping next to him as a child, that quiet sense of wonder, that prickly feeling of astonishment, that warm love you can’t seem to stop. Friends, you remind yourself. You’re friends. More like siblings, really.

“How’s school?”

Kei tells you all about it. How annoying Hinata and Kageyama are, too loud and too talented and too dumb at the same time. How their managers are so vastly different in their characters and yet both so trustworthy at the same time. And although he does not say it out loud, you can read the worry between his sentences. What will happen once the Third Years Graduate? 

“You’re doing amazing,” you smile and he reciprocates, a tiny, quiet, warm moment just for the two of you.

-

And Kei is just a friend, you keep reminding yourself.

When you go watch his Matches with Akiteru, laugh when Saeko Tanaka not so subtly asks if you’re interested in Akiteru before she advances on him herself. 

When you watch him grow even taller, prouder, more sure of himself.

When you attend his graduation and wonder just how it could happen, how tiny, ugly Kei could turn into this.

-

- Age 25 -

You’re dating a coworker by the time Kei starts College. 

Masayuki is not the most romantic, but neither are you. He plays volleyball after work so he and Akiteru are well acquainted, though not as close friends as you’d like them to be.

Old Man lives with you now, just the quiet companion you need for your after work studies, for lounging on the floor with a good book, or wondering about how the world works at the quiet hours of the night.

It’s a quiet life, filled with too much work for too little pay, but you get payed to look at rocks for a living, so you don’t want to complain too much.

-

“I’m leaving in half an hour,” you tell Masayuki over the phone as you’re getting ready. “Do you want to come?”

“To what?”

“Kei has a game,” you pull a sweater over your head and decide against it immediately. That color really washes you out.

“Okay.”

“Okay you’re coming or okay you have other plans?”

Silence.

“Masayuki?”

“I’m just wondering why you attend all his games.”

“Well it’s Kei.”

“Sure,” he doesn’t sound sure. “But-”

“What?” You stand there, topless, staring at the bright display of your phone, the background not one of the few pictures you have with Masayuki but one taken after a big win, Kei’s arms slung around you and Akiteru, face pressed together. 

Something drops low in your stomach and you know, even before he speaks up again, that something just changed.

“Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“Weird?” You repeat, your voice empty.

“Yeah, how you… how much you care about Kei. I thought maybe it’s because he’s a Division 2 player and I get that, our games are not as big or flashy or important, but it’s in other things too.”

“Other things,” you echo and he talks on, seemingly encouraged by your answers.

“Yeah, like… you’re not one to go out much and I get that, I’m the same, but when Kei calls you’re always up to go to whatever College Party he’s inviting you. Remember how you had that trip with your mother that you wouldn’t cancel for me?”

You remember it well. You cancelled your family trip because Kei had tickets for the Jurassic World Premiere. In your defense, Jurassic World Premiere’s only happen once, your mother will keep bugging you forever.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” His Question seems to grow in the Silence, multiply into a hundred voices all screaming at you. Is it? Is it? Is it?

“If it would be Akiteru, I could understand, you know? You grew up together, you’re the same age, I’d think you’re into him.”

He doesn’t add any more words, doesn’t have to.

You’re five years older than Kei.

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Masayuki asks now and your stomach clenches so violently you fear throwing up.

“I’ve never thought about it,” you tell him. It’s not a complete lie but not the whole truth either.

“Well, you should. And I- maybe we should take a break… while you figure it out.”

His voice is too casual. He’s thought about this in great detail, it seems.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” You can hear him sigh. “Take care, okay?”

“You too.”

The connection ends with a click and it’s ironic, it really is, that that’s all that’s left of your almost one year relationship. Just the Silence after, and the stale test of old secrets.

You: Hey, I’m afraid I can’t come to your game tonight. Period came early and it’s wreaking havoc on me. So sorry! But you’ll rock it without me, I’m sure!

Kei: What a shame. Shark week truly has the worst timing. Take care, okay? I’ll check in on you later. Koganegawa says Hi.

You stare at his message for far too long, curl up under your blanket and watch Old Man walk tireless circles around your bedroom.

Masayuki’s words dance like demons through your brain until you fall asleep.

You wake in the middle of the night to soft knocking on your door and a familiar voice.

“It’s me, Kei. Are you up?”

You don’t dare move, don’t dare to come face to face with him so soon. 

“Don’t you think it’s weird?” His question is heavy on your heart. Does Kei think that too? Maybe you are. Maybe you’ve been his weird big sister for a while, sitting too close at family gatherings, always there at every game because you can’t seem to stay away.

Maybe he’s never had the courage to tell you to take a step back.

Maybe, and that hurts the most, you’re the reason he still doesn’t have a girlfriend yet. Because you’re holding on to tight. Because you’re acting weird about it. Because-

“I’ll check on you in the morning, okay?” Kei’s voice cuts through the turmoil in your head like a hot knife through butter. “Sleep tight. Take care of her, Old Man, okay?”

In the morning you’ll find chocolate and painkillers in a bag tied to your doorhandle and a good morning text on your phone. 

You do your best ignoring both.

-

“What’s up with you?”

You turn, surprised to find Akiteru at your desk.

“Hi to you too. Do you need a report on any minerals?”

“No, I’m here to check if you’ve turned into a fossil yourself.”

“Geology,” you point at yourself. “You need to ask Kei about Fossils.”

Akiteru rolls his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“No.”

He snorts. “You’re ghosting us. Me and Kei and probably your other friends too, but I don’t have their numbers to check.”

“I’m not doing anything like that.”

“Please,” he scoffs now. “You’ve missed two of Kei’s games. That’s unheard of. If Masayuki said anything-”

“Can we just not talk about it?” You interrupt him, grabbing your bag and ushering him out. You don’t really want to be the lab gossip for the next month.

“I think we should.”

“Oh no,” you shake your head, pushing him along. “I was the middle man of your stupid fight for years, you owe me.”

Akiteru’s face falls. “Damn, it’s serious if you pull that card. Really, what did he say?”

“What makes you think he said something?”

“He mentioned something at training. He let me know that you’re no longer together, but that it was a mutual decision and that the reason should stay private for your sake.”

You huff out an unamused laugh. “That Shithead.”

“So?” Akiteru’s eyes are warm and honest, but you swallow the need to tell him.

“You’re biased, I can’t tell you.”

“Please, when have you ever not told me something? I know everything about you.”

“Ah,” you turn your face away. “Sure.”

“Well, if you don’t want to tell me, can you at least call Kei? He’s been in a mood all week. He deserves to know you’re not mad at him.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Oh,” Akiteru whistles a tune. “That’s new. You’ve never been mad at him once.”

You falter. “Surely that’s wrong.”

“Nope. Can’t remember a single time.”

“Well,” your stomach churns as you speak, as you try to make your lie sound more believable. “That’s how it is with little siblings, right? They can never do anything wrong.”

And you wish you didn’t look Akiteru in the face as you said it, because you can see it so clearly in his eyes. He knows you’re lying. 

So you turn on your heel and walk back inside, relieved and disappointed at the same time that he’s not following you.

Kei: I’ve bought too much Lettuce, I’m bringing some over after training.

Kei: Left the Lettuce outside. Did you remove your spare key from under the rug?

-

Kei: Hey, didn’t see you at the Match tonight, are you still not feeling well?

-

One missed call from: Kei

-

Kei: You’re really starting to worry me, what’s going on?

-

Kei: I’m giving you one last chance to call me back.

-

The sound of a key turning has you look up from your book, frozen in your spot on your bed. Old Man’s munching on his lettuce, too focused to care.

“Hello?” You ask into the quiet of your apartment, heart hammering against your ribcage. 

The door opens soundlessly. Kei’s head almost knocks against the top of the doorframe as he steps through, hair disheveled, glasses speckled with raindrops. He stops in his tracks when he sees you and you wish he wouldn’t, wish he’d give you a moment to regain your composure, reign in your heart that tries to crash out of your chest at the sight of him.

He’s too tall and too broad, his hair too pale-golden like the moonlight and the worry in his eyes too thick to swallow.

“What’s going on?” Kei asks, breaking the spell. You shift your gaze to the page in front of you, unseeing. Can he read your eyes as well as you think you can read his?

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” 

He sighs, clearly exhausted. At this time, he must have come here right after training, maybe even skipped the shower.

“Look if Akiteru said something-”

Your head lifts, surprise gurgling through your veins.

Kei’s wringing his hands now, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen on him before. He’s looking at Old Man instead of you, lips moving without making a sound.

“Just because Masayuki broke up with you doesn’t mean he has to rush things, I mean-” He hesitates and your confusion grows.

“I’m not following you, I-”

He gestures for you to stop, pulls a chair out from your kitchen table and sits down across from you, shoulders hunched under an invisible weight, cheeks burning red.

“I’m going to make this quick, okay, because I’d rather not make myself suffer anymore than necessary but- I like you. I’ve liked you since I knew what that meant. And I know I’m much younger, but I’m not a child and I’m mature for my age and if you’d give me a chance I’d make sure you’d never regret it-”

“What?”

Kei takes your hand and you can feel the tremor going through his limbs as he does.

He licks his lips.

“Would you date me? Yes or no? You can say no, I’ll get over it, I promise.”

“Y-yes, I mean wait, what?”

Kei’s eyes are open and vulnerable. You’re reminded of that one night five years ago, when he started caring again, when he sidled up to you after dinner, one shoulder pressed into yours. Your fingers twitch and curl around his as if they already know what your brain hasn’t processed yet.

“You like me?” You turn your eyes to the floor, too overwhelmed with the truth swimming in his. “You like me? It’s not weird?”

You can feel him shrug but his hand doesn’t let go.

“I mean, maybe it’s weird, but who cares? I’m pretty sure Akiteru is dating Saeko and that’s weird too.”

You laugh, the sound breaking free from you.

“You like me,” you repeat, reaching out with your other hand to find his already moving toward you. “You like me.”

“Should I repeat it too or is it enough if you do it for me?” Kei’s sarcasm is softer now, just a little teasing. You smile and he smiles back and you can’t help yourself, have to lean in and touch the red blooming on his cheeks.

“You like me,” you confirm once more, for good measures. “For real.”

Kei snorts. “You sound like a teen.”

“Shush. Did no one teach you how to respect your elders?”

- - -

- Age 26 -

Kei snores. It’s such a tiny tiny detail in the sea of things to know about him, yet you’re so unreasonably fond of it.

He’s doing it right now, one head on your shoulder, his glasses folded in your lap.

“Can you shut sleeping beauty up?” Akiteru asks from the front, clearly annoyed.

“I could, but I don’t want to,” you reply.

Kei’s nose curls as if he’s heard that but he lets out a sigh right after, exhaling softly as he sinks further into you.

“Such a sap,” Akiteru teases you once more and you let it happen.

It’s true after all.

-

“Oh, you’ve grown again,” Tsukishima-san calls out with exasperation at the sight of Kei, pinching his cheeks. “Are you eating enough?”

“Mom!” He cries out, embarrassed. 

“Help me!” He asks you. You just laugh.

“I put your Futon into Kei’s room,” she tells you as the boy carry up the luggage. “I know how he is. He’d just climb through your window if I didn’t and I know your mother. She’d throw a fit.”

“How is she anyway?” You ask. “Did she say anything, about… you know what?”

“Ah,” Tsukishima-san weighs her head left to right. “She was surprised, for sure. I think she always had her mind set on Akiteru. Got me a pretty Yen, you know.”

You gape at her as she snickers, proud of herself. “Oh yes, I knew it right away. That bet’s been going on for almost as long as Kei’s been around.”

“You’re a trickster,” you tell her, not quite sure what you’re supposed to think about it.

“Where do you think Kei gets it from?”

“Gets what from who?” Kei asks, stepping into the kitchen. He’s never far away for long, always eager to close that space again. His hand slides into the back pocket of your jeans now, squeezing your butt. 

You throw him a pointed glare and he grins, the picture of innocence when he’s anything but.

“I can’t tell you without insulting at least one of you,” you huff and he preens while his Mom snickers.

It’s weird, you can’t help but think as they chat, how this house, this family, already feels like home.

Maybe because it always has been. You’d just been a little too shy to grasp it fully.

[hippiepowrs]

you really got me

rockstar!eddie munson x rockstar!reader

warnings: gn!reader, fluffy fluff, gareth and jeff being little shits, grumpy eddie

a/n: heres a silly little blurb. i like rockstar!reader and i hope some other people are into it too... bc if so i will post more :3

wc: 655

A comforting warmth envelops you from behind, Eddie’s space heater of a body holding onto you tight. The two of you have been on tour together for the past few months, double headlining heavy metal shows all across the country. As fun as sex, drugs, and rock and roll for a living is, it does get tiring at times.

Eddie’s changing room backstage is quiet and still, the only people inside being you and him. It’s a rare sight, as he’s usually the one to be inviting everyone inside to smoke a joint or have a beer with him. The two of you lay on the couch, simply enjoying the calm before the storm.

Your peace and serenity quickly gets interrupted with a loud knock on the door, followed by Gareth and Jeff simply barging into the room, hefty camcorder in hand.

“…Let’s see what Eddie’s up to…Oh! Here are these two lovebirds. They make me sick.” Gareth narrates, pointing the camera directly at you.

Your eyes slowly open, drowsily looking over to the source of the noise. The boys continue to walk closer, fully putting the camera up in your face, causing you to block it with your hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gare,” your hoarse ‘morning’ voice squeaks out, “What the hell is this for?”

“We’re making a tour video. Tom said the fans would like it.” The mention of Corroded Coffin’s manager clicks everything into place. Of course he’d want them to record behind the scenes footage of the tour.

Eddie, the rock of a sleeper that he is, is still fully conked out behind you, his arms trapping you onto the couch.

“I look like shit right now,” you mumble, “can you get that thing out of my fucking face?” Any perceived aggression is recognized as playful between you and the other band’s members, but you do seriously want him to get that damn camera out of your face. Looking down, you remember you’re only wearing one of Eddie’s muscle tees, specifically the Judas Priest one he cut a little shorter than he intended a few years ago.

The show isn’t supposed to start for another few hours, as the bus somehow had no mishaps and got you guys to the venue earlier than normal. Gareth has decided to record whatever the hell he feels like in this time, so now he’s walking around Eddie’s dressing room and pointing out all the gross shit on the floor.

Finally, Eddie starts to stir, nuzzling his nose into the back of your neck. A few soft groans sound from behind you, and this quickly alerts Gareth.

“There he is! Thought you were dead there for a second.”

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Eddie murmurs, rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes.

“Makin’ a video.” Gareth turns the camera around to his own face and gives it a big thumbs up.

“Do that shit later, man. Jesus Christ.”

“Someone’s got their panties in a twist.” Gareth giggles, panning the camera over to Jeff, who starts to laugh along with him.

“Get out of my damn room.” Eddie even sits up halfway to send the message, taking an arm off of your waist to point them to the door. Gareth recognizes that Eddie doesn’t want to fuck around right now, so he quickly scurries out with Jeff in tow to find another person to bother.

Turning over to face him, you giggle softly at his moodiness. “He wasn’t wrong. You are pretty grumpy.”

“Can a man not be allowed to cuddle with his partner in peace?” He groans, flopping back down onto the couch and brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear.

“You look like a mess, you know.”

“Shut up. Cuddle me.”

You oblige, wrapping your arms around him. His messy mop of curls falls over your head, his serious case of bedhead being the last thing he’s thinking about.

[covetyou]

the howler monkey

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Mature (18+ only!) warnings: no smut but some nudity, implied drug use/addiction, little bit silly, mildly angsty, performance anxiety, screaming, Dieter Bravo's soft cock. basically mild hurt/comfort/fluff with my usual bit of silliness. word count: 2.8k summary: You got him here, he was safely tucked away upstairs and everything was going, mostly, according to plan. So, who the fuck is screaming?

A/N: For the Dieter Bravo Brain Rot Club March Server Challenge - you're unhinged and I love you all. Dieter would be so, so proud of us. Circus mention in honour of Clown!Dieter.

TROPE: Only one bed and forced proximity PROMPT: "You're going to get us arrested." "Oh, I've always liked the idea of you in handcuffs."

