#or clean up the rough edges around the colouring

[im-literally-just-sitting-here]

Hermit-a-day-may, day 28– Pearlescentmoon

Don't know if someone has done this before but i decided to try my hand at the ghibli art style, i love the idea of Pearl as San!

[myfictionaldreams]

Day 27: Gloryhole - Nick Fowler

Summary: You worked in a club that catered to the wealthy and powerful, with the job to satisfy them all in whatever way they wished. But what happens when the person needing satisfaction happens to be your boss, Nick Fowler?

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, reader!stripper/prostitute, multiple customers, oral (m!receiving), degradation, possessive, deepthroat, fingering, glory hole, rough sex, praise kink, sir kink, creampie

masterlist 📚 

kinktober masterlist😈 

AO3 Link 

Everyone gathered in the centre of the club, lounging on the lavish couches or on the edge of the stage that had multiple poles and dancing areas. The place was squeaky clean and, in the brightness, looked pretty respectable for a nightclub, showing the hundreds of thousands of dollars spent by the owner on maintaining the building. However, once the lights began to dim and the music turned up to a deafening level, the club became a haven for those with power and money to do whatever seedy activities they wished.

It paid well, especially the tips from specific customers, so you were more than happy to get dolled up every night and pleasure men and women in the back rooms, dance, or perform if it was what they wished.

Picking at your intricately designed nails, you chatted casually with the other girls and one of the security, waiting for the boss to come and inform everyone where they were positioned for the day. To ensure that your skills are kept up to top quality, the girls are usually moved around, and today, you were hoping to avoid being on the stage, needing a break from spinning and dancing as your muscles were starting to feel the strain of it.

The whispers hushed to silence as Mr Fowler strutted in, his signature smirk and crisp suit hugging his body to perfection. You couldn’t help but straighten your posture, the nervous butterflies fluttering in your stomach that always seemed to come whenever he was in the room. He was a powerful man and your boss, making your need to impress him more severe.

“Evening, everyone. I hope you’ve all had a good night's sleep because you’ve got a long night ahead of you. We have some special guests tonight who have heard the rumours on my…samplings”, he gestured to the girls around the room that he’d made sure all had different ethnicities, shapes, heights, eye colours, everything you could possibly think of to appease to whoever would come and spend their money in his club. With his hands in his pockets, Mr Fowler began leisurely walking around the room, addressing each girl and where he wanted them to be.

Your breaths paused as he stopped before you, his startling bright eyes exploring your body, which was covered in a dressing gown as you’d decided to change after finding out where you would be working tonight. Refraining from letting your eyes roll as his exquisite aftershave floated over your senses, you waited for your instructions.

“Sweetheart, you’ll be in the hole. I want you to be at your very best today. I’ll be sending my special guests to you throughout the night as they like to keep things anonymous”. 

He only continued with his instructions to the other girls once you’d responded with a nod and “Yes, sir”, but his eyes lingered on your bottom lip that you’d tugged between your teeth.

It had been a while since you’d been to the glory hole, but you were somewhat thankful for this as it wasn’t as strenuous as dancing on stage for hours. You also took it as a compliment in a sick sort of way that he had trusted you to be in his most famous of locations, especially with there being some important guests.

As everyone was dismissed, you walked to your locker and prepared for the night. There wasn’t much point wearing clothes when you’d be switching between using your mouth, pussy, hands and ass if it was what the customer wished for. So, you kept the dressing gown on and collected a pillow, bottle of water, towel, and some lube.

The glory hole was in a unique set of cubicle toilets; however, even this was luxurious and not anything like the dark and dingy glory holes you were used to seeing on porn websites. Instead, it was bright and welcoming, even if it was designed to be a toilet other than the hole in the cubicle at the end. Waving to the security guy who was stationed outside of the door, you entered and breathed in the regal scents from the air fresheners as you walked to your stall. There was a small shelf above the toilet that you placed all your items on except for the pillow, which you placed on the floor, knowing you’d spend a lot of time tonight using your both and wasn’t prepared to destroy your knees by being on them for hours on the marble flooring.

As the music increased, you sat on the toilet lid and scrolled through your phone, waiting patiently for the first customer. 20 minutes pass, and the door opens, the music intensifying for a moment and then dimming as the door clicks closed. Quietly, you switched your phone off and slid onto your knees, getting comfortable on the pillow as you heard the customer step into the toilet cubicle next to yours and could see a flash of expensive-looking pinstripe suit through the circular hole in the wall.

Seconds pass, and then a had cock is slipping through the hole. Your mouth descends onto it instantly, licking a long strip up the underside. It was a couple of inches long, so you had no issue taking the length entirely, which seemed to please whoever was on the receiving end of the oral sex if the groans were anything to go by.

He didn’t last very long as you gathered the cum into your mouth and quietly spat it into the tissue. You’d learnt from past mistakes that swallowing too much cum on a night like this only made it settle heavy in your stomach and left you feeling queasy by the end of the night. It wasn’t like they could see anyway, as the customers were usually zipping themselves up and exiting.

The next few were in similar situations. They were sticking their dick through the hole, and you were sucking or jerking them off to completion. Every so often, there would be someone who wanted to dirty talk, calling you their slut, whore or other unimaginative derogatory names that increased the firmness of their length. It was all white noise to you. You were here to do one job, which, to be truthful, you did very well, so if they wanted to be vulgar, they could because, at the end of the day, you were still getting a fat paycheck.