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On days like this, getting Dieter Bravo out of the house was more like wrangling an overtired toddler than it was dealing with a full grown man. At least, you assumed it was. You didn't have a toddler for reference, but you did have a Dieter and, sometimes, that felt worse. He stalled and delayed for so long that by the time you finally - finally - got him out of the door, it was quite literally a race to get the the airport.

The flight hadn't been much different, having to practically drag him through the terminal with head down and sunglasses on to cram him into his window seat. Truth be told, you didn't know why you were flying with him anyway, only to fly back later tonight. Still, as long as it wasn't your money on the line, what Dieter wanted, Dieter got.

But now it was done. You got him here relatively unscathed, all things considered, and Dieter had been deposited in his room, ready to get a full nights beauty sleep before the press descended and the festival opened. All that was left to do was check in with his publicist and you'd be on your way back home, where you couldn't wait to crawl into bed and have a few blissful days to yourself.

So, as is the natural way with these things, it's when you're just finishing up with his publicist in the back of the bar that it all starts. It's nothing but a few strained looks from the hotel staff to begin with.

Then the phones start ringing. Every single one.

And when the phones can't be answered quick enough, hotel guests start crowding around the lobby, whispering amongst themselves about the screaming.

The screaming.

And your blood turns cold. Because it's not. It couldn't be. He wouldn't.

The publicist pays no attention, continuing swiping through his phone and yammering away. Not your circus, not your monkeys, you try to think to yourself as the lobby just gets busier and busier.

But then the hotel manager rushes in, sickly sweet smile plastered on his face, Dieter's publicist blissfully unaware as he stares down at his phone, looking at schedules and interview times and literally anything but the chaos evolving around you.

"Excuse me? Excuse me," he's saying, wringing his hands together as he approaches the table. "You're with Mr. Bravo?"

His publicist doesn't even bother looking up, simply nodding as you stare, open mouthed, into the lobby.

"It seems we have... a bit of a problem," he whispers with wide eyes. "Mr. Bravo is uh... well, screaming. It's disturbing the other guests. I'm afraid if he doesn't stop we're going to have to ask him to leave or call the police."

Well, shit. This is your circus, and that is your monkey in particular.

You're swiping the extra key card out of his hand and making your way out of the bar and into the packed lobby as quick as you can while his publicist sits there, arguing that Dieter would never (he would), that he was quiet (he wasn't), and so it couldn't possibly be him (it absolutely could).

The elevator feels so slow, the whirl of gears and an unseen mechanism pulling you up and up, as you ascend the many floors of the hotel. Then, in a blink and with another creak the doors are about to pull themselves open, and you swear you can hear it already.

The fucking screaming.

You're running now, the elevator doors barely open before you're squeezing through them, not caring for the noise you make as you thud heavily down the hallway. What would a little extra noise matter when there's someone screaming blue murder inside one of the hotel rooms.

Tapping the card, the lock on room 819 illuminates green and you're throwing open the door, the screams having subsided for a moment, and shutting yourself inside and trying to catch your breath.

Aside from the silence, it's dark. That's the first thing you notice. The second thing you notice is Dieter Bravo is nowhere to be seen, even in the dim light creeping around the window.

"Dee... Dieter?" you whisper into the darkness, hoping beyond hope that he's not here and he hasn't been screaming for the past fifteen minutes.

A small, hoarse voice floats toward you from much further away than you'd expect him to be able to be given the size of the room, "Who is it?"

"Dieter? It's me. What the fuck is going on? Where are you?" you loud whisper into the hotel room, running your fingertips across the wall as you creep forward. From what you can tell it looks the same as when you left him here. Nothing is wrecked or overturned, and he hasn't had another sudden burst of artistic inspiration - the walls look the same as they did when you shut the door to Dieter looking forlornly out of the window to the city below.

"What do you mean?" comes the muffled voice. It's closer now, but you still can't see him. There's no lump on the bed, no one sat in the chair, and he's not lying spread eagle on the floor.

"Dieter, where the fuck are you?!"

He sighs, and you hear a slap, like the sound of a hand hitting a flat, solid surface. "Under here, numbnuts."

You take another step forward, peaking under the desk, seeing no sign of Dieter. Turning toward the bed, you try to find somewhere else to look under to find wherever Dieter has stashed himself when you see it.

Two bare legs sticking out from under the bed, the end of his soft green robe just poking out from beneath the frame.

"Dee... what is going on, why are you under there? There was screaming, they think it's coming from in here."

Dieter's silence is all you need to confirm it was indeed coming from in here, from him. Pinching your nose, you ready yourself for whatever he's going to throw at you this time.

"Why are you screaming?"

"Come under here."

"Dieter, no, it's disgusting under there, they don't clean these -"

"I'll tell you if you come under here."

"No, I know this is a nice hotel, but the floors are still filth-"

Dieter cuts you off, a loud scream ripping out of his chest and rattling around your head at a frequency that makes you feel like your skull is about to burst. It must hurt, is all you can think, his throat must be raw and his mouth dry. Panic sets in - hearing a scream like that will do that to a person, you suppose. You panic not just because it must hurt, but because if there was one thing you knew, despite Dieter Bravo's flair for dramatics, he wasn't a man to scream for no reason. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you can't help but think down to Dieter's publicist likely still sat in the bar - Dieter will be impossible to interview tomorrow if you don't stop him soon, and that's if he's even allowed to stay in the hotel much longer.

So, you do the only thing you know how to do when a metaphorical fire in the shape of Dieter Bravo threatens to burn everything down. You throw yourself over it and hope for the best.

"DEE! DIETER! OKAY, OKAY!" you shout, trying not to grimace as you get on your hands and knees to crawl under the cramped space under the bed, ignoring the grit and dust already on your palms.

"Fuck. Shit, Dieter. Ow." You're wedged under there with him now, ass sticking up in the air as you cram your upper body under the bed frame. You can see the vague shape of him under here, a Dieter shaped profile visible in front of you as he stares blankly up at the underside of the bed.

"What's wrong with you?" you ask, somewhat breathlessly, only to watch Dieter tense up at your words. Shit. You didn't mean it like that, and you certainly didn't say it like that either, but before you can take it back and apologize, he beats you to it.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with me," he says in a voice so much smaller and quieter now that your head is right beside his.

"Sorry. Look, I didn't - I meant, why are you screaming, Dee. They said they'd have to kick you out or call the cops. You're going to get us arrested."

"Arrested, huh?" he says thoughtfully, turning to look over at you. "I've always liked the idea of you in handcuffs."

"No, Dieter," you say, and even though you know he can't see you, you roll your eyes in the dark anyway.

Dieter's sigh is so big it picks up errant dust swirls it around under the bed. The urge to swipe at your nose is strong but you resist, knowing from the state of things and the chalky feeling of your palms that it'll only make things worse.

"I'm nervous," he finally says, and that's all you needed to hear.

His face is turned toward the underside of the bed when you crawl backwards. It takes a moment for him to notice, but as soon as he does he's whimpering and taking in a breath big enough that you know he's going to scream again. But you're not leaving, and instead you roll onto your back with an oof and slide yourself under the bed to look up into the nothing with Dieter.

You think back to other times he'd been like this. Too scared to perform, anxiety taking root, frightening him off into some dark quiet corner of a set or his house. You'd found him in his closet once, the only thing apparently capable of coaxing him out was watching you unbutton your shirt a little more because you'd gotten so hot sitting in the stifling little room with him. When he'd finally made his way out, it had been with his eyes glued to the extra patch of skin you'd uncovered and the trickle of sweat dripping down your chest.

Dark as it was, visual distractions wouldn't work this time.

"How many times do you have exactly the same thoughts, and how many times does everything turn out okay anyway? You're good at this, Dieter. You're going to be amazing tomorrow, just like you always are, and I'm not saying that to pressure you to perform, but just because you are. You're amazing."

"Yeah, right," he scoffs, slapping a hand dramatically down on the floor again with a grunt.

"I'm serious. You have a lot to be proud of."

"A lot to not be proud of too."

"Well, you know what to do about that."

"I'm not going to rehab."

"I've never told you to."

Dieter sighs again, because you were right. You had never told him to go to rehab. You never would. It didn't feel like your place to - you were only his assistant. He knows this and you think - know - that sometimes he'd like for you to just tell him to get it together and go, but you don't. "I know."

You don't know how long you both lie there in silence and darkness after that, softly exchanging breaths under the bed. You do know it's long enough for your mind to wander back down to the bar and all the people now going about their evenings. It's not lost on you that no one came in to check on him before you. That now that he'd been silent for several minutes, no one had bothered to knock on the door to see if he was okay. None of them cared, not really. You knew that and, worse of all, Dieter knew that. The people here didn't care about him unless he was being a shiny, glitzy movie star who could say and do the right things in front of the cameras.

Scuffling feet alert you to his movement as Dieter move shuffles toward you, his head colliding gently with the side of yours. You make no effort to move and neither does he, choosing instead to lean his head against yours and rest it there.

The signs are obvious then. The small weave of his head as his eyes track invisible shapes in the dark. The twitch in his fingers, the bounce of his foot. He'd been a mess all day, you can see that now, and whatever he had taken since getting here was somehow making it better and worse all at once.

"How much have you taken this time?"

His breath catches, caught doing something he said he wouldn't do, not here, not this time. But he doesn't lie, not to you. He'd stopped doing that a long time ago, and that was as much progress as you could ever hope for.

"Too much. Not enough. I don't know."

"Okay," you say, even though it isn't, not really. He should stop. You wish you could do more to stop him.

"Will you stay?" he murmurs, even though he knows you have a flight to catch. He'd paid for it when he demanded you come with him, promising you a few days off while he was stuck at the festival answering the same questions over and over again.

"You know I can't, my flight is in a couple of hours, I need to get through the traffic -"

"Please stay."

"There is nowhere for me to stay, Dieter. You don't need me here and I couldn't get a room if I tried. Everywhere nearby is booked." Assistants don't sleep with their employers, assistants don't sleep with their employers...

"I do. I do need you. I'm not asking you to stay anywhere else, I'm asking you to stay here. Stay with me," he mumbles. "I can sleep under here if I have to. Just stay." Assistants don't sleep with their fucking employers...

"You're not sleeping on the floor. And I- I can't." By this point you don't know why you can't, because maybe assistants don't sleep with their employers, but you and Dieter were always a little bit, well... y'know.

"Please."

And your resolve never was that strong where Dieter was concerned. Not really. "Fine. I'll stay. I need a shower and I need to go -"

"You can borrow some of my clothes," he says quickly. "We can shower - separately, I mean - get room service - fuck I'm starving - and then when we sleep, we can cuddle?"

You can't help but laugh, smiling up at the bed at how quickly his mood could turn around, particularly where cuddling and a good meal were concerned. Sometimes, when he was really tired, or high, or sad, or a combination of all three, he'd ask you to cuddle. You'd always settle on stroking his hair instead, watching his face as his jaw relaxed and sleep finally pulled at his features before sneaking away. Today, you had nowhere else to be so, you think, you may as well stay to cuddle.

"Yeah, Dee. We can cuddle."

You talk over room service - fancy toasted sandwiches and warm chocolate chip cookies that weren't on the menu, but Dieter had the audacity to ask for anyway. When you shower, he waits outside the door for you, restlessly stepping from foot to foot. You wait for him too, convincing him to leave the door open a little just in case, and he does so without question. A few minutes later he comes out, flushed red from the heat of the water and totally naked. You don't bat an eye.

Your skin still feels damp when you're climbing into bed, grateful to be on top of it and grit free now rather than under it. Dieter soon follows, crawling naked on all fours before tucking his legs under the sheets beside you.

You talk for a little longer, listening as Dieter sounds more and more slurred with sleep, before flicking the light off. He fidgets, shuffling closer to you until his arm wraps around your chest, resting his hand softly on your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into your neck on the pillow you now share. It's not comfortable, not for you, but the contented sounds coming from Dieter and the way his face twitches against your bare skin tells you he's holding back tears, that he needs this. You can be uncomfortable for one night, you think, just before he hooks his leg over yours, well and truly pinning you to the bed.

"Dee?"

"Yeah?"

"Your cock is on my leg."

"I know."

"Okay, well... G'night Dee."

"Night," he says straight into your ear, smacking his lips as he snuggles into your side, soft cock squished against your leg. And when, somehow, sleep ignores your discomfort and pulls you under barely a few minutes later, you swear you can feel Dieter press his lips to the bare skin of your neck.

[raven-ovs]

On This Night Of Ritual | Papa IV x f!Reader

Summary: On Lust, and Love, and all the sweet emotions in between. Copia and his partner choose to spend their night in a special way, expressing their devotion to Satan and to each other through the pleasures of the flesh.

Content: ~6.5 words, 18+ MDNI, established relationship, religious imagery, ritual sex, body workship, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, soft, they're in love love

Ao3 link - Full art

🥀

You shiver in anticipation, pulling the robe tighter over your chest, your eyes flitting around the bedroom. Your shared bedroom, you remind yourself, little bits of your own style scattered around, mingling with his, a quiet reminder of how your lives have intertwined since he asked you to move in with him.

The fabric feels soft against your bare skin, reassuring. He gifted it to you for this occasion specifically.

You glance down at your bare legs framed by the rich blue silk, a sigh escaping your lips.

Faint sounds of him getting ready reach your ears from the en-suite bathroom. A thud followed by a muttered curse makes you smile. He must be just as nervous as you, even though you've both agreed to this. You've talked about it so many times, fantasised about it, dipped your toes into it without fully committing.

But now... You're ready. Or at least, you want to be.

The bathroom door creaking open snaps you out of your thought, and you look up to find a very flustered Copia making his way to you.

He looks stunning, to say the least.

Divine.

He's wearing a silk robe as well, matching yours. His is in a deeper blue, though, and has golden embroideries all around its lapels and cuffs. It fits him.

A familiar warmth settles low in your belly at the sight of him, all your anxieties starting to melt, replaced by a much more intense eagerness.

You can spot a few lines of his tattoo, barely hidden by the robe tied loosely around his waist. His facepaint is pristine as always.

"Hey," you smile tentatively, searching his eyes. The white one almost seems to glow in the faint candle light of the room, and its magnetic pull only gets stronger as he steps closer. It's mesmerising.

"Amore," he whispers back as greeting, the mattress dipping when he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Everything's ready." You gesture vaguely around you, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine as he looks around as well.

The crimson red sheets underneath you, the candles burning on every free surface of the room, the little bowl of red paint waiting on your nightstand.

He nods in approval, and you see that flicker of excitement in his gaze that always makes you swoon, until he jolts up, genuinely scaring the shit out of you.

"Copia, che cazzo!" you exclaim, only getting a dismissive "sorry" in return before he's padding off to the other side of the room, mumbling to himself.

"Shit, how could I forget? Eh... Just gotta... Where the hell did I put it?"

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, but don't comment further. Silly rat man.

How you love him.

A pleased little "ha!" follows, and before you know it, soft notes are filling the room, coming from his record player.

Oh... Right.

He's back at your side in an instant, and his grin tells you that he's waiting for a reaction from you. And that this is meaningful to him.

You listen carefully to what sounds like religious music at first, the sort of solemn hymns that you used to hear echoing in Catholic churches, a long, long time ago.

You're confused, until you begin to make out the words of this first song. They're definitely not Catholic.

It sounds like a Ghost song, but not quite... It's softer, more intimate in way, despite still having a grandiose feeling to it. A bit of an oxymoron, just like the man in front of you.

"Unreleased," he chimes in, filling the gaps in your thought process.

"Hm?"

"I... wrote this. Some time ago. Never released it." he explains, a vulnerable note to his voice that you don't fail to notice.

"Oh." You take another moment to listen in silence, feeling goosebumps raise on your skin as his rich voice reaches your ears from the recording. *Oh.*

"Copia... It's beautiful. Why didn't you release it?"

A shrug, dismissive. You nod, realising that it'll be a story for another time.

You both have a plan now, and you want to get through with it.

The music is just an unexpected, yet perfectly fitting addition.

“So…”

“So.” He gives you one of his lovely smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks, you assume, turning pink under his facepaint. You melt on the spot.

You've come up with it together, this… ritual you're about to do, if one might even call it that. It's a mix of you two, really. Your beliefs, your journeys, your shared faith. A manifestation of your devotion, for each other, and for your Lord, Satan.

You return his smile, and adjust your posture, sitting cross legged in front of him, a silent confirmation that you're ready, that you want this.