There were occasions when the customers would push a wad of rolled-up dollars through the hole as they zipped themselves up again, which you happily stacked on the shelf. These were your favourite customers, and sometimes, when you were lucky, you’d have a couple of fingers stick through the hole, wishing to pleasure you and hear your moans. Most of the time, you faked it as it was always an awkward angle, or they just thought ramming their fingers in and out without any clitoral play would ever be enough. It wasn’t, but they didn’t need to know that you were faking an orgasm as you scrolled through TikTok.

The night passed by steadily, and so far, you’d received very positive responses from the customers, and even though your jaw was aching and hands tingling from the amount of squeezing you’d been doing, it was definitely one of your better nights. It had also become incredibly warm in the windowless room, so your dressing gown had been hung on the back of the door so that you were completely naked.

The door opens and closes as you rush to shut the water bottle in your hand, swallowing the cool liquid that soothed the dryness in your mouth. Slow, calculated steps echo and bounce off the walls as you wait on your knees for the next customer, not thinking anything of the powerful stride walking towards you. The cubicle's door opens and shuts with the lock finding its home as you try to peep through the hole to have a glimpse as to who is next.

A flash of a black suit and then a thick, long cock is passing through the hole. Your eyes widen for a second, staring at the dick in front of you. It was the best-looking cock that had been in here tonight. The dark pubes were perfectly trimmed. Even though it had an incredible length, it still was rock hard and throbbing in the air, the veins bulging along the shaft and the bulbous tip a beautiful deep maroon that you complimented would look good as a lipstick shade.

Whoever it was, had a magnificent member that for once had your abdomen warming with arousal, and you hoped that whoever it was would ask to fuck your pussy, just to feel your walls stretch around it.

You licked the palm of your hand, deciding to get a feel of him first. Your fingers only just reached each other as you wrapped around his shaft, feeling the velvety soft skin and the firmness of the thumping blood beneath the surface. He was hot in your hand, and as you squeezed him tightly and moved your fist towards his tip, a clear drip of precum bubbled into the hole.

Your tongue darted out, catching the liquid and swallowing. The moan you produced was genuine because, for once, whoever it was, the skin tasted clean and not like he’d been sitting in his ball juice for hours on end. Even the precum had a satisfying salty taste to it, but you blamed those thoughts on the increasing flame between your legs.

Sitting up further on your knees, your tongue began to gently lap at the underside of his cock, following the movements of your fist. As you reached the base, the overwhelming scent of aftershave brushed over your nose as you completely froze, eyes widening and breath stilling.

A deep chuckle that you recognised immediately floated from the other toilet. “Hmm, finally recognised me at last, have you, sweetheart?” Mr Fowler confirmed your suspicions. Your body didn’t know how to handle this news. One the one had it still in fear, throat drying and heart pounding beneath your ribs. However, it also burned even more desperately with the need to satisfy him and do something you had been hoping for for months.

Even though Nick Fowler was an incredibly handsome man, he had always kept to himself, never once indulging in the girls he employed, which helped to gain the trust of the employees. This was a double-edged sword for you, having always found him attractive beyond words, but knowing any advances that you made would be worthless and potentially see that you were fired.

So now that he was here, cock resting on your tongue and in your palm, you were conflicted with what to do.

“You see, I’ve been hearing some very, very good things about the goings on in here. So much so that these gentlemen tonight have booked in with us for a further four nights, which means my profit has increased a whole fucking lot. And that’s all down to the perfect princess in the end stall.”

You weren’t entirely sure what to say. It wasn’t like you’d been going out of your way to pleasure the people coming and going from the glory hole; you’d just been doing your regular sucking and touching, so to hear him speaking so highly of your work had a deep shiver running down your spine and pooling between your legs.

“With all the high praise, I thought it would be a good idea to come and see what all the fuss was about. Test the goods, if you will. Do you think you can handle me, Princess?”

Your eyes fluttered close at the nickname, as simple as it was, the way his deep, sultry voice seemed to kiss the air, making everything seem like the most cheek-warming compliment; you were ready just about to do anything your boss asked of you.

“Yes, sir”, was your quick verbal response before your sexual acts continued. Squeezing your fingers around his cock again, your mouth moved at the same time to the very tip, wrapping your warm lips around him entirely and letting the natural weight of him lay against your tongue.

Closing your eyes, you tried to forget that it was your boss on the other side of the wall and that this was probably the most crucial blowjob that you’d ever given before.

Your mouth filled with salvia, helping to wet his length as you lapped over his size with delicate little licks as your hand moved up and down the base of his shaft. Mr Fowler sucked in a breath through his teeth as his cock throbbed in your mouth. “Didn’t think you’d be such a tease, show me what you’ve got, Sweetheart”.

Your smile for a moment before taking more of his length into your mouth, pressing your flat tongue against the sensitive underside and hollowing your cheeks to suck him in. Opening your eyes, you watched more of his cock disappear into your mouth as you forced yourself to relax your throat, a skill you had mastered since working for him.

Nearly the entire length of your boss’ cock slipped down your throat, causing a bulge with how your airflow was completely cut off, the lining of your eyes flooding with tears from the overwhelming sensation. There was still a portion of his member that hadn’t entered the warm cavernous home of your mouth, so your hand squeezed and tugged so he was utterly stimulated.

“Fuck! I knew that pretty little mouth of yours would be trouble”, Nick groaned, trying to push his hips against the wall to try and fuck your face. You tried not to choke on his length at the tiny compliment mixed into his words.

Pulling back slowly, you made sure to suck his cock thoroughly whilst licking every inch that you could. Now you knew he liked what you could do; you were desperate to see just how much you were able to make him moan.