He mirrors you, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it and then folding his hands in his lap. The gray strands at his temples stand out in this light, and you love it.

So… There you are. First step. Soul gazing.

You scoot a little closer, trying to get comfortable before your eyes meet his. You sigh. Focus.

This part is all about building connection, stating your intentions, tapping into the right mindset.

“Our Father who art in Hell…” You hear him whisper, his low voice taking on that edge he has when delivering a sermon during Mass, but more muted, just for the two of you. You glance down when his inverted cross catches the light, shimmering in the middle of his sternum, then your eyes return to his as soon as he starts speaking again. “Guide us through this journey. Let the worship of our bodies be a token of our devotion to You. Watch us sin, and rejoice.” A pause, a breath escaping his painted lips. “Nema."

“Nema.” you repeat, your voice small compared to his, but no less firm.

You already feel the hypnotic nature of this exercise, your breathing slowing down the longer you look into his eyes, trying to sync to his. The mismatched green and white of his irises draws you in, and you can see every emotion playing out on his face, just as he can do with yours, you think.

His soul… Can you really see a person's soul, through their eyes? What does it even mean, soul? As a child, you were taught that your soul would be damned and cast to Hell if you sinned, but you don't believe in any of that anymore. It's not you, and it's definitely not him.

What you can see in his eyes is an energy, burning bright. It's the same energy you see when he's singing to his fans, when he's eating his favorite dish, when he’s petting his rats, when he's making love to you. Now that energy is focused, though, and it's all on you.

It makes your breath hitch, but you immediately school it back into the slow rhythm you two have built. In… Out… Again. Again.

His pupils are dilated, be it from the darkness or from arousal, you cannot tell. Most likely both.

You're not sure how many minutes pass like this, but it doesn't matter. Not when his hands reach forward, nimble fingers gently tugging your robe open. You do the same to him.

Step two.

You break eye contact to take in his revealed torso, the brown and gray dusting of hair on his chest that turns into a darker trail from his belly button down. So beautiful. Yours.

His gaze almost burns your skin in its intensity, and you imagine him already painting symbols on your body, his fingertips tinged red, making you shiver and sigh with every brush. Not yet.

“Still good?” You hear him ask, his voice barely above a whisper, an hopeful light in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course.” You smile.

The music has already faded in the background of your mind by now, but you're still grateful for its presence, for the way it fills your silences between one breath and the next. With measured movements, you each bring your right hand to the other's chest, over the heart, and then cover that hand with your own left one. A deep breath, and then you’re gazing into each other's eyes again.

There's a part of you that wonders at the single minded focus he shows in this moment. He's usually easily distracted, his thoughts scattered between his endless tasks and nerdy interests, fluttering from here to there like a moth at a lights fest. But not now.

The more you breathe, the clearer you can hear his heart thrumming under your fingertips, your pinky finger barely grazing his nipple. If he feels it, he doesn't let you see his reaction. When he's thoroughly fucked you, and lets you rest with your head on his chest, that's when you feel his heartbeat the strongest. That, or when he gets really anxious, and comes to you for reassurance. When he looks at you with eyes wide, a little lost, and you place your hands on his chest, guiding him to breathe until the darkness dissipates enough to keep going.

Now it feels just as strong, a steady, reassuring rhythm that proves to you that he's actually there, in front of you. The man of your dreams. Not a figment of your imagination, but real, solid, human.

You wish you could read his thoughts right now. Is he thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him? You almost want to ask him, whisper a “penny for your thoughts” just to see one of those smiles that light up the whole room, but no… No, this is about something else. This is about laying yourselves bare for the other to see, and to love. Words are not needed for that.

You breathe in his love for you, and breathe out your love for him. An exchange. Again and again. Time passes, but again… It doesn't matter.

For the next step, you need to be bare. Literally.

You're not sure who reaches out first, who switches position first, but your next breath is taken on your knees, his hands on your shoulders, sliding the robe off of you. You let it fall somewhere behind you, and watch him kneel as well, his own robe open, splayed out from his back down to his feet like a wedding veil.

He almost looks too good to take it off, but you know it's part of the process. Both of you naked. Vulnerable.

“Sei bellissimo,” you find yourself whispering as your hands find his sides, sliding up his torso and towards his arms to start guiding the robe off. The blush you earn in response is enough to make your heart stutter, the red so vivid that it's visible even under the layers of white paint.

Copia averts his gaze, but you know he's silently preening at your words. Always a sucker for praise.

He shimmies out of the embroidered sleeves, and then the robe falls behind him just like yours did, discarded. It almost feels like unwrapping a gift.

“I can feel Him,” he mumbles, making you look at his face again.

“Who?”

“Satan. Watching us…”

“Oh.” You blink, finding that notion a bit foreign, but not unpleasant. You can't deny the buzz in the air around you, the almost palpable promise of what's coming. Your Papa knows what he's talking about, that much you're sure of.

“Is He pleased?”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, his shoulders raising a bit. Cute. “Think so. But… He, eh… He's waiting for the next bit.”

That makes you chuckle, and you find it reassuring that now, now that should be the most ritualistic phase, you’re acting more casual, connecting in the way that you're used to, that's familiar to you.

“Right, yeah.” As if on cue, you turn around to grab the little bowl you had left on your nightstand, bringing it between you two and placing it on the covers. Strategically red, yes, but alluring too. Red paint on red sheets. That will look good.

You discussed which symbols to draw and on whom. You remember his words distinctly. The way his rich voice explained to you the meanings and differences between each one, the fervour of his belief as he spoke to you of his life’s work. That had ended in a very intense, unforgettable night of sex. But tonight will be different, in a way.

“Should I, uh… Should I start?” you ask tentatively, seeking his approval.

He nods, laying his hands back against the mattress, leaving his whole front open to your view and to your touch. You know he'd trust you with his life.

Trying to rein in your trembling, you dip your fingers into the bowl, shivering at the feeling of the cold, burgundy liquid. Not blood, of course, but it does look like it. You take in a shaky breath, and let it out, and then your clean hand is cradling his jaw, tilting his head up as you lean closer.

As precisely as possible, you draw a small, inverted pentagram on his forehead. The first symbol of your faith. The stark contrast between the red and his black and white face paint is striking. Gorgeous.

Next, you draw an inverted cross on his left arm. The design matches that of your own makeup, a gothic feel to it that reminds you of the tapestries and stained glass artworks you always admire around the Ministry. He simply kneels there, watching you, embracing the solemnity of this moment.

One last symbol for him. The Sigil of Lucifer.

You take your time drawing it, your index finger sliding along the curves of his stomach. His abs tense as you pass over them, and you have to bite your lip at the noise he makes when you draw the little swirls at the bottom, framing his happy trail. Framing his cock.

You've tried not to focus on it, but it's near impossible now, knowing that you’ll be touching him soon. He's been hard since the moment you started all this, but now… Oh, by now he's leaking, his head flushed a deep red, the vein on the underside evident as his cock twitches against his belly, almost smearing the paint you've just placed there. You barely stifle a giggle.

“Don't be so smug about it,” he grumbles, his brow furrowing as he glances down at himself. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments, his lipstick fading in that spot, but as soon as you're done painting he lifts his head again, an air of confidence about him that makes your cunt throb. “Your turn.” he declares, reaching down to grab the bowl and slide it closer to himself.

You brace yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his fingers dipped in red tracing lines around your nipple, drawing a pentagram of his own. You clench your thighs together, and you know he notices, but he doesn't say anything. Only smirks.

“Turn around, tesoro,” he instructs in that seductive voice of his, a voice that could bring a nation to its knees if he only ever asked. He doesn't need to, though. He has you on your knees for him, almost every night.

You do as told, and present your back to him. Your ass, actually, as you shift to place your hands on the mattress, on all fours. He actually groans at the sight, the little bastard.

You huff in reply, your head hanging low between your shoulders to hide your blush. “Don't get distracted…”

“Never, piccola.” You can practically hear his shit-eating grin in his voice, but you press your lips together, silencing yourself from further remarks. Not the time for banter, as much as you love it.

Without another word, his fingers meet your skin again. He starts at your hip bone and makes his way along your ass, drawing another pentagram. This time, though, he adds more strokes, tracing lines with practiced ease to form the Sigil of Baphomet.

He hums once done, sounding pleased with himself. You turn around again, careful not to sit on your heels any longer, not wanting to mess up the paint before it has dried. A small penance for the ineffable amount of pleasure that you're going to experience soon.

“Last one.” He reminds you with a smile, his expression softer now, more caring. You wonder what came over him. “You're being so good, baby.”

That really makes you blush, hard. You're not sure who likes praise more in your relationship.

“Ah… Grazie.” you mutter, your gaze falling to the bowl in front of you, unable to sustain his stare.

He laughs fondly and shakes his head before dipping his fingers in the paint one last time. You did his belly, so it's only fair that he should do yours too. Satan's Cross. Right in the middle of your stomach. All goes well until he draws the infinite under your belly button, his finger scorching like fire on your already over sensitised skin. You moan, unable to stop it. He winces, his hand trembling as he pulls away.

“Amore… If you keep making sounds like that, this will be over much sooner than we want.”

You sigh, giving him an apologetic smile. You're both more worked up than you've probably ever been, and you can't help but wonder how exactly you're going to last as long as you're meant to, edging each other to ecstasy. Satan will guide you in that, you hope silently.

You take a moment to appreciate how perfect he looks with all those symbols painted on his skin. A fallen angel, worthy to stand beside Lucifer himself.

You wipe your fingers on the sheets below you, and watch him do the same. The paint is sex friendly, sure, but you don't want to stain his whole body with it. Neither does he.

“I want you, Copia… I want you so bad.” You search his eyes, finding that same desire reflected in them.

“I'm all yours.”

That's all it takes for you to move forward, still on your knees, and cup his face in both hands. Is this what they mean when they talk about holding the world in your hands? The thought makes you grin.

“What?”

“Uh? Nothing.”

“What?”

You can't deny him when he's looking at you like that.

“I love you,” you whisper simply, hoping it can somehow convey the depth of your feelings. You're not sure, but if his smile is any indicator, at least part of that sentiment reached him.

You brush your thumbs over his temples and at the corners of his eyes as he whispers an “I love you” in return. You must have heard those words coming from his lips thousands of times, but they still make your heart flutter like the very first.

“May I kiss you?” As if you even need to ask. He hums, pretending to think about it, that mischievous twinkle crossing his gaze as he leans closer, your lips now mere inches apart.

Copia looks up at you through his lashes, in a way that looks almost coquettish, and you're unsure whether to slap him or kiss him stupid.

“Ti prego…” he murmurs, his breath fanning your lips.

Fuck, this man.

Before you can stop yourself, you've closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. You don't know if it was the synced breathing, the symbols, or just staring into each other's eyes for so long, but this kiss feels so powerful, so meaningful that it makes you swoon, and you have to grab his face tighter, ground yourself. He moans in response, feeling that same intensity.

Heat pools in your core as you feel his tongue swiping along your lower lip, asking for entrance. His arms snake around your waist to pull you closer, and could almost swear you heard a muffled “please” against your lips. You’re powerless.

The kiss turns messy the moment you part your lips and let him in, your tongues pressing against each other, lips fusing together as if you can't get close enough fast enough. You swallow each other's moans, licking and nipping until you're both panting.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your gaze falling to his kiss-swollen lips. Fuck.

“Amore…” he starts, but goes silent again when you wipe the spit off his bottom lip with your thumb, your fingers grasping his chin.

It shouldn't be like this. You should go slow, keep that energy going. But dammit, it's hard.

“Sorry, sorry… I know.” Your hands leave his face, and you breathe harshly. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like before. Kinda.

“I can't get enough of you.” you admit, your fingers trailing down his chest, following the contours of his tattoo. Focus. Focus.

You always knew there was something about you, a craving that you never seemed to satisfy. You deemed it wrong for so long that it almost felt like second nature to chastise yourself. He's taught you to indulge, though. He has embraced that part of you, and that flame has grown, threatening to consume you both. What a way to die, that would be.

Still, he looks hopeful now, and his eyes are burning, yes, but so soft. So soft that it makes you think you would do anything to make him proud. Suddenly you feel calmer, and reverence replaces hunger. After all, works of art should be admired quietly, carefully, taking your time. And he's the ultimate masterpiece.

“That's it, sì…” He nods down at your hands on his torso, and soon reaches out to touch you as well. Slow. Gentle. Light as if touching the most delicate porcelain. It's almost funny, when you know that he can fuck you hard enough to make you cry. And that you can do the same to him.

Your hands wander, fingertips still stained red, even though the paint has dried by now. You do nothing to suppress the sighs and gasps that his touch elicits, knowing it emboldens him, lets him know it's okay to make noise. Knees parted, you both lean closer, breathing each other in as fingers graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He mirrors you, you mirror him. Like a dance. A slow… Slow dance.

You let your nails scrape lightly at the juncture of his pelvis, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. You love it.

He spreads his legs some more, encouraging you, and you take in on his offer. Of course you do. You reach his taint, your touch so light that it's almost ticklish, and you can hear the thought forming in his head even before looking at his face. He's grinning like an idiot.

“You're impossible.” You shake your head, unable to suppress a smirk of your own, and then press harder on the spot, your thumb massaging his skin until-

“Oh! Fuck…” His eyes widen, the noise coming out of his mouth sounding positively sinful.

You won't be going into a full prostate massage, but you know what it does to him. Indulge, no? That's the whole point.

You keep rubbing there until he goes a little cross-eyed, and you have to stop then, worried that he'll come right then and there. You can't have that.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain his bearings. “Cazzo, amore… You can't just do… That.” He pouts, and it's the most adorable look he's given you all night, with his lips still puffy from your kiss and his lipstick smeared into a dark gray around the edges.

You giggle, but retreat your hand, resorting to stroking the top of his thigh in soothing motions. Copia huffs, running a hand through his hair to brush some unruly strands out of his forehead.

“Better?” you ask with a small, self-satisfied smile which earns you a glare from him.

His hands find your waist again, and he pulls you closer, one of your knees going between his. He leans back with one hand on the bed, exposing himself to your gaze in an almost challenging manner, his eyes roving over your body, almost as if trying to commit it all to memory. Then, his hand reaches between your legs for the first time tonight, and you're done for. You're drenched. So drenched that it actually draws a gasp from him as he dips his fingers between your folds. Satan below, how are you meant to last?

His thumb finds your clit as his eyes meet yours again, your lips parting in anticipation. “What a sight you make, piccolina…”

“Copia…” You close your eyes, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control even as he starts rubbing tiny circles around your clit, his moves practiced and precise.

He's grown confident with it. Not that he wasn't great to begin with, but oh, now he knows just how to play your body, how to make you gasp, and moan, and whimper, and scream until your throat feels raw.

You try to focus on your breath, as you're meant to, and let your hand slither back towards his crotch. It needs to be mutual.

You cradle his balls in your palm, feeling them hot and heavy in your hold, ready to burst. His lips part in a silent moan, so close to you that he could kiss you if only he leaned forward a little bit. He doesn't. So instead, you slide your fingers up and wrap them around his cock.

“Ahh-” His eyes widen, and he does brush his lips against yours then, his tongue barely peeking out. He slides a finger inside you, another step in your dance.

A stroke, all the way up to his tip, and his finger pushes further in. Your thumb swipes over his slit, slicking him up with his own precum, and his finger curls inside you, the pad of it pressing against your front wall just right. You're staring at each other through half-lidded eyes, and it doesn't feel like you're fighting anymore. You’re both breaking in front of each other, bit by bit, unashamed.

“Copia…”

“Mmmm…” He leans in properly, and your mouth finds his. It's wet, and just as messy as before, with him licking past your lips, and you sucking on his tongue. That makes him growl. The sort of noise that you sometimes beg him to make. Deep, and feral, and so fucking hot.

You clench around his finger, desperate for more, and he seems to sense your need, sliding a second one inside you with almost no effort at all. Your left arm rests on his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull back to look into his eyes again. They're almost pitch black now. Two pools of pure Lust, surrounded by thin crowns of green and white.

You stroke him faster, the slide made easier by his own arousal. “Cazzo, ahh…”

“I'm… I need you. Fuck, I need you. Please…”

Your words snap him out of his pleasure fueled haze, and he blinks at you before glancing down between your bodies. So connected and yet so distant. It's not enough. His fingers pull out of you with a sloppy sound, making you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Shhh… I know.” He reaches down to grasp your hand, stilling it with your palm against his tip. Your fingers intertwine with his, and for a few precious moments, you move together, your thumb rubbing along his frenulum as he guides your palm back and forth, your slick on his fingers mingling with his own. He whimpers, actually whimpers, resting his forehead against yours. And then he's pulling your hands away, to your disappointment.

“Amore, please…” You watch him pull away, and rearrange himself so that he's sitting with his legs in front of himself instead of kneeling.

“Come here, piccola.”

You scramble towards him, eager, and straddle his firm, perfect thighs. “Like this?” you ask. He shakes his head.

Last step.

He reaches for your hips, squeezing affectionately, and guides you up. “Oh…” You know what he wants. What you both want. Yes. Oh, yes.

You reach down, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. The way he twitches against you is almost enough to make you come.

“Breathe, yeah?” he reminds you, even though he's pretty far gone himself.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waits for eye contact, for your nod of consent, and then slowly, slowly pulls you down, breaching you.

“Ah- Fuck… Fuck…” It's agonising, almost, how good it feels.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you started, but it feels like hours. Hours in a constant state of arousal, each sense heightened, bringing you higher, until every touch feels like pure bliss. Pure, damned bliss.

“A-amore… Mmmm.” He holds your hips in a death grip, and you can almost feel the bruises forming, knowing you’ll smile at your reflection tomorrow when they'll remind you of the night you had, of the pleasure you shared.

He bottoms out, your ass meeting his thighs, and you've never felt so full. Physically, yes. But not only that. You're in tune with him, your chests rising and falling in sync, even as your breaths grow laboured. You can't look away from his eyes, not for an instant. You're one.

No more words are needed then. There's just him, and you, an “us” that feels more genuine than it ever has.

You breathe, and breathe, feeling the pleasure building despite you both staying still. A thought strikes you then, that Satan actually is watching, and that he's letting that energy build more and more. How could it feel so good otherwise?

You shift forward, angling your hips so that his tip can press against that perfect spot inside you, your arms circling his neck. His hands unclench from your hips, and he hugs you. Properly hugs you. His arms around your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes, sighing. You can practically feel his heartbeat inside you.

It's intimate, more than you think you can bear. But it's with him. Him, whom you've loved for years. Him, whom you've admired for even longer, silently, from afar. Him, who’s yours. Your Papa. Your Copia.

It's intimate, and raw, and a little scary. And perfect.

You stay like that for as long as your bodies allow, your walls clenching around him in a vain attempt to get some friction. You hug, and breathe, your nose buried in the crook of his neck. And then, you start moving. A slow roll of your hips, a timid rock up of his. You gasp in unison, stars sparkling under your closed eyelids.

It wouldn't be so bad, dying like this, so wrapped up in each other. And if you did things right, you will die soon. A wonderful little death, or a few, maybe.

The rocking of his hips soon grows more purposeful, and you feel him pressing deeper, where he belongs. You moan against his neck, your lips parting to mouth at his earlobe.

“Ohh… Oh, please…” He squeezes you tighter against himself, snapping his hips up until you feel like you're going to pass out from the pleasure.

“S-shit. Slow down. Oh, Satan… Slow down.” you pant into his ear, not wanting this to end yet.

Not yet. You're greedy like that.

He groans in frustration, but eventually stops moving, just in time. You pull your head back to look into his eyes, finding him with his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed. It reminds you of when he's trying to poke the straw into one of his juice boxes. You giggle.

“I love you… So damn much, you know?” you whisper, your voice rough from all the moaning, and shaking with the effort of still holding back.

“And I love you. Ti amo.” he whispers back, just as wrecked at you.

“Ti amo.”

And with that you're moving again.

It builds much faster this time. It's exhilarating, and it goes straight to your head. You're both overstimulated, your bodies quivering. And yet… More. More, more. Satan, please, more.

You don't want to stop. And that fire spreading in your core tells you that you can't stop. Not now.

“Amore- I can't… So close…” He seems to voice your own thoughts, and you nod desperately, struggling to keep looking at him with your eyes rolling back at his every thrust.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and ride him as you've done countless times before, but with more purpose now, more focus, and with hours, fuck, hours of buildup. You start out slow, lifting yourself up almost all the way, and sinking back down, your thighs burning.

He's holding on for dear life, and you can see it clearly. His chest is heaving, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, a flush spreading from his ears and cheeks all the way down to his chest. Debauched. And yours. You're sure you're not doing much better.

He grabs your hips again, and makes you speed up, the litany of moans escaping his lips telling you that he's past reason. Like a destructive tsunami, it can't be stopped.

You cling to each other, and it builds, and builds, and builds. And oh, the edging worked, because the more you move, the surer you are that you’re going to touch Heaven, only to fall down past the crust of the earth after, down right into the pits of Hell. You'd be welcome there.

His moans and yours mingle in a symphony of your own, and an outsider could almost think that they're in time with the music still playing in the background. That you're part of that music now.

You climb higher and higher, and wonder for an instant if that is how the people of Babel felt, as they got closer and closer to God. But you're not looking for God. You have your own piece of divinity right in front of your eyes. The love of your life.

“Ahh- Ah!” your love cries out, and you feel him tense beneath you, rocking his hips as far up as they'll go, burying himself fully inside you as his eyes roll back into his head, and his orgasm hits him. You feel his cock kicking inside you, his familiar warmth flooding your core, and you hold him tighter, hoping to prolong his high.

You're right on the edge yourself, and he's still twitching in you when he reaches his hand between you two to rub your clit. Just a few strokes, and you're joining him.

You press your mouth against his still open one, muffling your scream, and clamp down around him, your walls, your whole body really, pulsating with ecstasy. It's all consuming.

He gasps sharply when your climax seems to trigger another one from him. Unlikely, but even if it is just one, it lasts an ungodly amount of time. Thank Satan.

You keep grinding down on him until every last ounce of pleasure has been pulled from your body, and you're left drained, completely. You don't really know how many orgasms those were. Maybe one, maybe five. Who cares, when you're practically about to pass out on top of him.

Copia pants against your shoulder, sounding pretty close to hyperventilating. But then it dies down, the euphoria, leaving just buzzing static in your minds, your ears ringing, your hearts still racing.

“That was-”

“I think-”

Your voices clash, and you end up laughing, his cute little chuckle in your ear making your heart do a somersault.

“You first, amore,” you prompt, pulling back a bit to meet his gaze. He's a whole damn mess, but you know you look the same.

“Eh, just… That was… One of the most intense experiences I've ever had.” he mutters, sounding back to his usual self, not the agent of Satan on earth, just Copia.

“Yeah. It was… A lot.”

“Mmm.”

You smile at him, but then that smile splits into a full on-grin when you watch him making a face and shifting his legs under you. You know what that means, yet you ask anyway. “What?”

“‘M sticky…”

It's true, you can feel his seed dripping down your inner thighs as he goes soft inside you, but it doesn't bother you, it never does.

You roll your eyes, but still gently lift yourself off of him, wincing when he slips fully out. You miss him already. He flops down on his back over the mattress, and you join him, draping yourself against his side, your arm around his waist and your head resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he likes it too, staying inside you, letting the feeling linger. Sometimes that turns him on again, and he fucks his seed deeper into you, until you’re both completely exhausted. Other times, he just wants this, and you love it just as much.

“Shower?” you offer.

“Hmm, in a bit.”

“Alright.” You tilt your head up to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw. It always makes him shiver. “I think He liked it.”

“Huh?”

“Satan, He liked it. I could feel it, I think, near the end…”

That makes him peek down at you, a hint of a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “He likes you.” he tells you in that rumbly, sultry voice that never fails to make you weak.

“Well…” You avert your gaze, blushing, and fix it onto the inverted cross resting over his chest, your fingers coming up to toy with it. A reminder of the power that this man holds. Your man.

He hums, clearly not pleased that you looked away from him, and you feel his hand cupping your cheek, covering half of your face, really.

“Your Papa still demands your attention, topina.” He pulls you up to him, guiding your face towards his so that he can kiss you, nice and slow, almost languid, the way he kisses you when his mind is still floating in post-orgasmic bliss.

“Want me to wash your back, Papa?” you whisper against his lips, and he smirks, making your stomach flutter. Maybe the night is not quite over yet.

“If you'll indulge me…”

“I always do.”

The moment after, he’s dragging you to the bathroom, his eyes sparkling with teenage-like excitement. As if you didn't just go through a whole damn sex ritual.

But you do indulge him. You always do.

You'll just have to remember to put off all the candles before collapsing back into bed, loved like only he can love you.

[dolliethv]

Love language.

summary: English is not my first language, so if you notice any mistakes I'm sorry!! where your love language with jude is pretty funny, hope you enjoy it!! Xoxo

Pairing: Jude Bellingham x fem reader!!

Word count: about 1,4k

Jude Bellingham had an overwhelming presence, both on and off the field. With his imposing height, sculpted muscles, and that inexplicable aura that made him seem almost untouchable, he intimidated anyone who crossed his path. Every time he stepped onto the pitch in his Real Madrid jersey, his dominance was evident. He was the leader, the strategist, and, in many ways, a dominant figure in every aspect of his professional life.

However, all of that faded as soon as he crossed the threshold of his home.

It was a quiet afternoon in his stylish apartment in Madrid. You, his girlfriend, were in the kitchen preparing pancakes for a cozy movie night, while Jude was in the living room, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, sprawled out on the sofa in a relaxed posture. His height took up most of the couch, and he seemed, at least at that moment, like the most peaceful man in the world.

“Amooor!” Jude called from the living room in a voice that resembled nothing of the fierce footballer he was—“What are you doing? Come here, I feel abandoned.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you chopped the vegetables. You knew perfectly well that Jude had a completely mushy side that would be impossible for most people to imagine. It was your little secret, and you loved seeing him act that way, especially because it was so opposite to the public image everyone had of him.

“I’m making pancakes, Jude. You can survive just a few minutes, can’t you?” you replied, amused.

“Um… do you need help?” Jude began, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You laughed, knowing that Jude was more than capable of helping, but he was also an expert at seizing any opportunity to annoy you with his typical guy comments.

“I think I can handle it. Just need you not to interrupt me with your stupid jokes.”

“I promise nothing,” he responded.

Jude leaned in toward the bowl, peeking at the batter. He curved his lips into a smile as if a silly idea had just crossed his mind.

“Those pancakes look really good,” he said. —Oh, maybe he wasn't going to be a complete idiot with his comments today. — you thought. Jude rubbed his face against your neck in an adorable way. “But instead of that, don’t you want me to drizzle my maple syrup over your little pancakes?”

Forget it, this guy truly has no cure.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “That was so fucking disgusting, Jude Bellingham!”

In the end, a stack of golden pancakes piled high on the plate, while laughter and love filled the kitchen. Jude looked at you with that deep and sincere gaze, reminding you that, behind his strong exterior, there was a soft heart that always sought to make you laugh.

“All set, now to bed.” Jude extended his hand to you, smiling in a way that made your heart race. “The movie awaits us, and I can’t let those pancakes get cold because of you.”

(...)

Later, you found yourself with a Jude, exhausted from watching two movies in a row, who nestled against you, and to both your surprise, fell asleep with his head on your chest. His massive body looked even more disproportionate resting against your small figure. You smiled as you watched him, feeling the warmth of his body and the tranquility of that moment.

But the scene became even more comical when, in an involuntary act, Jude lifted one of his legs and let it fall over your hip. The image was almost ridiculous: his enormous, rugged, strong figure completely at your feet, while he slept deeply, oblivious to what was happening.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you murmured, laughing softly as you stroked his hair.

Your laughter intensified when you noticed Jude’s position highlighted his butt in a way that was almost too funny to ignore. “Damn, you have more butt than me…” you thought, enjoying the tenderness and the comedy of the moment.

You took out your phone, determined to capture the scene for posterity. “I can’t let this pass,” you told yourself as you adjusted to take a photo. The image of Jude, with his large, muscular leg draped over you, was too amusing to ignore.

Jude, in his sleep, shifted slightly, making his leg slide a bit more. You stifled a laugh, unable to resist the temptation to record a short video. The scene was too funny: your muscular boyfriend, the very image of masculinity, acting like the sweetest of boyfriends. “This should be the other way,” you said, laughing.

When Jude finally woke up because your chest was shaking with laughter, he realized the position he was in and blushed, although his expression was more of surprise than embarrassment. “What are you doing?” he asked, still groggy.

“Just capturing the moment for later; you look like a baby,” you joked, showing him the video on your phone.

“So you have proof of my most vulnerable moments, huh?” Jude said, his voice still sleepy but full of mischief.

“I only did it because you’re so cute when you sleep, don’t blame me,” you replied with a smile, trying to maintain your composure.

However, Jude's mind began to concoct a little revenge. While you were distracted looking at the videos and photos, he decided to take action. He stealthily approached and gave you a little shove. “Hey! How about I record your vulnerable moments too?” snatching the phone from your hands and starting to film you.

He began to tickle you in such a torturous way; perhaps they were two long minutes of wrestling and laughing. In an attempt to defend yourself, you lifted your leg to push him away, but what you didn’t expect was for your knee to directly impact Jude’s groin.

“OW!” Jude yelled, his face contorting in a mix of surprise and pain. He dropped to the floor, placing a hand on his groin, dramatically exaggerating the scene as if he had been struck by an opponent on the field. “This is a ruthless attack! Not only do you wake me up, but you also kick my ‘mini (not too mini) Jude.’”

You, unable to contain your laughter, crouched beside him while trying to ask if he was okay. “Are you alright, Jude? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t you know that hurts?” he said, grimacing dramatically while keeping his hand on his groin. “You could’ve made me sterile with that hit. I’m injured!”

You burst into laughter, enjoying his dramatics. “Oh, come on! Don’t be so exaggerated. You have no idea what real pain is. You’ve never experienced menstrual cramps.”

Jude frowned, lifting his head off the floor. “So menstrual pain is worse than being hit in a man’s most sacred place?”

“It’s a completely different experience, my love,” you replied, still laughing. “But just to be clear, I’m not letting you record my vulnerability ever again!”

“it huuuurt sooo much” he said dramatically.

At that moment, Jude seemed to have a mini dramatic performance like those footballers who exaggerate their falls to gain an advantage. Men are so weak and weird, really.

As the night went on, laughter and intimacy filled the room, creating a magical atmosphere where only the two of you existed. Jude, amidst jokes and gentle caresses, let himself be carried away by the joy of the moment. You, with a mischievous smile, decided it was the perfect time for a little skincare treatment.

With a mix of tenderness and fun, you settled into his lap and began to pull out your skincare products. Jude, for his part, made a face of disgust upon seeing the creams, refusing to use those “strange things” on his face. The idea of getting his eyebrows shaped seemed even more absurd to him, a kind of torture that made you laugh.

However, by the end of the day, he couldn’t resist. You looked at him with those sparkling eyes that melted away any resistance. Jude knew he was in the palm of your hand, and although he grumbled at first, he let you do it. As you applied the creams, your voice turned into a gentle murmur of affection, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the attention. That mutual surrender was his love language, where care and fun intertwined in every gesture.

The room was filled with laughter and love, a reminder that in your world, every moment together was special. That night, the bed became your little refuge, a space where hugs, laughter, and gestures of affection intertwined, creating memories you would treasure forever.

[softxsuki]

Reader's Birthday Surprise for Ace

| Pairing: Ace x Fem!Reader | Genre: Fluff | Post-Type: Drabble | Word Count: 670 |

Warnings: hmm, slightly suggestive towards the end if you squint...

Note: Happy Birthday Ace! I want to do little birthday drabbles like these for the characters I write for, so hopefully I can keep up with it! It's my first time writing for Ace, and I've been stuck writing headcanons for a while so if this sounds a little choppy, FORGIVE ME. I haven't written a drabble in a while NFJBEKABF.

Quiet giggles erupt from your lips as you lace your fingers with Ace’s and sneak him to the ships kitchen, doing your best to stay quiet and not wake up the rest of the crew. You felt silly, like a child again as you tiptoed through the halls and onto the deck, finding your way to the kitchen that was closed for the night.

“Where are we going?” Ace asks, confused by your sudden desire to sneak around with him.