You deepthroated him again, choking and holding your breath, eyes continuing to water and more saliva filling your mouth. Eventually, you were able to find the perfect rhythm of bobbing your head up and down his cock, listening to the gruff quiver of his voice as his palm slapped against the wall of the toilets as he became delirious due to the pleasure.

It was nearly unbearable how turned on you were. Your throbbing clit was begging to be touched so gently you spread your knees and slipped your unused hand to gently circle it, adding pressure whenever he made a noise like a reward for yourself.

The evidence of your arousal was soaking over the tips of your thighs, drenching the two fingers being used to stimulate yourself. Eventually, you needed more, especially as your chin was becoming coated in drool as the blowjob became more sloppy. Lowering your fingers, you couldn’t help and bust in a moan that caused your throat to vibrate around the cock within as those two wet fingers slipped into your hole and curled.

“Holy shit, do that again”, Mr Fowler begged behind the thin wall. You moaned again as your hips bucked to meet your finger's movements. “That feels so fucking good, I knew I’d never regret hiring you. Do you only offer your mouth?”

You pulled off the end of his mouth with an audible ‘pop’ and swallowed thickly the considerable amount of saliva in your mouth as you tried to find your words. “No, they can have any part of me they’d like”. As you explained, you pumped his cock with both hands, forgetting about your pleasure for a moment.

“Good girl,” his praise was like a sweet symphony to your ears. “Has anyone else used the other services tonight?”

“No, Sir. Only my mouth and hands; a couple have fingered me but nothing else”.

Nick growled as his fingers appeared over the top of the cubicle as he tried to hold onto something. As you wished for a moment that, there was a camera in his toilet so you could see him flush against the wall, holding on for dear life. “So you’re telling me that all those powerful people out there are spending all their money for another four days just because of a couple of sucks and tugs? You really are special, aren’t you? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to share you in here and keep you all to myself”.

Biting your lip, you tried to stop yourself from grinning, just listening to him becoming possessive, which was a widespread occurrence during these intimate acts. Many of the people were so overcome with the pleasure that they’d decided that they would keep you all to themselves to use if and when they needed you. Usually, it earned an eye-roll, but right now, you were dripping wet and ready to hand in your notice if it meant you could just stay by his side and suck his cock every day.

“I’d be more than happy to let you feel my other talents, sir”, you suggested before thinking it through properly. Not that you’d regret this offer, as you were incredibly horny and wanted nothing more than to please him further.

The wall between you both creaked under the pressure of Nick’s hands gripping the top as his hips began rocking, causing his cock to push and pull through the hole. “Oh, princess, you have no idea how badly I want that right now”.

With great enthusiasm, you stood on shaky legs, ignoring the pins and needles that formed in the balls of your feet, having been on your knees for so long and turned around, facing away from the glory hole. Spreading your legs and reaching between them, you grasped his cock once more and began to position him between your legs, where you closed them firmly, trapping his length between your damp thighs.

You rocked your hips, causing his dick to press against your pussy folds, rubbing your clit and for him, he was trapped in the tight, wet hold of your legs as he fucked your thighs.

“So fucking wet and soft”, he muttered under his breath, and once more, you wish you could have been watching his face, wondering if his eyes were just as glazed as how yours were feeling at that moment.

You had him fucking your thighs for a few moments longer and then decided to change things up, not wanting to wait anymore as your feet widened the stance, and his cock nudged against your hole.

The moan you released was mouthwatering for Nick as he felt the sensitive tip of his cock become lost within your tight, gummy walls. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your hips moved backwards, slowly to give yourself a chance to adjust to his thick size until your cheeks were flush against the wall.

“You’re so big, sir”, you blurt out, body shaking with trepidation at the pressure of being stretched for him.

“I am, but you’re taking me so well, Princess”. Even his encouraging words had you mewling with quivers, wanting and needing more of him.

Leaning forward, you reached out to the other side of the wall, pushing off of it to help you ride his cock in the limited position that you had with the glory hole. Thankfully, Mr Fowler began to fuck the wall, so you were both thrusting into each other with increasing speed and strength. He seemed to fit you perfectly, stroking against all of those special nerves that built the tightening warmth in your core. Each time he pushed back inside of you was like a million exploding fireworks of pleasure to blossom throughout your body. You never wanted it to end.

As you tried to rise onto your tip toes to try and push back onto his harder, your pussy suddenly clamped down harder around him, like it was laying claim to him, holding him tightly and never wanting to let him go.

“Sir, oh my- I’m cumming, Sir, please don’t stop!”. You were thinking of nothing else but the cock pounding into your pussy, begging him with everything that you had for this orgasm to reach its peak.

“I can feel you, Sweetheart. So tight around my cock, you’re doing so well for me. Be a good girl and cum for me, and I’ll give you what you really want”.

Nick fucks the glory hole with even more enthusiasm as you are forced to have both hands against the opposite wall to push yourself even harder back against his cock. Your cunt was squeezing him so tightly he was nearly seeing stars as you finally came. Your knees wobbled as your walls spasmed in flutters through the orgasm, more fluid dripping down onto your thighs as you cried out for Mr Fowler.

He was shouting something as well, but you weren’t able to understand what it was he was saying as the faint, satisfied buzz filled your ears, and the edge of your orgasm began to calm. You were exhausted, but you didn’t stop fucking hard back against the cock until you were aware that there was thick, warm fluid seeping into your cunt as Nick’s thrusts stilled, his cum filling you completely.

It took all of your strength not to collapse to your knees as you both tried to recover from the fucking. As the softening cock slipped out, followed by a gush of cum was when you could finally fall back onto the pillow on the floor with a satisfied moan.