“Shh no questions just follow along,” you whisper back, continuing through with your mini adventure.

The roughness of his hands felt nice in your grip, sending butterflies to your stomach. You still couldn’t believe you were dating the firefist Ace, you only hoped he’d like the surprise you prepared for him.

Upon slowly opening the kitchen’s door, praying silently that it wouldn’t creak as you did so, you were met with darkness. Letting go of Ace’s hand for a moment, you reach for the lighter on the counter and carefully lit a single lantern, hoping it wasn’t too bright.

You glance out the porthole from the kitchen; if your calculations were correct, it would be midnight soon, meaning the first of January was approaching–Ace’s birthday. You smile to yourself before turning back to your freckled man.

“Alright, close your eyes,” you command, walking closer to him and leading his hands over his eyes. “No peeking”

You see him smile at your antics, unsure of what you had planned, but excited to participate anyway, not a single complaint leaving his mouth.

Once you’re sure he’s not peeking, you scurry over to the cooler and take out your creation you spent all afternoon preparing for him. You place the small cake on the counter and place a few candles in it, lighting them up.

“Can I open my eyes yet? What are you doing, trying to kill me by lighting the room on fire? You know that won’t work on me since I’m literally made of fire, sweets” He jokes.

“Oh hush, open your eyes.”

As commanded, his hands fall from his eyes and he’s met with the soft glow of fire on top of a cake with the words ‘Happy Birthday Ace’ written messily on it. 

“I know it’s not much. Thatch let me use his kitchen earlier, but I don’t really have that much experience with baking so it probably won’t taste good, but I still wanted to do something for you to celebrate the day you were brought into this world. I’m sorry if-”

You’re cut short from your rambling as Ace lifts you up onto the counter, standing between your legs as he cups your face and smashes his lips onto yours–a token of his appreciation for your efforts.

“I love it,” he says while pulling away, his forehead resting on yours. He couldn’t believe he met someone as incredible as yourself who aside from his brothers and crew, appreciated that he was alive and loved him. “And I love you, you didn’t have to do all this.”

You once again lace your fingers together, pressing soft kisses to his knuckles. “I love you too” You smile, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I know I didn’t have to do this, but you deserve it. I wanted to do something nice for you!” 

He laughs to himself, pressing one final kiss to your forehead before turning back to the cake.

“Then, shall we dig in? I’m starving for something sweet right now and as much as I could devour you, I’d love to try your cake,” He winks, earning him a light smack on the arm.

The cake wasn’t the best, but Ace still ate it all. He insisted on eating your symbol of love and refused to leave any for the rest of the crew. It was safe to say, your plan worked. It was a great start to Ace’s birthday and you had plenty more surprises left for him, but those would have to wait.

Posted: 1/1/2024

[lavendermunson]

dress | steve harrington x fem!reader

+18. theatre date night. fingering, dirty talk. babygirl and daddy as pet names. cum eating.

Steve loves when you take him to the theatre to watch a ‘weird’ movie. There's a few people in the room, he makes you sit down behind everyone, away from the screen but not to far back so you can watch the movie. The reason? he found himself in awe of you when you showed up at your front porch with that tiny dress, when he opened the door for you to get into his car and drive to the mall he watched the bottom of the dress lift up and he could swear he saw your panties,he bit his bottom lip so hard he was able to get a silver taste from the blood.

Now that he has you all by himself in a dark room, his hand starts to get close to your thigh and between your legs, making you squirm. A couple of popcorn got to the floor but you didn’t care much, his hand started to go up as his face got closer to your neck to leave hot pecks and lick your skin ferociously.

Your thighs close involuntarily when his fingers get to the newest but familiar wet spot on your panties, you can feel his smirk on your neck because he never stopped kissing you. He starts rubbing your clit making the wet spot bigger.

"Such a needy girl, aren't you" he gets so turned on by your soft an quiet moans "Oh yes be quiet babygirl, i don't want you interrumpting the movie" his raspy voice makes your toes curl, your legs open up as his fingers move your panties to the side and his kisses go up to the soft spot of your neck, right under your ear "Needy baby, feels good?"

"Stevie, p-please" you go shy on him, mouth parted and unable to speak up at the same time your cheeks grow red and hot.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Finger me, please finger me”

His smile gets bigger, sending a warning signal to your tummy.

"Baby, baby, baby" he shakes his head "you are a fucking dream"

His fingers play with your wetness for a couple of seconds and he digs two digits into you, moving them in and out of you with a slow pace.

"F-fuuuck" your words come out as a whisper, he gets even more frustrated and he starts to curl his fingers inside you, making your dripping cunt feel like burning.

"You are so hot baby, look so pretty too" he whispers in your ear as you moan quietly, the thought of being in a public space was so hot "you wish it was my cock, princess? you can say it and i can flip your word in an instant"

"Y-yes, i- wish it was your oh fuck cock" you slurred your words, your chest coming up and down as you try to breath but it was impossible. Steve knew how to get you whimpering for him, talking dirty sweet nothings while he fingers you silly and kisses your neck. He starts to rub your clit with this thumb, making sure you feel as good as ever.

Your back melts in the seat, your mouth a perfect shaped "O" he sees you and his eyes turn into hearts, you are the prettiest girl he has ever seen and the fact that you let him all sorts of hot things to you drives him crazy. His hand reaches your jaw, holding your head up and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers.

"I’m going to c-cum, p-please oh daddy let me cum" a new hot wave of air comes at you, jolts of energy circle back and forth from your tummy to your pussy, the back of your neck sweating as you try to hold on.

"You can cum babygirl, do it for daddy" as your body relaxes you he squeezes your face harder, your eyes roll to the back of your head and you untie the knot on your stomach releasing all your cum in his hand "dirty little baby, you are doing so so good"

Steve gets his fingers out of you and tries to collect every drop, he takes his fingers to his mouth and sucks his hand, the squeaky noices of his saliva mixing with your juices makes you even more horny. He cleans himself and locks eyes with you while doing it, this man is going to be the death of you.

"Baby, you did so good" he takes your hand and pulls you into his chest, you sit on his lap while he runs a hand through your back and gives you a calm massage. Your legs still shaking, he notices it immediately "you okay?"

You hide in the crook of his neck, rubbing your nose against his skin.

"I want you to fuck me"

He takes no time in getting up, you follow him as you run towards the exit of the theatre and into the parking lot.

"My seats fold all the way back"

"Perfect"

—

little blurb because im hot and high lol. didn’t even proofread but ill do it in the morning 🥰 stay tuned for part two

[mncxbe]

Sweet n Low

𝑨𝒌𝒊 𝑯𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒌𝒂𝒘𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡𝒄𝒘: csm spoilers, sad Aki, on and off unestablished relationship, lil bit of smut and silly, slice of life// 2.3k words

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: ok so my city's full of wax cherry trees and they all bloomed this week♡ i was riding a bus when i passed some of the bloomed trees and they looked like they were covered in snow and it gave me this idea for Aki// divider by @benkeibear

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕: Aki rarely takes days off of work. It’s pointless, a waste of precious time he could spend hunting down devils, but after getting injured into a fight, Makima forces him to go on vacation.

The heavy snow on the streets of Tokyo was long replaced by blossoming trees and vendors selling sakura mochi. Everything is so much lighter during spring- the air, the people, everything except the weight on Aki’s shoulders and the questions weighing on his mind. What’s he supposed to do with a free week? The whole point of this vacation is for him to relax and recover, so staying at home with Power and Denji is out of the question. The only other place he knows is Hokkaido, but he swore he’d never go there safe for the anniversary of his parents’ death.

Truth is, Aki has nowhere to go, and when Aki has nowhere to go, he comes to you.

When you open the door to your apartment, your colleague greets you with a nod “Hey there”

Oh hi, Aki. You move to the side, letting him step inside. As always, Aki takes off his shoes and sits down at the kitchen table, looking around the apartment while you make him coffee- medium grind, slow drip with no milk and a pinch of sugar. You notice he’s quieter than usual, his expression darker as he stares at something outside the kitchen window. During the few years you’ve known each other you learnt that Aki has the bad habit of getting lost in his own thoughts when things got tough– his mind is both a refuge and a prison, but today it seems to be the latter. Placing the steaming cup of coffee next to him you squeeze behind his chair, wrapping your arms around his neck. I see you were discharged. You feel any better?

“A little bit…” he muses “Look, I was wondering if I could crash at your place this week. Makima made me take a week off after my injury” You smile, nuzzling your chin in the crook of his neck. He always smells so good despite smoking, like a fresh summer breeze. I’d let you stay but I’m going back to my hometown this week so… “No, no it’s okay I get it. Forget I asked” Aki and you are close, but not close enough to let him stay at your place by himself. Still, you can’t shake off the feeling that you have to do something for him. You could come with me you suggest and he tenses up, shaking his head “I couldn’t possibly it’s your vacation. I don’t want to intrude” Nonsense you giggle, slowly running your hands up the sides of his face and into his hair to undo his topknot. The protests that fall from his lips are quickly silenced when you trace soft kisses on his neck and jaw, working your way up to the shell of his ear.

Come on, Aki, it’ll be fun. You and me in my little hometown for a whole week you whisper, rolling his stiff muscles under your palms, easing the tension in his shoulders. We could go on walks all day. I’ll show you around, it’s a pretty village, quite quiet too, perfect for you to relax. Your hands slide lowers down his chest and abdomen, finding purchase on his thighs. Your body’s practically flush against his back and Aki’s breath catches in his throat when you kiss his cheek again I can help you relax–

“Ok, alright, I’ll come with you” he cuts you off, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist, one of the few signs of affection he showed you. You straighten your back at his compliance and ruffle his hair, earning a soft frown from the man Wonderful, we’re leaving tonight.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

You reach your hometown by morning, just before sunrise, and you rent a room at a local inn. “Why don’t you just stay with your family?” he asks the moment the door to your room slides shut behind you. He drops his luggage on the floor and reaches for his pack of cigarettes Because I promised you I’d stay with you. You snap your fingers to get his attention and Aki turns to see you pointing at a no smoking inside sign and huffs, mumbling curses under his breath as he returns the pack to his breast pocket. “I really have to go all the way to the front porch to have my damn cigarette?”

Sort of you laugh and it’s like music to his ears. He takes a deep breath in to calm his nerves and looks around the room: it wasn’t much larger than his own bedroom, with a bed in the middle and a table for two in the corner, next to the built-in closet. A fresh breeze seeps inside the room through the open window, carrying a faint flowery scent. It was early morning and people were slowly starting to come out on the streets “So, what’s the plan for today?” Jee, Aki, relax we just got here. We should sleep for a while, we’ve been up all night you say as if you didn’t sleep during the whole trip. “I think I’ll pass. I’m going to take a walk around town” You nod, yawning as you slip out of your clothes and into your pajamas. You sure you don’t want to stay?

Curling up between the sheets with you in his arms sounds awfully tempting, but he needs to be alone at least for a while. “I’m sure. I’ll be back in a few hours though”

And so he leaves the inn and walks down the stone paved street lined with pretty houses, family restaurants and shops with closed windows. From time to time, someone passes by and gives him a friendly good morning but aside from that, the place is silent. There are no cars rushing around, no bustling crowds and no devils massacring innocent civilians, just peace and quiet, as if the whole town was frozen in time. Aki doesn’t understand how a village just hours away from Tokyo could be so serene, but he welcomes the normality of this place, allowing it to settle down over him and soothe his worries.

He finds a bench on the main street and takes a seat, procuring his pack. He cups the flame of his lighter with a hand, sheltering it from the soft breeze as he lights a cigarette and takes a deep breath in, the smoke stinging the back of his throat. Aki drops his head back and closes his eyes, listening to the birds chirping in the distance. Perfect, everything is perfect, he’s certain he made the right decision by joining you on this trip. He’d go back to you in a few hours and you’ll show him around town, maybe he’ll even get to meet your family one of these days and the two of you would have a good time. Maybe he will even allow himself to believe that you are more than occasional fuck buddies.

But then he notices the trees and the sense of peace crumbles. As he looks up at the crowns of flowers above him through half lidded eyes they seem covered in snow and nausea washes over him. How did he not notice them sooner? Fuck his mind for not allowing him to have one peaceful moment before memories of the day his family died rushed in. Suddenly, the picture he conjured up of this corner of paradise, his plans to enjoy the vacation are spoiled, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. He ashes his cigarette and gets up from the bench, retracing his steps back to the inn, away from all the things that remind him of his past. He shuts himself in, desperately trying to ignore his memories and the white trees lining up every street that make him feel like the world is caging in on him.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s in his room until your sleepy voice snaps him back to his senses. Aki, you’re back so soon? you mumble, rubbing your eyes and stretching out an arm, beckoning him to join you in bed. And he does, shrugging off his jacket and slipping under the sheets. Did you have fun on your walk? He mumbles a yes, though you can tell he’s not in the best of spirits, so you simply smile up at him, holding his face in your hands. I’m glad then. Maybe we could go to the hot springs later today. I’m sure you’ll love it. Your touch feels so warm against his skin, your lips so deliciously sweet when you kiss him. Aki hooks an arm around your waist and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against one another and your breaths grow shallower as he pulls your pajama shorts to the side.

His actions are urgent, desperate, but you let him kiss you and touch you and fuck you and he does it like you’re his lifeline. Because in moments like this one, when he's plagued by his past, the pain so vivid and intense even years after those unfortunate events, you are the only thing that brings him peace.

So what’s up with you, hm? You seem awfully tense.

The sun sunk low under the line of the horizon a few hours ago, the only source of light coming from the lampposts on the main street, a hue of gold floating dissipating in the dark of the night. Aki’s back is turned to you as he pretends to sleep, his ribcage rising and falling with each breath he takes. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk– he’s been acting strange ever since he returned from his walk and didn’t even join you to the onsen, but you can’t just leave him like this.

Shifting closer to him, you run your hand along the expanse of his arm, feeling his muscles relax under your touch. You’re not going to accomplish anything by ignoring me, you press and he sighs, turning to lay on his back. He looks so pretty in the soft light that seeps through the open window, his jaw tense, lips pressed in a tight line, lashes batting slowly as if to fence off the sleep. When he finally speaks his voice has a distant edge to it. “It’s just the trees. They remind me of the snow in Hokkaido”

And is that a bad thing?

Of course you don’t know, he never told you about his parents and he has doubts that this is the right moment to have this conversation. But your eyes are so imploring as you prop yourself up on your forearm and look down at him, waiting for some sort of clarification.

“You know... my parents and my brother died when I was a kid, killed by the Gun devil. It was winter and everything was snowed in. I was playing outside with my brother but I sent him to grab something from the house and that’s when-” His voice is strained, like he has to force the words out of him and you feel your heart breaking for him. Your gaze drifts to at the tree in front of your room’s window, its white flowers basking in moonlight and somehow you can see it: the soft glow of the petals and the way they slope to the ground when the wind sweeps them off their sepals resembles snowflakes falling.

You fiddle with the collar of Aki’s t-shirt, trying to find the right thing to say. Would he even appreciate your sympathy? You know he’s not the type of guy who likes to be pitied and you fear doing worse, pushing him farther away. I’m sorry to hear you say under your breath, wrapping your arms around his narrow waist and placing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. I didn’t know it’d be like this.

“Don’t apologize, it's not your fault. I’ve got my own issues to deal with, but I want us to have a good time here” His reassurance doesn’t really have the effect he hoped for, he can tell you’re already overthinking. Aki cups your cheek, tilting your head up, making you face him. “I mean it, Y/N. Don’t worry.” His lips brush against yours in a soft kiss, his hand finding its way to your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. “Plus they’re just fucking trees. I won’t let them ruin the only actual vacation I had since I joined the Public Safety”

But won’t they bother you if you see them all the time? I mean, hell, they’re everywhere.

"I know they are…” his voice drifts off as he leans closer to you, his deep blue eyes scanning your features as he traces the contour of your face with his fingertips. Your skin is smooth and warm under his touch, a reminder that you’re here. That he’s here. He’s not in the frozen land of Hokkaido, not in his childhood home, but in a little town with cherry trees east of Fukuoka. This is your home, your life, and for a week he’s allowed to be part of it, to forget his worries and leave his past behind. And he’d be damned if he let a couple of plants ruin it for him. So he kisses you again, gently pushing you back down on the mattress as he whispers against your lips “I guess I’ll just have to keep my eye on you whenever we’re outside.”