Being back in this position, you were able to watch through the hole as Nick began to tuck himself back into his suit, not even bothering to clean yours or his juices that gleamed over his length. Your cheeks warmed at this sight, knowing you’d remember it for the rest of your life.

Mr Fowler released a deep breath and reached into his back pockets, and once more, you wish you could see his face, but all you were able to see was his waistline and hands as they rummaged through his wallet and pulled out a hefty roll up of cash that he shoved through the hole and landed in your lap.

“This’ll cover any further tips you would have made for the remainder of the night. Which you can have off. Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll drive you home, Princess”.

[whatlovelybones-if]

ragged breaths pour out of you as you scrub your hands clean of the crimson liquid which stains your hands and your very soul. it was brutal and beautiful—the colour and how the red strands swirled around as it united before falling down the sink pipe.

you blink and clench your hands. the very hands which so effortlessly carved up the heart from inside the man laying on your rough ‘operating table’. you are terrible, yes. there was no other word to describe you. a vigilante, maybe? but did it even matter when there is a part of you which feels the thrill of the killings and torture that you so cunningly come up with no mercy?

no, actually, there are other words to describe you. heartless, being one of them. the irony of that when you quite literally removed someone’s heart recently is not lost on you.

rotten. sadistic. torturous. depraved. murderer.

it was how you revelled in the pain you caused others; how you can’t stop the excitement spreading across your body when you see the utter terror in their eyes; how you sometimes let them have a moment of freedom, just to tear it all away at once and see as hopelessness encompasses every cell of their body. the scalpel that you used in carving the man’s heart probably possessed more sympathy than you did.

you are not the same, the voice taunts you. you are not the same person who cried over the dead raven for night’s on end. you can’t even recognise yourself. you are twisted and depraved and oh-so sick in the head. you are broken in ways you don’t even know.

you try to deny it at first, try to resist with every shaky breath that you do this for the greater good. but you know, deep down, you know that this is what you are: a monster masquerading as a human. you have as much heart as the corpse on your operating table with the empty chest.

you try to find some semblance of yourself on the broken pieces of the vanity mirror scattered around you. but you can truly see your twisted visage on the abnormal reflections. it was as if a sculptor had chipped away at you to add all the cruelty of the world and none of its gentleness.

you were made of jagged edges and sharp thorns. made to admire, not to love.

[mistyresolve]

| His Foresight - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Medic!Reader (Part 5)

Word Count - 3.8

Summary - Honestly, there isn’t any plot to this one. Just sex.  

Tags/Warnings - 18+ SMUT,  Fingering, P in V, Oral, Unprotected sex, Edging, Size kink, Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death, Slow Burn, Maybe a little bit of angst, Mentions of childhood trauma

A/N - I’m back baby...maybe 

Part 1 ❤︎ Part 2 ❤︎ Part 3  ❤︎ Part 3.5  ❤︎ Part 4 

Masterlist  ❤︎  Tag List Form

It was just your luck that there was no hot water, and by the time you washed out the soap from your hair, your teeth were chattering uncontrollably. You could have sworn a minute longer and you’d have ice forming on the tips of your lashes. You couldn’t get dressed into your civi clothes fast enough, a thin but warm sweater and a plain pair of sweats. You packed for warmth and practicality, not seducing husky men, and some small bold part of you wished you had. 

Simon was already in the barracks waiting for his turn for a shower. His gear was in a neat pile next to the cot, and he had just pulled off his combat shirt when you entered the room. 

He truly was all power and strength, all solid muscle and hardened skin. He was built and bred for the battlefield and imbued with cruel intent. The tattoos that travelled from wrist to bicep were stark against his skin. If you stepped outside yourself for a moment you could see why so many men feared to cross his path. Yet, here he stood 15 feet away from you and not a single thought was one of dread. With you, he was softer, calmer. Even his usual rough tone settled into a smokey version of itself. He still carried a dominating edge with him but he never misused it with you.       

And…

And you were staring. 

He was crouched down at his pack when he finally looked over his shoulder at you. He had removed his mask and he looked just as good as he did when you saw his face earlier. If not better. If that was possible. His dark hair was unruly like he had just woken up from a nap. His face was dirty with a mixture of paint, sweat, dirt, and more likely than not, blood. He was unkept but more in a charming, alluring way. 

Oh, you were in deep. He had you wrapped around his finger and he was well aware he had that much sway over you. Still, he would not make a move until you made it very clear and unmistakable what you want from him. He would give you everything and anything you wanted, but not unless you told him.    

“There’s no hot water,” you willed the words to sound anything but bothered. 

His gaze dripped down your body, watched as your body shivered from the lingering bone-deep chill, “I needed a cold one anyways,” he tossed the dirty combat shirt into his pack and picked up the fresh one. Even in the low light, you could see every dip and angle of his muscles as he bent down. 

The summer night air might be warm but it wasn’t warm enough to warrant a cold shower, “Who would take a cold shower on purpose?” you made your way to your own pack, readying to set up your sleeping bag. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he grabbed whatever else he needed from his bag before disappearing into the small shower room. On his way past you, you threw a clean pair of balled-up socks at him, which he unsurprisingly caught before throwing them back at you, “Smarten’ up.”  

“I would like to know,” you quipped just before he closed the door. It’s not like you’d die without an answer you just wanted to have the last word. The only reason he let you have it was because he needed to get out of the same room as you as soon as humanly possible. He needed the cold shower to 

The cold shower was null once Simon came back out into the room. The moment his eyes locked onto yours, he was just as frustrated and deprived as before. You could practically taste his want from across the room. Could see it in the way he stalked back to his side of the room, his attention locked on you.

He changed into a regular green t-shirt, the colour faded around the seams and fit snugly around his shoulders and chest, and green army-issued sweats. His still-wet hair was pushed back and away from his face.    

“You clean up nice,” you tested as you slid into your sleeping bag, your head tilting to the side. 

There was a flash of white teeth in the low light, “Keep that mouth of yours shut for me?” his words were more of a plea than an order. He moved to turn off the propane lamps, replacing the light was a singular red light torch which was better for concealment and stealth because it was harder to see from a distance.

“Easy, big boy,” your grin was fiendish, “I’m only making conversation.”

“Yuh huh,” he grunted back at you as he checked the locks on all the doors and windows. The final window was right above your head and after he checked it he crouched down beside you, the torch dangling in his hand between his legs, “You gonna be warm enough?” 

“Are you offering to keep me warm, Riley?” you shifted into a kneeling position, and still you didn’t match his height, your knees were almost touching his feet.  

His answering smile was wolfish, “I was offering you an extra blanket.”

“And,” you said slowly, “What of you?” 

“I’ll be fine,” It was hard to discern whether this desire was coming from someplace genuine or if it was the result of missing him and needing a distraction from today's events. Perhaps it was both. It was evident that he was wondering the same. You could see it in his eyes. The way they turned inquisitive each time you returned his attention. The way he would slow his approach and wait for your response, gauge your reaction.

Your gaze fell to his lips, imagining how they’d feel on yours, on your skin. His grin shifted to something more shy and he looked away, looking into the room's darkness. Another moment watching you and he would have jumped on you like a deprived animal. Which is why you had to take the first move. 

Gently you pulled the torch from his grasp, placing it up on the floor beside him. He turned to face you once more. With hands made of air, your fingers drove into his hair. The space between your lips felt too wide and too close at the same time. I felt like time itself was yours, like you were holding it in the palm of your hand, warm and heavy. This moment was well overdue.  

It was a whisper of a kiss. A timid gesture that the both of you leaned into. Pressed into. With trembling hands, his fingers curled around your waist, digging into the supple flesh there. The wanton groan that rumbled deep in his chest was gasoline to a fire. Your hands slipped down to the hard muscles of his chest and pushed him back into a sitting position. His free hand caught him just in time to break the fall. You were quick to move into his lap, straddling his hips.

“Woah,” he huffed, the crooked grin returning, “I’m not going anywhere.”    

“You always have something cheeky to say?” you hummed, hands encircling the back of his neck, running the expanse of his shoulders, his chest. 

“I’m working on that,” he leaned back on his hands, allowing you access to all of him. 

You lifted his shirt, just enough to sneak your fingers underneath. His skin burned and his muscles twitched beneath your touch, “A rather new development?”     

He was all enchanted compliance and keen submission for you, “It’s taken the back seat as of late,” his chest rose and fell rapidly as your hands grazed lower before returning to his chest. 

“Never took you for a procrastinator,” Your lips connected with his jaw, trailing lower and lower. 

The man underneath you was a complete juxtaposition from the man who prowled the battlefield and lurked in the shadows. Even with everything he was capable of, you felt safe with him. Felt secure. Protected. 

“I can’t think when you’re touching me, Darlin’,” When you pulled away his head was tilted back and his eyes were mere slits, foggy with lust. 

Right now, he was docile, but you wanted to see him get wicked for you.      

You lowered your hips onto his and rolled them. You were met with hard arousal and the compromising heat between your legs shot up your spine and into your throat. There was a synchronized moan that bounced between you and like a knee-jerk reaction a hand was braced at your hips. Your motions quickly turned feverish, both trying to match each other's desperate rhythm. It was all gnashing teeth, open-mouthed kisses, and shared breath.

With shaking fingers you tugged at his shirt, “Off,” you could hardly manage the single syllable. And who was he kidding, the few seconds he had to pull away from you to remove his shirt made him regret ever putting it on. 

You paused as you traced the hard tissue of his numerous scars, and wondered which was he acquired during his service and which ones he received from his father. He remained utterly still, even his chest ceased to rise and fall with breath. He was waiting for you to reject him, to recoil from all the imperfections. 

You leaned down to press a kiss to one of them, one that looked like it never had time to properly heal. Like the wound was ripped open over and over and over again. Then another kiss to the scar next to it. You couldn’t tell if it was your own heart or if his was so beating so loud you could hear it from where you sat. When you lifted your eyes to him you decided it was probably his you were hearing. His eyes were wide with shock and his swollen lips were parted in awe.

“Simon—”    

“I want this,” he gasped, “But if you’re not sure we have to stop now.” 

You would have to stop now because it’d kill him if he had to stop later. 

Your expression turned sultry and you removed your sweater from your body, revealing nothing but bare, tingling skin, “Be good to me.”

He moved on you like lightning, and with quick practiced maneuvering you were on your back with him cradled between your legs. Gone was the man who let you dominate him a few seconds ago. Calloused hands ran the length of your sides, up to your throat and held you in place. Though he didn’t squeeze your neck hard enough to choke, it was a tight enough grip to let you know that he was in control now. He sucked bruises into the sensitive skin of your collarbone, your chest. His tongue flicked out to lick apologies into the marks he left behind. His teeth scraped against your breast and your breath hitched in anticipation. 

But he pulled back, his head tilted to the side, “Since day one,” he murmured before raising himself to a kneel, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his own eyes, “Since the day I met you I’ve wanted you like this,” his heated gaze flicked to your face, your expression no doubt matching his, “Like that,” his voice trailed off and he lowered himself back down to you, “I’ve wanted you…” 

His skin against yours wasn’t close enough, it never would be. You needed him like you needed air. Like you needed laughter. You were starving for him. You were starved of him. There wasn’t enough time in the night for you to be rid of this carnal need for him. 