[satomatto]

. //TK DAYS | NAOYA ZEN'IN.

cw: femdom; bondage; supposedly non-con/dub-con towards the end; Naoya is a bastard and that says it all.

tw: control/submission; brat taming; orgasm control; dry orgasm; semi-public; anal sex; is prostate massage with an armature part of your plans, dear friends? now yes; humiliation; binding; it can be a little incoherent in places; facesitting; foot fetish (a little?); Naoya is a bastard x2.

wc: 3.2k

Your fingers gently run over the rough rope. The quiet, sweet breathing right next to you is relaxing. The pretty face is surprisingly calm. A little off-putting. And after all, this guy is cute only when he's asleep - the muscles of his face are soft and relaxed, and his mouth isn't spewing tons of nasty, barbed words that spread through you like poison.

The airy lace shirt, you know that silly pink thing makes him drool. He'd prefer to fuck you without taking it off and then jerk you off for weeks, clutching it in his fist and reaching for it with every fiber of his worthless soul until the smell wears off.

It's truly disgusting to watch it from behind the screen. While he's sure you still don't suspect a thing. Oh yeah, sure, the bastard moans loud and high while he does it - it's impossible not to realize what's going on during these 'meditation' sessions in the back room of the clan mansion. It's worth giving him credit, he's actually more focused afterward. As befits a worthy Zenin heir.

And, as befits a worthy bride of a Zenin heir, you're doing a pretty good job of keeping him in line. After you came into his life and followed him around, he became much more balanced, which is surprising to everyone. You've heard a few thank yous from the servants. You know, the assistant Zenin personal chef adores you. And your personal maid, who was begging to be transferred somewhere - even demoted, expecting you to treat her like Naoya - is now willing to die for this place.

Good food is never too much to ask for, though, is it? And always clean clothes and royal-level service at the snap of your fingers comes in handy most of the time, too. Besides, access to the gossip going around between the clans and in this cursed place comes in handy too.

For example, that's how you found out that Naoya has a small altar in his room dedicated to a man named Toji. Fushiguro was once a Zenin, and after a couple fateful interactions, little Naoya made him his ideal - in fact, even without going into details, you find the man worthy of respect, but Naoya… He's always been the odd one. Anyway, since this place was never built on such high feelings, like a respect, it's a sin not to take advantage of another of his weaknesses - that's the extra pressure points, right?

But, uh, can't you just throw away all your trump cards? Nope, and that's the only reason you're not talking right now. Yes, sometimes it's worth it to stick your tongue up your ass to enjoy watching others bury their heads in the sand, luckily for you, Naoya wasn't good at shutting up in time, but isn't that more fun?

Looking at him makes you think about so many things and it does make you want to try to mess with him in much more subtle ways, but at the moment you should stick to your plan. It's too early to cross the line. Boundaries need to be pushed first, then broken.

You know, it's pretty sweet. What a blatant variety - the sheer volume of curses he heaps on you (the only thing his generosity shows, merit note) while his cock desperately jerks and leaking thick, translucent pre-ejaculate profusely. He's already soiled his expensive clothes and is now whimpering at your feet like some dirty dog.

"Doesn't your pretty mouth know how to do anything else?" you mock him. He'd said the same thing to you once, one of your first nights, and you hadn't had much experience in bed, either, since most of your interactions had been limited to fingering and the porn the maid had shown you.

It's not something a noble lady can do, but in the end, you had to - after you were put up as collateral, you had to gain the trust of the heir.

So all your family's debts were forgotten as a wedding present. Still, thanks to this performance, you remain relatively free, so it's not like you regret what you've done.

Especially because the heir to the clan himself turned out to be such a whore.

The soft slippers you usually wear - you wish you'd changed them for high-heeled shoes. Preferably with a platform, the kind that would smear that pretty face on the garden tiles where he's lying tied up and helpless.

With a sharp tug on the ropes, you struggle to get this carcass to sit up and turn around, safely ignoring his protests.

Still, he should be quieter. Just because you dragged him to an abandoned, albeit neat barn, doesn't mean he can yell as usual and go unnoticed.

What a shame for the heir to the clan to cry out for help while in such a humiliating position. He knows how quickly rumors spread, and his frankly vile nature doesn't help his position as a victim. He'll be laughed at - there's no other way to put it!

Either way, he shuts up pretty quickly when your foot rests against his lips. Maybe fuzzy slippers really weren't the best choice - he'll choke on it. Fine, though, because in one elegant motion, you drop the slipper, which lands quite successfully nearby.

You flirt with his lips one last time. Well, he must not be ready for that yet.

So, you gently slide your foot lower, rubbing your fingertips through his clothes.

The very next second, you step on, placing your foot flat and causing him to topple backwards, hitting his head painfully on the wooden bench behind him. Watch as the idiot shakes his hips, looking for a better footing to keep from falling over.

The way he looks at you in that moment is priceless. There's so much helplessness in that fleeting contact that is immediately replaced by a contrived coldness afterward. He doesn't like restrictions. Also, he's never let you be on top, eh, complexes, complexes… Well, you'll have a blast now.

What are you thinking about, running your little foot over his cock? Not that you're going to get dirty in it too. And this pedicure was only recently done… But it's too late to back out.

Pretty warm for late summer, isn't it? The way Naoya's moans resonate in your crotch makes you redouble your efforts. Your position isn't very stable, especially because of the way he wiggles his hips to the beat, letting out another dirty moan, followed immediately by a filthy curse in a language you don't know. Well, at least it sounded vicious enough….

How nice - Naoya manages to come to his senses again and gets into that prickly shell again, spitting out another insult in your direction. He's starting to get repetitive in them. It seems even this rambunctious boy has limits; or he's just lost the ability to think clearly already, which is just as likely.

How long do you think it will take for him to soil himself in his own cum, like the dirty dog that he is? Ah, probably quite a while.

Just when you think about it, his pathetic cock begins to throb more tangibly under your leg, like a butterfly trapped in a cage (too elegant a comparison), and alas he's still moaning in a way that so caresses your ears, signaling that he's really close. But, are you going to give him that opportunity? What a freaking pump jump….

Losing your balance a little, your foot slides down, landing right on his balls. He's a big enough boy to be able to support some of your weight, ignore those frustrated-painful moans coming from this pile of incoherent shit. He's looking at you with a pitying stare, out of his clouded eye sockets. He's gonna cry, that poor guy!

At first you thought you'd hurt him somehow, but when you looked down, you saw a charming picture. This one was whining not because he was in discomfort - rather the opposite, he was literally dripping with it.

Ah, yes, that pissy little masochist.

Now you're really wondering what exactly makes him so obsessed with his training. Oh, maybe he even have played with his juicy ass before… In fact, you don't really care if he's had experience. After all, you're always happy to give people an unforgettable time!

The light satin pouch swinging on the delicate silk cord tied around your hips opened to let your delicate fingers in.

You've been planning to use it on him for a while now.

Nice wavy texture, with a very successful seal at the end, still with a comfortable, curved handle - isn't it fabulous? The material is wood. This was hard to find - such good work…. You could tell you were very pleased with your find. Well, it's time to use it on this brat, he's been so quiet, it's almost boring.

As soon as his eyes meet yours, he once again makes a wry face and venomously spouts how disgusted he is to be here, once again demanding to be untied in order to teach you some kind of lesson.

You'd think you'd be that stupid. It's not like he'd think of anything better than just making you taste your own medicine. Though you're both good at that - spitting at each other from the same angle until one of you comes up with something new, and so on and so forth. Kind of ironic.

His cock drooped and now he was only squinting somewhere through you. You didn't like the fact that he was distracted, but for the sake of a brighter future, you could be patient for a while, couldn't you?

Of course, it didn't make you feel any better to listen to the asshole's beautiful, sweet, exceptionally flattering speeches. Your soft, condescending smile won't waver - you've spent so much time perfecting it in the mirror that nothing can shake it now. Yeah, you've definitely been preparing for something like this.

Maybe not specifically for this day - you didn't even expect it to go so smoothly. Maybe our omniscient and ready for anything heir is so used to you that he doesn't even pay attention to your cursed energy anymore? You've heard that everyone has it, but even so, you can't control it. That's sad, because then you'd have so many new opportunities. And danger.

But that makes it even more interesting.

It's also funny that despite all his brave speeches, the proud Zenin still hasn't used his cursed technique that he bragged so much about. Maybe the ropes are in his way, but it's highly doubtful - the most ordinary untreated harnesses, taken a couple of days ago from the same shed.

That leaves only one possibility: he's actually enjoying it, or in other words, getting a real high, isn't he?

Even watching Naoya deal with such a pathetic situation, covered in your juices, his cock leaking more and more, even through the erection ring you so thoughtfully put on, right after he started moaning too loudly, even after your warning. Not that he was a rabbit in bed, despite the fact that he often finished things earlier than you would have liked, he was ready to go for another round almost immediately - he clearly lacked stamina, because he would also finish after a couple of slimy moans and a couple minutes of panting whimpering. You should teach him how to fuck, dear.

Yes, definitely - spread his legs even wider, tying another knot behind his back as he bites his own lips, holding back a heaving moan. He's ready to burst from the fact that you're finally coming down on his cock. The freshly cut grass is actually quite unpleasantly prickly. However, it smells good. Unlike this--

All right, fine, in fact, the master of water procedures knows how to give himself a good bath - with all those silly rituals, he most often emerges from the ofuro with a very pleasant, lingering smell of green tea and honey, among a whole bunch of disparate but surprisingly well-blended scents, even the smell of lavender slips in.

However, even all this splendor wears off after a week of regular training and other delights of a sorcerer's life. And this man is clearly not going to bother with even a simple shower once every three days, so is it worth talking about how he usually smells? Especially when you have to give him oral.

You just can't stand it, even though Naoya himself adopts a cute, wrinkled expression on your face as he stretches your mouth and nips at your throat, trying to get you to take him even deeper. Every time, he feels obligated to fuck you the hardest he can so that the next day you'll wrinkle your nose every time you need to open your mouth, even if he doesn't enjoy it himself. He just likes to see you in pain.

He may know more about clan politics than you do, but you're clearly a bit more educated than someone who spends most of his time as an adult in some sort of training (and even that is questionable now).

He stopped in that regard as soon as he turned sixteen, yes, his manners aren't bad, but still, they leave a lot to be desired, especially compared to you. Well, your former educational institution had high standards.

At the very least, you still have the support of your family and you're not his wife yet, and who's to say they have pride and would rather be up to their ears in bloody debt than let their precious eldest daughter be humiliated into full marriage.

He can't just beat you up, and his bullshit isn't the least bit intimidating, at least not yet, not once, after his next verbal diarrhea, has he ever raised a hand to you. You highly doubt his upbringing played into that. He's not a silent biter.

You pull your panties down to your ankles and pull them off, shoving them deeper into his mouth. So they don't fall out. It would be better to shove them down from your leg for security, but you're more focused now on the idea of how hard his eyes will roll. Will you be able to make him cry? There's no time to waste, because the asshole is starting to realize something - the last thing you need is for him to start squirming.

The smooth wood slides easily between your labia, collecting your natural lubrication. Yes, it may be not enough, even over the top, especially for someone who has never tried anything like this before. But, somehow, you don't care. Like he once did.

You can still remind him of the time that bastard brazenly spit in your crotch and ignoring your willingness to do it, he put it all the way in, holding your arms above your head with a steely grip.

Oh, and afterward he was so complimentary about the way your walls clenched around him that you'd think he actually liked it, pfft. You remember perfectly well how hard it was for him to move.

Here, even Naoya, the speed himself, somehow lasted longer than five minutes, all the while panting and twitching every time you clamped down because of the unpleasant sensations down there, intentionally or not. After that, he left in unhappy, snorting unhappily.

Oh, you'd forgotten how beautiful the moments were when he was silent. As you shifted him into a horizontal position, you realized that you hadn't really thought about picking up more proper knots.

It's going to be a little uncomfortable, but it's too late to back out - not when you've already done it all. You want to get to the end, and Naoya will to remember this day.

As you thought about how to push the toy in, you were totally oblivious to Naoya. You might have been a little lost in your own thoughts, but without even realizing it, you were playing with your pussy, gently collecting your juices on the toy. Well, there was nowhere to get lube anyway (and even though initially you wanted to limit yourself to spit, such a vulnerable view could not help but inspire lustful thoughts).

The guy below was literally seething, and why wouldn't he be? Hovering right over him, you were literally giving him the VIP-seats to this voyeur.

It's amazing how you didn't think of that before. He was scrutinizing your curves so closely that you couldn't even think about the admiration your body aroused in him - only senseless lust could move him, of course. Such a graceful figure, skillful hands… Ah, no wonder he likes to watch you so much - to tell you the truth, you'd do the same if you were him.

The moans coming out through his gag were music to your ears. Couldn't have been more charming.

Well, it's time for dessert. You squat down, getting comfortable on his chest and playfully wiggling your hips, teasing him even more, you spread his legs. He still doesn't understand that you want to give him the slip - poor guy. so naive… Locking the knots so that he can't move the hips at the worst possible moment, flattening your head like a watermelon, you return to his crotch.

Gently, just touching the overexcited, sensitive cock, you gently move lower and lower, smearing your secretions all over his ass. He seems to start to realize what's going on - through the half-drunk fog of arousal. he starts to move his hips indignantly, really only helping you to push the dildo into his anus.

A light flick on his engorged cock is enough to make him shriek and hastily shut up in a rag. Literally.

The ribbed walls of the wooden dildo graze his entrance with startling frequency. You might not be too rough on him, it's not to your advantage - that's an easier way to phrase it.

After a couple of thrusts, you get the feeling that he has a vacuum cleaner in his ass, otherwise how then did he create such a powerful pump? Yeah, there are more and more questions to those training sessions, perhaps you should attend one sometime…..

He's wriggling around like some kind of worm. Almost pathetic, but what can you do - you're already tired of it. Perhaps it's time to finish it?

Accelerating your thrusts to the point where your hand starts to go numb, suddenly, stopping, you grab his flushed cock. It feels swollen, as do his balls.

It must be painful? Not being able to get free for so long.

You probably should have tortured him a little longer, made him walk with the ring long enough for him to come crawling back to you, but you've had enough of that already. Nerves are getting the better of you, aren't it?

Such tension - ah, his whole body shakes and arches as you squeeze him lightly at the base.

The muffled click of the lock on the ring sends a wave of satisfaction through your body. Zenin is so sensitive right now, he could cum from your breath-… And that's something you should have thought about a little earlier. Or at least realize how hard it's been on him all this time. Probably should have brought tissues, though… What do you need them for when you have such an adorable mouth around? Should you get him to clean you? Oh, no, you've got a better idea.

Sliding closer to his face, still wiggling your hips and never stopping generously jerking him off, you position your ass roughly where his mouth is. From the sounds of it, the heir managed to spit out your makeshift gag the moment you sat on him. Come on, you're not that heavy, but apparently it was just too much for some people - heavy breathlessness is a testament to that.

At first you thought he wouldn't have thought of it on his own, because he'd never been brilliantly intelligent - brazen, maybe, but now that his brains were leaking out through his cock (and still soaking into his clothes), he was unable to form the simplest coherent sentence, making only scraps of sounds that should be… Words?

However, his tongue was between your legs pretty quickly, desperately playing with your entrance and engaging your clit. Maybe you cost each other, finally deciding to pull the dildo out of his ass, with a distinctive pop, slowly pulling out and yanking sharply when there were only millimeters left; you come to the point where you can't reuse it.

Not wanting to put the dirty toy away in that lovely pouch, you toss it into the nearest bushes, getting comfortable on the guy's face beneath you. As far as you can remember, this part of the garden will barely be reached by Friday, so you have plenty of time.

Ah, turns out this prick is really good at this. Perhaps you shouldn't have underestimated him and his complaints about you aren't so unfounded? But, he hasn't given you a hint of that until now, so… It's not enough to have talent - you have to know how to use it.

And now you've found the perfect use for it.

Even though it's a little selfish, you ignore his whimpering - on edge, you decide that a slight asphyxiation wouldn't hurt him. After all, he's only shown his best feelings for pain before.

With a loud groan, you move all over the surface available to you, rubbing your pussy all over his face, and finally soiling him with your juices, you move up and get, by your own admission, the best look on his face today.