His mouth was back on your chest, nipping and sucking at you. You arched your back into his touch in a plea for more. More. More.

His breath caught between his teeth, his fingers lingering on your thigh. With anguished hesitance, he traced the scar and his head dipped to your leg. Your heart was hammering against your rib cage, begging to be let out so it could wrap itself around his. There was no need for words for you to understand what was going through his head right now. The guilt and bitterness that rolled off him heated your skin. 

“I thought you were dead.”

You were sure he was talking about when your vehicle blew up with you inside of it, “Me too,” you murmured into the dark room, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him back to looking at you. It was all you could do to offer him a weary smile, “But, I’m not. Because of you.” 

The man used his own body as a shield for you, carried you to safety and brought you back from the brink of death. Without him, you weren’t entirely sure if things would have turned out the same. Not that you wanted to think about it in the first place. 

His lips parted, his brows furrowing in preparation for an argument. You didn’t give him the chance to make one, bringing him back down to you for an open-mouthed kiss. Your tongue licks at him to open for you, “No more talking, Riley.” 

His answering grin was enough for you, his thumbs hooked into the hem of your pants and pulling them until they were on the floor. He hissed at the sight of you, completely naked, before him. Those tortured dark eyes take in every curve and dip of your body. His dopy smile told you all you needed to know about how truthful he was when he said: “Since day one”.

He placed a chaste kiss on your mouth but quickly moved down the length of your body. It was like he couldn’t get between your legs fast enough, his previous hesitation had melted away with the heat you two made. 

“Oh,” you gasped as his tongue found your center, licking a languid swipe up. He placed a heavy hand on your chest meant to keep you still, while the other wrapped around your thigh to keep your legs open for him. You cover the hand over your chest with your own, squeezing and digging your nails in as he licked and sucked at you. You rolled your hips into him, legs curled around his shoulders and panting in desperation. He flattened his tongue against you, and you could feel your arousal and slick leak from you. Eyes squeezed shut and throat constricting with a moan. 

You were fiendish for him. You’ve been with men and women before, had both good and bad sex, but this…this was different. This was a release. Within seconds he had you at the edge, but he didn’t let you fall. Instead, he kept you there teetering back and forth.

He added a single thick finger, tracing the outline of your cunt before pushing it inside you. His mouth never stopped working at you, circling your clit. His digits curled inside you in perfect rhythm with your own motions. He was following the lead of your body, listening to the sounds you made and each reaction. 

Another finger stretched you, and your legs instinctively closed around his head at the feel of them pressing into your G-spot. 

“Ohmygod,” you tossed your head back, arching into his touch. You were shaking and twisting in his arms, your climax was right there. 

His fingers left you feeling empty, his arms forcing your legs from his head. You were spread out, soaking, and aching beneath him. Annoyance and discomfort bubbled up into your throat, “You fucking–” you started only to be cut off when he dove back into you, his wet tongue exploring the inside of your mouth. 

No more talking.            

He didn’t need to say the words. He pulled back only far enough to pull his cock out from his pants. You had your fantasies and imagination to guess the size of him but whatever you would have come up with wouldn’t have compared. For a second you contemplated backing out. He was going to split you in half. You swallowed, the arousal between your legs becoming unbearable. 

You needed him. Now. 

“I’ll be slow with you,” he huffed, his eyes following yours. He wrapped a hand around himself, making long, slow strokes. Precum beaded at the head. Any other day you’d take your time licking that up for him. 

Words betrayed you and it was all you could do to nod at him. 

“I need to hear you say it, darlin',” he groaned, his entire body quaking with deprivation. 

You dipped your fingers to your core, dragging the slick across your stomach, “Please, fuck me, Simon.”

His answering moan was beyond seductive. He rocked into your cunt, wetting himself on your arousal. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sliding across your pussy, pausing where he would have bottomed out if he were inside you. The tip of him reached your belly button and you slid your fingers up the slit at the head of his cock. He jolted, pulling back ever so slightly. Then he lined himself up with your opening. He pushed just the tip in, stopping there to allow you time to adjust. Pulling out. Pushing in a little further. Pulling out. 

You wrapped your leg around him, forcing him in all the way. He swore at the sensation of you being around him. You bit down on your lip to keep from crying out. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and the stretch burned. 

“You okay?” he immediately cupped your face in his hands, eyes searching your face. 

With an experimental movement of your hips, you managed, “Just move. Just move.”

Simon heeded your plea, drawing out before sliding back in. You could almost feel him in your throat, you felt so full of him. You had to time your breath to match his rhythm, if only so his reentry wouldn’t knock the air from your lungs. He leaned down to you, his arms on either side of your head. With every stroke, you could feel him hit your cervix, and every time it elicited a crude moan from you. 

“Atta girl, you’re taking me so well,” his gaze burned at where you two connected, watching himself disappear and reappear. You pushed his dark hair back from his face, wanting to see every micro-expression he made. His attention whipped back to you, a roughish smile spreading across his lips, “You’re so beautiful.”  

His speed picked up, his breath catching with every pump. You felt your climax swell up again and you clamped down around him. He licked a stripe up the column of your throat, placed burning kisses up the curve of your jaw, and sucked welts into the sensitive skin on your neck. Sweat beaded on your chest like the firey heat inside your core was making it’s way to your skin. 

He wrapped his arm underneath you, arching you further into him. His large hands encircled your waist, pulling you into his cock. The angle was too perfect. Your eyes rolled and it made you see stars. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream, the absolute ecstasy ripped any sort of coherent word from your tongue. 

His thumb came to rub fast tight circles on your clit, ushering you to your orgasm. You twisted in his grasp, writhing at the sensation. It was too much and not enough. He was too much and not enough.

“Cum for me, baby girl. Show me how good I make you feel,” his slightly pained expression revealed his own proximity to his ruin. He’s been waiting for this moment since the moment you met and he’s been on edge around you the entire time. He was struggling to keep himself railing you into the floor. Until there was nothing left but tears and whimpers. He wouldn’t do that to you. Not yet. You needed more time to get used to him. You needed time to memorize the shape and size of him. 

The band he pulled taut inside you finally snapped and your body stiffened. Your orgasm crashed into you so hard that you forgot your name. There was only one thing on your mind and it was him, the feeling of him. The sound that came out of you was one of crazed bliss and pleasure. Your body developed a mind of its own and you tried pushing his fingers away from you, the stimulation quickly becoming too much for you to handle. 

He shifted his position, one hand holding your legs around his hips and the other supporting his weight, fingers gripping at your loose hair. He leaned down, burying his face in your neck. His breath was warm on your skin, sending tingles all the way down your legs. You clawed at his back, nails leaving behind angry red lines. He relished in the pain. Prayed whatever marks you left on him would never heal over. He would keep coming back to you for more. He was inside you and still, he felt like he needed you closer. He needed you under his skin. In his lungs. The mere thought of you made him half wild. His relentless pace never allowed you the time to recover from your last climax as another rose from the depths. 

He murmured sweetly in your skin, “One more.” 

Like the words were gospel, you obeyed them. Tightening around his length you came again. His own release followed, pulling out the last possible second. With a strangled moan, his hot cum covered your stomach and dripped down the sides of your thighs. 

The two of you stayed like that, entangled in each other, fighting for breath. He placed a tender kiss on your jaw, then another on your mouth, “You feel way better than I imagined you would.”

You grinned at him, “You think about fucking me a lot?” 

“Only every time I jerk off,” he leaned back on his heels, his eyes devouring you, “I think about you all the time actually…” he tilted his head to the side, “and not just about how good you taste,” using his discarded shirt he began to clean up the mess you two made. Wiping all the fluids and cum from your body. He was so gentle with you. So delicate. Like he was afraid that if he spoke too loud or moved too fast you turn into dust. Blow away with the breeze. 

You sat back up, bringing his face back to yours, “Shower?” Your hair was still damp from the last one you took, but circumstances called for it. 

His face seemed to light up at the invitation, and his eyes darkened with mischief.  

Masterlist

A/N - Just recovering from a minor surgery my bad for the delay

Tag List

General -  @thychuvaluswife ❤︎ @shuttlelauncher81 ❤︎  @lostinsideourminds ❤︎ @v1naco ❤︎ @purplefishingline ❤︎  @konig-breedme ❤︎ @wolfyland07 ❤︎ @dog55teeth ❤︎ @cumbersome-robes ❤︎ @meaganjean  ❤︎ @ddioriez ❤︎ @adelaidai ❤︎ @johfaam0 ❤︎ @mymommy ❤︎ @mychrysanthemum​ ❤︎

His Foresight - @marytvirgin ❤︎ @stickygumchewer ❤︎ @lauraliisa ❤︎ @jungcoccc ❤︎ @lovelyladymayyyy ❤︎ @lululandd ❤︎ @chrissyfishywissy ❤︎ @naxxsstuff ❤︎ @sididakra-jo ❤︎ @yukisawer ❤︎ @q8852p ❤︎ @kat-nee ❤︎ @meganoreid ❤︎ @thewoodenarcade ❤︎ @kaghost ❤︎ @shadowcldx ❤︎ @aquarose38 ❤︎ @xheera ❤︎ @unsatisfiedanddisappointed ❤︎ @okayyadriana 

[hyper-fixates]

Tears of Blood

König x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 3.0k

Tags/warnings: unprotected sex, light choking, mentions of murder/blood (look who we’re working with), mentions of ghostsoap (yay!), explicit language, some fluff, dry humping, friends with benefits…? (let me know if anything was missed!)

Summary: König reveals a very compelling detail about himself while you prepare him for tomorrow's deployment—also inspired by this post/ask and bluegiragi’s art <3

Notes: this has been posted on AO3 for over a year and i just straight up forgot to post it here, too…oops

The barracks are eerily quiet after curfew. So quiet, in fact, that a ghost couldn’t even float around without being heard. Sometimes there is one, he’s just not of the conventional sort.

You’ve learned that Soap gladly let’s his room be haunted most nights.

König never says a word about it. If he did, he’d be a hypocrite. Especially now, as he drifts to the door of your room: after curfew.

By now, you know to leave it unlocked for him. You don’t know when it started becoming habit, but it did. A mindless gesture that makes his lips quirk under the hood when he turns the knob and feels the door give in with no resistance.

You’ve grown used to seeing his figure loom in the doorway, but sometimes your brain forgets it’s just him, and your heart instinctually stutters a beat out of fear as you see the shadows from the dim lighting hug around his broad, towering form—just as imposing and threatening even without the gear.

You’ve mentally noted that not everyone that casts their gaze, usually a fearful and watery one, upon him lives to do so again. But you are fortunate. You never let yourself forget what he’s been trained to do—what he does. He doesn’t like to indulge in it much, if at all, and his hesitance to do so makes you think it’s better if you don’t know the complicated details anyway.