All wet, slimy stuff, greedily gulping air with his mouth like a beached fish, tongue out and eyes rolled back in delight. His cock seems to twitch again, but this time nothing comes out of it - the guy's body shakes with spasms and he struggles desperately on the ground, trying in vain to get out of the ropes and uncomfortable position.

To think what you've driven him to - what a bad girl, eh! And exactly the same thinks the unfortunate man who came out of that damned house at such a late hour…

[dranna]

Movie Night with Ken

AO3 / Commissions / Links /

Warnings: fluff, tiny tiny angst, hurt/comfort, feeling excluded, sobbing, not beta read

Summary: Ken planned a special night to watch a horsey movie with you. But when emotions starts bubbling up due to the film, he gets insecure.

a/n: I watched this movie for the first time a few days ago, and I fell in love with this silly. (I'm still practising writing and english is not my first language, so I apologise for mistakes) ((lowkey nervous posting this ))

tags my beloveds: @ken-dom

Moon was shining,

Stars were singing,

All the clouds went sleeping.

It was a quiet evening,

Notley as quiet as Los Angeles can be,

When Ken was busy arranging things,

He thought were important for his doings.

You two were in your home,

That Ken called Dojo Mojo.

You still remembered the time,

Caughting him red handed as he tried,

To hide something from your sight.

“What you got there dear?”

“I-it’s nothing..

It’s stupid really haha..”

— as he moved,

You saw a picture of—

“Horses?

Is that what you tried to hide from me? “

“ … yes.”

“ Oh you silly!

Come,

Tell me about them, everything.”

“ Really?!”

— And with that,

He started telling you all things,

About horse riding and races,

While you let him to put,

That beloved picture on the wall.

Right now as he was organising your Dojo,

He looked at the canvas many times,

As if collecting confidence from its sight.

He checked everything twice,

Because he wanted to make everything perfectly fine.

You were waiting patiently in the kitchen,

Stealing secret looks towards that working man.

After he found everything flawless,

He escorted you in your bedchamber,

The room was casted with a pinkish light,

Burning candles on the bedsides.

“My idea was.. I thought,

That we can watch,

The horse movie together,

Spirit: the Stallion of the Cinnamon!”

“It’s Cimarron”

— You laughed,

As you saw him all so excited.

Standing on tiptoes,

And taking a breath,

You kissed his little face,

That made his cheeks scarlety red.

“So it’s a sleepover?”

“Yes”

— with your reply,

He punched the air,

Jumping up and down in a merry way.

“Sublime!”

The two of you were on the bed,

That Ken insisted to be decorated with pinkness,

Buried under pillow forts and blankets,

Flushed together in sweetness.

There wasn’t a quiet minute,

Because Ken was talking horse facts,

And exhale his delights and surprises.

How you loved to see him that way,

Comfortable and talkative!

You could’ve listen to his silly little things for hours,

So you can see his adorable smile,

Accompanied with giggles,

Which were music in the night.

The movie was progressing,

So as the plot,

And you noticed a silence that covered you both,

As the end credits rolled you turned,

To see what’s wrong.

He sank deeper into the soft covers,

Turning away from you,

“Ken?”

— You called softly his name,

Resulting in him sinking even further away,

Something is wrong,

But what?

So you gently touched,

His carved shoulders.

If it wasn’t for the contract you would never know,

But shivers were running through,

His perfect beach-ready form.

“What’s the matter?

I thought the movie wasn’t that bad!”

“ He got free.. after all the h-hardships,

And ..found l-love!

Someone who ap-ppreciates him—“

A sudden sob cut him short,

Making him turn away even more,

“Ken, there is nothing wrong with crying.”

“You think so?”

“Yes I do”

—With that ,

You pulled him up from the deep Bluness,

Tugging him into a cosy embrace,

Filling his chest with warmness.

Silly silly Ken thought,

That showing “weakness”,

Would resort,

You realising he isn’t Kenough,

That he is a pathetic, unworthy doll,

And would be yet again left alone,

In the footsteps of yours.

Of course,

You would never leave this cutie pie behind,

You only want to see him shine.

With your arms around his hot body,

And the praises from your lips,

He finally started to relax and let,

His emotions to wash over his head,

With teary puppy eyes,

He started to tell headcanons of his mind.

With your blooming love,

You two were a peaceful island among,

The noisy streets and haste,

Where only the night sky,

Could hear Ken’s movie ideas.

He just talked and talked until he felt,

The magical visit of dreamland.

Sleep came and hid you both,

Under that horsy picture,

Which watched over you two.

[trashpanda66]

OH MY FUCKING GOD I HAD A BRAiN BABY

(please take this with a grain of salt. I'm using my own experiences with visual and auditory hallucinations for this little silly thingy.)

Biscuit Oliva with an adopted child who has visual and auditory hallucinations and how he helps them through it!

First of all, Oliva loves his baby more than life itself. There isn't a single damn thing in this world that he wouldn't do for his sweet little Angel, and that includes things that sometimes make him feel a little bit silly.

So when his sweet baby comes running up to him with tears in their eyes, tugging at his pant leg while trying to climb up into his safe and strong grip, he stops everything he's doing and scoops his precious child up into his arms. He gives them a few gentle little bounces in his arms, pressing his lips against their forehead before quietly asking what's got them so worked up. Still crying, they tell him that there's a mean man in their room and he keeps telling them to do bad things. Oliva instantly switches to kill mode as he puts his child on the ground. It doesn't matter who this man is now, cus he's going to be dead within the next 10 seconds. Oliva goes charging into his kid's room, fists up and ready to murder for the sake of his precious baby, when he freezes.

There's no one in there.

He looks everywhere. Under the bed, in the closet, around the door, everywhere. There's absolutely no sign of anyone having broken in, and his angel knows better than to let anyone come in to his lavish cell without his express permission, plus there aren't that many people out there who are stupid enough to go after Oliva's sweet little angel. With his nerves still frazzled, he walks back out of his baby's room and heads back to where he left them. As soon as they see him, their face lights up and they come running over to him, hugging his massive legs and chattering about how Papa is their hero! The positive attention makes Oliva smile and relax a tiny bit, only for the smile to turn back into a frown as he thinks on what to do. He picks his baby up and holds them in his arms again, giving them a comforting smile as he talks to them about what was going on.

"Angel, Papa went and checked your room. I didn't find anyone in there." His soft heart breaks at the sight of fear filling his kid's eyes again.

"I think it's okay for you to go back to your room, sweetie. I'll stay with you if you want me to." His warm voice brings a bit of comfort to his child, who agrees to go back to their room as long as their Papa is there with them. Oliva's heart always flutters with love and pride whenever his little angel calls him Papa, making his insecurities about his parenting abilities almost disappear instantly every time. As the pair arrive back to the kid's room, Oliva swings open the door, a smile on his face, only for his precious angel to tense up in his arms and start crying all over again. Their eyes are fixed on the far corner of the room as their tiny hands grip onto Oliva's shirt, their entire body shaking as they try to keep quiet. Oliva tries to comfort his baby, rubbing their back softly as he tries to coo calming words to them, but they shush him. After a few tense seconds, his baby finally whispers to him that the mean man in right there in the corner and he's threatening to hurt them if they don't do bad things. Finally, it clicks in Oliva's head. He steels his gaze, staring right into the empty corner as he gently puts his kid back onto the ground. Oliva doesn't care whether this thing is real or not, it fucked with the wrong family today. In a stern and authoritative voice, Oliva demands that the mean man leave his baby's room this instant, causing himself to feel a tad bit silly yelling into an empty corner. But he knows that even if what his baby is seeing isn't real, it feels real to them and Oliva will be damned if he doesn't protect his little angel from everything that scares them, even if what's scaring them is in their mind. He looks to his baby, checking to see if he's doing the right thing, only for them to whisper out that the mean man is refusing to leave. He watches as their expression changes from fear to terror as their eyes dart from the corner, as if the figure is rapidly approaching him! Oliva turns back around, balling his hand up into a fist before delivering a powerful punch to the air. He feels silly, but the results don't lie. He watches as his angel's expression changes from horror to amazement. Looks like Oliva's hit landed. He once again demands that the figure he can't see leave immediately and never return again. He looks on as his baby's eyes follow a trail from the corner, along the wall, and finally out the bedroom door.

Oliva smiles as his little angel finally relaxes, their fear completely dissipating as they make their way back over to Oliva. He picks them up off the ground, hugging them close as he comforts them. At the sight of his completely relaxed and happy child, Oliva knows that he did the right thing, smiling to himself as they begin to talk to him about a drawing they want to make.

Oliva doesn't care how silly he looks, he'll always make sure to protect his baby.

[vwritesaus]

TSC WIP snippets pt. 2

pt. 1

as promised, here's pt. 2 of some more snippets from my wips—this time, from dear christopher and timeless!!! what i failed to mention in my last post is that yes, while i'm still writing, those chances to do so are few and far between bc work has seriously been kicking me in the arse :)

this is another long post, so all the goods hopefully are under the cut! hope you enjoy and please know that i appreciate your patience so much ♡

dear christopher

ch2:

      ‘Be quiet, the pair of you,’ Thomas hisses weakly. ‘You’re ridiculous—’       ‘But to be fair, Jamie, they need to be engaged first,’ Matthew tells his parabatai conversationally, as if he hasn’t just interrupted Thomas. ‘In which I fear Alastair will be the one to propose first lest our darling Thomas stammers himself into oblivion and hides behind a lady’s brise fan to save face!’       ‘That’s oddly specific, Math… and yet I can see it happening just as you describe,’ James muses while rubbing at his chin. ‘Alastair is sensible enough and good at keeping a neutral expression—and he’ll be able to keep calm should Thomas start crying in pure joy.’       ‘You’re awful!’ Thomas exclaims. He’s now utterly certain his face no longer resembles an apple, but rather a beetroot. ‘Both of you—absolutely awful!’       Undeterred by the insults, Matthew gazes seriously at Thomas.‘I’ll be honest with you, Tom,’ he says. ‘It still baffles me how the whole situation between you two occurred, but… oh, you silly sod, I’m happy for you.’       Thomas smiles shyly. ‘Thank you.’       ‘Even Alastair?’ James pipes up.       Matthew scowls, though there is no heat behind it. ‘Yes, yes, even Carstairs,’ he moans, ‘the little bastard.’       ‘Hang on, easy,’ James says, ‘that’s Thomas’s future husband you’re slandering.’       ‘James!’ Thomas protests. ‘Stop it!’       ‘I shan’t, because the thought alone makes you happy, doesn’t it? And besides,’ James adds in a murmur, ‘we could all do with some happiness.’

ch3:

      ‘Whoever decides to be the owner of your heart, Thomas,’ Eugenia whispers, her tone serious, ‘I hope they’ll make you the happiest man alive.’       ‘A wish I also hold for you,’ Thomas tells her earnestly, ‘and not of the likes as those of Augustus bloody Pounceby. You deserve better.’       ‘Augustus was a moment of weakness. I know better than to seek out rats like him,’ Eugenia says heatedly, and then sighs. ‘I never thought he’d do such a thing—but then, I suppose, I have been wrong before. I should have seen it coming, really.’       ‘None of that was your fault, Genia. Don’t ever think that. He’s a smarmy little so-and-so with an ego, and if he ever comes within five feet of you, I’ll do what James did and throw him into the Thames.’       Despite the serious mood, Eugenia cackles heartily.       ‘I don’t doubt that in the slightest, Tom.’ She sniffs loudly and adds with utmost seriousness, ‘But you needn’t worry, for I will not step out with another man for as long as I shall live. I’ll cater to my many cats once I acquire them, and will bother you and your beau until we’re all old and grey.’ ...       ‘Tell me, mijo,’ Gideon starts. ‘How are you?’       Thomas cannot help the soft snort that leaves him.       ‘Dear Papa, I hope this is not an attempt at small talk,’ he says cheekily. ‘You do know how I cannot partake in it, nor can you.’       Gideon laughs and shakes his head. ‘Not as such. I would say it’s more of an initiation into a deeper topic of conversation.’

ch4:

      ‘Thomas,’ she gasps. ‘Bach, I need Gabriel. I need—please—’       He doesn’t hesitate, getting to his feet in a rather ungainly fashion, and launches himself at the door frame. He yells for his uncle, propriety be damned, and doesn’t stop until he hears hurrying footsteps coming up the stairs.       Gabriel flies into the room not even a minute later, his hair a mess and his eyes round in concern. His gaze glides to Thomas, alight with confusion, and Thomas merely glances over at Cecily by way of an explanation. It seems to be enough for he hears his uncle suck in a sharp breath and the softest rendition of his wife’s name passes his lips.       At the sound, Cecily turns her head, and chokes back a sob when she sees her husband. She holds her arms out to him beseechingly, begging to be held, and her cheeks are streaked with fast-falling tears.       ‘Gabriel… cariad—’       The rest of the sentence is pure Welsh, too fast and broken and indistinct for Thomas to understand a single phrase.

ch5:

      ‘Has anyone told you that you are perhaps a little too kind?’       ‘Only every third day,’ Thomas jests dryly, and Grace’s lips curve upwards a touch at that. His voice turns serious then, quiet, contemplative. ‘Look, I’m not here to fight, and I don’t want to fight. I’m not here to forgive you, either. That’s not my place. But today we remember Christopher. We… we tell him goodbye, and we do that together.’       There’s a moment’s pause in which they simply look at each other. Wind blows between them, ruffling the edges of Thomas’s coat and the hem of Grace’s dress. Smoke continues to curl from the stubby remains of the pyre, wispy and faint, like the aftermath of one of Christopher’s former explosions.       ‘Together…’ Grace echoes softly.       A single tear rolls down her cheek. She makes no move to wipe it away, much to Thomas’s surprise. After a second, Grace draws in a shuddering breath and lets it out slowly.       ‘Thank you for the invitation,’ she says politely—a picture-perfect image of a well brought-up young lady; a very small piece of Thomas pangs in sympathy at that thought. ‘I accept it… for Christopher.’       Thomas nods. ‘For Christopher,’ he agrees.

timeless

ch2:

      ‘He’s… attractive, sure,’ she finishes lamely, ‘but to be fair, I don’t even know him!’       Alastair tacks on immediately. ‘Just attractive?’       Hating the evil edge to his smirk, Cordelia scowls. Prick!       She sniffs. Two can play at that game.       ‘What do you want me to say?’ Raising her voice to a higher, mocking pitch, she cries, ‘“Oh my god, he’s sooo hot, I wanna throw him against the wall and have my way with him”?’       Alastair’s face twists in displeasure. ‘Ew, no.’       ‘Then what?’       ‘All I’m saying is people have gone straight to Base Two without exchanging names,’ he declares matter-of-factly. ‘So you not even knowing him is a rather redundant argument you’re making for your defence.’       Cordelia gawks at him. ‘What, are you saying you and Charles…?’       ‘Absolutely not,’ Alastair rebuts. ‘I learnt his name first. I’m just saying that it happens. Therefore…’       He waves his hand in a way that says, rather bluntly, my previous statement still applies. …       ‘He’s so funny,’ Cordelia says through a chuckle. ‘He was funny when I met him in person, too.’       ‘He can be, yeah,’ Lucie agrees with a good roll of her eyes. ‘But good god, he can be a moody, surly bastard sometimes. I’m telling you, Daisy, you’re lucky you’ve met him now. You did not want to know him two years ago.’       Cordelia’s expression turns startled. ‘Oh? Why do you say that?’       Lucie opens her mouth to answer but then quickly closes it. It’s not exactly her story to tell, let alone to someone James has only properly met once. But it’s not as though it’s a state secret… Everyone knows what happened and who James had been on the wrong side of sixteen… but even so…       ‘You don’t have to tell me why,’ Cordelia says, drawing Lucie out of her own head.        Clearly the conflict is bright as day on Lucie’s face.       ‘No, it’s alright.’ Chewing on her bottom lip for a second, Lucie sighs and reveals in a low voice, ‘I won’t go into too much detail, but James had his heart broken really badly in high school. After that, he had a nasty streak. He went wild, and none of us knew what to do. It got so bad even Matthew threatened to stop being friends with him if he didn’t get his shit together, and they’ve been friends since we were all kids.’       ‘Oh, my god?’       ‘Hm… though to be fair, Matthew wasn’t much better. He kept getting into trouble with the teachers because of this and that. But in a way, I’m grateful to them both.’ She reaches across the table and grips Cordelia’s hand tightly. ‘Because if it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have had the need to bury my nose in my books or the internet to take a mental break, and I certainly would not have gotten the chance to meet you.’ …       Matthew purses his lips at the less than courteous message, thinking of all the possible responses he can send to preserve his honour so James doesn’t have to, as he has done many times before. But they all fly out of his head when both of Mina’s hands land on his calf with a loud smack. She smiles gummily up at him, and his heart melts at the sight.       ‘Does Mina wanna go on an adventure?’ he asks her, already picking her up and pressing her close to his chest. His phone lays forgotten on the floor. ‘But how shall we get there? Hmm… Oh! I know. Are you ready?’       Mina blinks and then raucous, contagious giggles escape her as Matthew—holding her by her middle with both hands—directs her through the air as if she’s an aeroplane while making engine noises. Somewhere behind him, James laughs wholeheartedly and cries, ‘Up and away we go!’ The three of them fly through the Herondale-Carstairs household, James and Matthew providing commentary on all the fascinating sights to Pilot Mina, and Mina’s giggles become louder and louder.       Mediocre dates, be damned.

tagging people who might be interested: @drunkonimagination @astriefer @ibrushmyteeth-donttellanyone @cant-think-of-anything @alastaircarstairsismybff @what-ho-christopher-put-in

let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list!!

[f4iryjjosh]

“The Mangoose” || C. Seungcheol.

GENRE: Suspense.

WARNINGS: Cursing, blows, fanciful writing, mention of Seungcheol's dark past, mental illness, death, Chan is the bad guy (?

NOTES: English it's not my first language so it perhaps have discontinuity errors and nonsense texts. Also, I was supposed to post this months ago but ok. Pls, enjoy this mess!

❦

Act I.

At the top of a mountain, where the clouds almost touched, there was a huge old house. Occupied by a young man, son of the best business family in the village.

Choi Seungcheol, was the one they called a simple and generous boy, but also grumpy and pessimistic. It could be said that he lived alone in that house, since winters used to be cold and heavy in that area and his parents took months to return home from their turbulent business trips.

Besides, he never went out. He didn't even see the reflection of the clouds or take in a tiny drop of air. He shut himself away, like any grumpy, hopeless old guy.

And of course, if since that fateful day when he hit his head, he has been afraid of what people might come to think of the minuscule malformation on the left side of his skull.

(...What a silly...)

But then, one windy autumn night, he—sunk in his oh-so-abundant cowardice and boredom— was nodding like a fool, refusing to even take a little nap in his comfortable red velvet chair.

And from one second to other, his right ear caught a slight tapping.

Tap tap tap.

(...On the wall...)

It was small.

Barely inaudible, but Seungcheol heard it perfectly.

Unable to move, he continued to stare at the point of the noise, holding his chin up with one of his fists.

The big, tall room was dim, and oh, he had forgotten to bring candles. So that was it.

Even so, without giving it much importance, he returned to his state of pleasant reverie, batting his eyelashes, he closed his eyes again, in the same position as before.

Ah, what a pleasure. Being like this as if it were summer was too pleasant, especially that nice breeze that entered through the cracks and caused him a few...

Tap tap tap.

In the wood.

His head jerked around, almost making his little bones rattle.

"Who's there?" In the cold solitude and tranquility of the room, he called out.

Who could be?

Nobody. Don't be silly. He thought.

The feeling that it would happen again pounded in his head more than it already was, and then and there he heard it.

With his two big ears.

The little cry of a baby.

Leaping from his sturdy chair, he made a beeline for the wall, putting his ear to it.

But it stopped. The sound was gone as soon as he moved up there.

But he waited.

Waited for anything else.

Tap tap tap.

He heard right next to his ear.

It was smooth and faster than before.

Seungcheol fell to his knees, his mouth hanging down and his hands resting on,—almost tearing— the worn decorated paper of the wall.

The baby's crying started again, but this time it seemed to come from… the ground.

As if his life depended on it, the boy threw himself on that side, sticking his left ear to the ground. The boards seemed to bounce and groan under his weight.

For a moment, the fleeting thought of self-control crossed his mind, and he was on his feet in a blink and adjusting his long bordo robe, he quickly made his way out of the room.

(...So ridiculous...)

He couldn't allow himself to have such imaginations like these. See? It was clear that at any moment it was going to start.

The delirium.

He couldn't let himself go crazy.

But as he took heavy, fast steps down the narrow hallway, there it was. Again!

The sound.

As if something was crawling behind the walls.

God, it made Seungcheol so uncomfortable.

"Damn it!" He blurted out shakily.

He hurried away until he reached his bedroom. With the door locked, he was left in soft shadows like before.

He walked back, still facing his door, and it wasn't until the back of his knees touched the bed that he finally flopped onto it. A sigh of relief leaving his throat.

In that quiet moment, his hand reached up and reached for the bruised part of his head. Where the scar itched.

"I'm going crazy because of you..." He muttered, furrowing his brows and pouting in obvious nervousness.

(...Talking to your scar won't solve anything, you fool...)

"I better go to sleep," he said, crawling backwards until he reached the gigantic ornate headboard.

Seungcheol crossed his arms on his chest, looking up and, without covering himself or arranging the pillows, closed his eyes, still breathing irregularly.

There and then, pure silence he witnessed. And a content breath left his nostrils,—not thinking at all that it was maybe all a bad moment of his head— convincing himself that he was merely tired from the day's climate.

"Seungcheol" It was heard.

"Mmh...," He hummed almost completely asleep.

But, wait...

Startled, Seungcheol sat up and looked around the room, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice. He was alone, completely alone! So what was that?

"Who's there!?" He exclaimed, standing up like a spring.

The voice didn't reply immediately, but after a moment, it returned, clearer this time, as if it had gained confidence. "I am here, Seungcheol. I am the guardian of this house."

"Guardian? What do you mean? Show yourself!" He ordered fiercely.

But the voice didn't materialize. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, as if it was a part of the very essence of the house itself.

Seungcheol's mind swirled with confusion and fear. "What are you? Are you a ghost? A spirit?"

"I am not a ghost, nor am I a spirit as you understand it," the voice, in an almost high-pitched tone, replied. "My name is Chan, and i'm a mongoose."

Seungcheol's mind was overwhelmed with a mix of disbelief and paranoia. It seemed impossible, and yet the voice held an air of truth he couldn't ignore.

"I'm dreaming, yes, that's it," he said, with quivering lip.

"Oh, you're not in a dream Seungcheol, it's all real" Chan said.

"What do you want from me? My heart? My blood? Tell me!" He verbalized with fear.

"None of that, actually. I only come to offer you my company."

"Company? I don't need no company! I'm more than fine here alone!" Seungcheol exclaimed irritably.

"It seems the complete opposite Seungcheol. Tell me, how is that scar on your head?" Seungcheol noticed the taunt in the question.

And immediately he directed his hand towards the mark on his skull, forming a resentful pout.

"What the hell are you talking about? Leave me alone!" He screamed, his cheeks burning pure red with rage and his ears ringing.

"You know, Seungcheol, medically speaking, rub or touch a scar like that could cause an infection, sensitivity or even delay the healing of the wound. Or, in the worst case cause severe injuries or even death," Chan said matter-of-factly.

Seungcheol grumbled, "Well, thanks for your expert analysis, Dr. Chan. Maybe you should be a physician instead of lurking in walls, scaring people."

"You really should be more careful," Chan continued, undeterred by Seungcheol's sarcasm. "The human body is remarkably resilient, but it also has its limits. Especially for someone who already has a scar on their head from a previous injury."

"Ugh, stop bringing up the scar!" Seungcheol groaned, rubbing his throbbing head. "As if I didn't have enough reasons to feel self-conscious about it..." This made Chan laugh softly.

And as the night grew darker, Seungcheol lay awake, listening to that voice's whispers, that seemed to emanate from the very walls and floor.

Mentioning also the squeak of what seemed to be a ferret, and its small footsteps echoing through the grate on the wall.

Act II.

Amidst the echoing animal sounds, Seungcheol's mind remained haunted by the fall he had suffered months ago. Every time he heard Chan's voice or felt a chill down his spine, he would subconsciously reach up to touch the scar on his head, blaming it for his perceived descent into this strange madness.

"Oh great," Seungcheol muttered sarcastically one evening as the walls resonated with the sounds of a howling wolf. "Just what I needed, my personal wildlife orchestra. Thank you, Mr. Scar, for this never-ending symphony of insanity."

Chan's voice, melodious yet eerie, floated through the room. "Ah, my friend, you have quite the sense of humor. But I must admit, I enjoy providing the soundtrack to your life."

"Very funny," Seungcheol retorted with a wry smile. "Tell me, invisible creature of mystery, are you planning to add more creatures to your repertoire? Perhaps a screeching bat or a hissing snake?"

"I'll take those suggestions into consideration," Chan replied playfully.

Seungcheol's patience wore thin. The constant animal sounds, once amusing, now grated on his nerves like a relentless torment. He longed for silence, for a respite from Chan's haunting presence. But every attempt to ignore or escape the invisible being proved futile.

Other night, as the cold wind beat the branches outside, Seungcheol found himself pacing the dimly lit room, his frustration reaching its peak. "Why won't you leave me alone?" he yelled into the emptiness. "What do you want from me, Chan?"

The torturous sound of an elephant trumpeting his trunk seemed to intensify, surrounding him like an ethereal choir of taunting spirits. "You can't escape your past, Seungcheol," Chan's voice echoed. "The scar on your head is a constant reminder of your fall from grace, your vulnerability, your fear."

Seungcheol's eyes narrowed, his anger boiling over. "Why can't you just shut up about that? It's none of your business!"

"Oh, but it is my business," Chan replied, a touch of amusement in his tone. "Your life has become my fascination, and your pain, my entertainment."

Seungcheol's blood ran cold as he felt a chill crawl down his spine. "You find joy in tormenting me, don't you? You thrive on my suffering."

"I am merely an observer of human nature," Chan said, his voice taking on a sinister edge. "And your suffering is a fascinating study. Your fall, your scar, your descent into madness – it's all so delightfully tragic."

Seungcheol's fists clenched as he shouted, "Stop mocking me! Stop playing with my mind!"

"But what fun would that be?" Chan's voice seemed to echo from all directions, making it impossible to pinpoint his location. "You're a delightful puppet, Seungcheol. So easily manipulated by your own fears and insecurities."

The room felt like it was closing in on Seungcheol, and the animal sound this time changed to a horse neighing and trotting across the room, and it grew louder, their cacophony deafening. He couldn't bear it any longer. "Leave me alone!" he screamed, his voice hoarse.

"I'll leave you alone when you confront your demons, Seungcheol," Chan taunted. "Until then, I'll be your constant companion, whispering reminders of your past."

Seungcheol's resolve hardened, and he took a deep breath. "Fine, if that's what you want. I'll face my fears, my past, and put an end to this madness once and for all."

A haunting laughter filled the room, and Chan's voice echoed in sinister delight. "Oh, how I look forward to seeing how this tragic tale unfolds, my dear Seungcheol."

With newfound determination, Seungcheol vowed to break free from the clutches of his tormentor. He would confront his past, his fears, and the scar that haunted him. Whether it led to his redemption or his downfall, he would no longer be a puppet in Chan's twisted game.

And as the wind continued to hit the window's glass wildly, the stage was set for a tragic showdown between a haunted soul and the enigmatic creature that reveled in his torment.

Act III.

One particularly rainy afternoon, tired of hearing the incessant animal sounds that Chan playfully unleashed upon him, Seungcheol reached his breaking point. All the days that followed were filled with both hallucination and dread.

He couldn't take it any longer; his sanity was slipping away like sand through his fingers. With each animal noise, he touched the scar on his head, convinced that the fall he had taken a while ago was to blame for his supposed descent into madness.

Seungcheol, immersed in his chair, in that room of books so immense that he could still get lost, breathed with some exaggeration. Still and without emitting another sound than that.

The thick old forgotten book of poetry upon his lap, his face wrinkled with weariness and his mind racing with all kinds of thoughts.

Soon, from the other side of the room, beyond the other bookcases, the soft laughter of what looked like a wild animal brought him out of his ideas.

The boy got up quickly, as if on alert, and cautiously surveyed the place. Even in the dark, his eyes were capable of capturing any movement. But there was nothing he could see.

Instead, the tender shriek was heard again, this time coming from above.

Seungcheol took that rusty sword from the wall and, determined to catch a glimpse of the unseen thing, he climbed on one of his tall bookcases, his heart pounding with anticipation and fear and standing there, he tried to keep his balance.

"Chan! Show yourself, you mischievous creature!" Seungcheol yelled into the darkness. "Enough with these games! I can't bear it any longer." He announced in a desperate tone of voice.

From the hidden corners of the room, more animal sounds formed, now accompanied by mocking laughter that seemed to reverberate through the very walls. He wanted to put an end to this torment once and for all.

"Come out, Chan! Coward!" he taunted, hoping his sarcasm would somehow reach the unseen creature.

"Oh, I'm here, dear Seungcheol, but catching me might not be as easy as you think," Chan's voice echoed from all directions.

Seungcheol's hands trembled on the sword as he reached out to hit—somehow— Chan, but every time he thought he had him, the creature's voice would emanate from a different spot, teasing him relentlessly.

"Can't catch me, can you, Seungcheol? Perhaps your clumsy fall has left you even more inept than you realize," Chan taunted.

"Enough! Just stop this madness!" Seungcheol's voice cracked with frustration and desperation.

"Why so serious, my friend?" Chan's tone turned soothing. "I'm just trying to add some excitement to your dull life. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Excitement? This is torture! I can't sleep, I can't think, and I can't bear this anymore," Seungcheol cried out.

The animal sounds intensified, filling the room with a cacophony of noise, as if mocking him. Seungcheol clutched his head, feeling overwhelmed by the sounds and the memory of his fall.

"Oh, poor Seungcheol, blaming your fall for your troubles. But deep down, you know it's more than that, don't you?" Chan's voice took on a knowing tone.

"Shut up! You know nothing about me!" Seungcheol snapped, squeezing the hilt of the sword between his fingers.

"I know more than you think," Chan replied cryptically. "I know about the darkness that lurks within you, the loneliness that haunts you, and the fear that consumes you. But I also know that your parents don't love you."

Seungcheol scoffed, "And how would you know that? You're just a voice in the darkness!"

"And yet, here you are, talking to me," Chan said softly. "You're not as alone as you think, Seungcheol. I may be unseen, but I am here."

Frustrated and afraid, he blinked several times to push away the salty drops that were beginning to blur his vision. "This can't be happening," he muttered to himself, the noise of the huge knife falling against the floor echoing. "It's all in my mind. I'm just tired, that's all." His trembling fingers scratched at the rinds of his scar, making him hiss.

(...Wake up, Seungcheol. Wake up once and for all...)

"I've told you before Seungcheol - none of this is a dream. You're awake." Chan's voice sounded more serious.

"Then show yourself!" He uttered in a state of nervousness.

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. In that moment, Seungcheol thought he caught a glimpse of something moving in the corner of his eye. Immediately, as if a little bit of adrenaline had entered his body, he jumped towards the other bookshelf, making it wobble slightly.

"C'mon! I want to see you, coward! You feed on my anger and you don't have the decency to show your face!" He yelled, almost breaking his voice.

"Your anger? What I feed on is your fear, Seungcheol. Your damn fear." Chan murmured without flinching at the madman's sudden attitude.

In that moment, a powerful gust of icy wet wind blew through the room, knocking over a few books and causing Seungcheol to lose his balance completely. He felt himself falling backward, his body descending through the air in slow motion.

His body fell to the ground with a thud, darkness engulfing him, and in that instant, all type of sounds were silenced. Even Chan's voice remained on pause.

"Poor boy, you finally got it. Your final fall" Chan whispered, sounding almost regretful. "You'll be fine now Seungcheol."

But Seungcheol could no longer respond.

And, in the next second, the rain stopped, the sky cleared and cleared, and the fallen leaves were making their way inside the house.

With the truth that remained hidden, like the secrets that lay behind the walls of that huge old house, where the clouds almost touched. And where the mongooses weren't seen.