KorTac has quite a different reputation than the 141. König helped make sure of that.

You finish folding the rest of your civvies, tucking them away in their small drawer, and toss a look over your shoulder to the man lingering in the doorway. “See any ghosts?” you muse, prompting König to step in and lock the door behind him.

A breathy chuckle fills the room. “Didn’t see anything, but I wish these rooms were soundproof.”

“Oh, no.” You hold a cackle, hand slapped over your mouth as you meet his amused eyes through the rough-edged holes of his hood.

“Well, that’s just Soap for you. Not even Ghost can shut him up, I guess.” You plop onto your bed with a sigh to compose yourself.

You know Soap will indulge you later.

“So, how may I be of service to the king?” You offer a playful smile as he stands at the foot of your bed. The unexpected nickname making him more interested in the flooring.

He brings a finger up to the black hood, hooking it in by his jaw and pulling to reveal a sizeable gash in the fabric. A close call with a knife if you ever saw one. “Needle and thread.”

He unhooks his finger and drags the worn material off of his head, then the plain black balaclava that hides him further under it follows. He drops both onto your clean sheets in front of him, rounding the corner of the bed and joining you.

Dark red hair flops over his forehead and hangs in thick, wavy strands. It hasn’t quite reached his shoulders yet, but it’s long enough to have a mind of its own. It’s a colour you don’t come across too often; maybe comparable to a chestnut, or old leaves in autumn before they disappear under a blanket of snow.

“Jeez, you ever gonna cut this?” You turn to face him and run a hand up the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the dense locks and lightly scratching his scalp on the way down.

Soft blue eyes glance to you, still outlined in black from earlier. “Probably not. Can’t find the time.” His accent gently rounds out the vowels as he leans into your touch.

“Let me braid it for you, then. To hold it back. I know you deploy again tomorrow.” You tuck a strand behind his ear, following with a fleeting kiss right above his cheekbone. A faint blush creeps over his temples and the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks.

“I promise it won’t be the worst thing ever,” you gently plead. “You can mend your hood in peace while I do it?”

You’ve definitely done worse together. But worse always seems to be easier.

“Okay.”

Usually these nights don’t go like this.

3 days ago

“Oh, that’s good—right there. Yeah. Yeah,” you nearly sob. König holds you against him, left arm reaching across your chest and hand comfortably gripping your throat as you try to roll your hips back against him harder.

His other hand is between your thighs—on your clit—which are dangling over his own to keep you spread. You’re trapped there; under his arms and over his legs as he jerks his hips up to meet your disjointed riding on the rickety office chair.

An empty briefing room. Not really smart, but Soap passed on that it was “out of service” until next week, not knowing that you’d end up in there sat on König’s cock later that afternoon.

The fabric of König’s hood rubs uncomfortably against your cheek, making you drop your head back onto his shoulder to escape it.

A breathy moan rushes past his lips as you arch your back. “No, no. You’re staying right here.” He tightens and corrects the grip he has across your chest, sliding his gloved fingers up under your jaw to keep you locked in place.

His cock slides itself in and out of you with little resistance, which would usually be slightly embarrassing if it was anyone else inside you, but the way he’s been massaging your clit with such attentiveness and grinding his hips into yours makes you forget anything you could be worried about.

The only thing you can think of right now is how good this orgasm is going to be.

Your hands snake themselves up his arm that’s pinned to your front to grip his wrist, holding on for dear life as his small thrusts become rougher. “You get much, much wetter when you’re close,” he observes. His index finger holds a steady rhythm on your clit as it works counterclockwise over you. “Fuck, I can hear it…can you?”

A whine bubbles in your throat. The zipper of his cargo pants bites against your ass on every downstroke, and you can feel how wet you’ve made the front of his pants. That’s what he gets for only caring enough to pull his cock out while he ripped your cargos off entirely.

“I—fuck. Yes, I’m close, yes,” you choke out, daring to cast your gaze upon where your bodies are connected.

You’re swollen and slick and you can hear it, too. The quick, sharp slaps of his hips against your ass does little to hide the hungry squelching of your cunt. You’ve probably dripped all down his balls at this point. He’s always happier with a big mess in the end anyway.

“Cum when you’ve had enough, Schatzi,” he chirps in your ear, breathless and lost in the wet, suffocating warmth of you—all his doing, of course. The result of far too many minutes spent with his thick cock gently sliding between your folds and nudging itself over your throbbing clit, just to be annoying, before he moved you both to the chair.

You drag in a heavy breath, focusing on the stretch of his cock deep inside your walls as the chair creaks with every desperate drop onto him.

Schatzi. “W-what does that mean?”

You’ve naturally picked up a few German words and phrases here and there from time spent with him, but this one was new. A term of endearment? A degrading nickname? Either could be possible in this moment. The sound and pronunciation couldn’t be more ambiguous to you.

“König?” It came out as a whisper, quickly silenced by the release of your orgasm throughout your body as he forces you down to the base of his cock.

—

You haven’t brought it up since. Neither has he.

Even now it sits in the back of your mind as you divide his hair down the middle into two parts. You remain on your bed, he sits on the floor between your knees with a needle and black thread in hand that he retrieved from the bedside table (stashed there specifically for him).

He lays the hood over his left arm and begins to stitch it quietly as you wind three generous strands of his hair between your fingers at the front of his scalp, pulling taught at the root. You carefully thread more hair in from the sides to have it lay perfectly against the top of his skull when finished. You’ll do a matching one on the right side.

“Let me know if it hurts at all,” you warn as you begin tugging more hair into place.

“Ha, I’ve faced adversaries far worse than your little hands,” he laughs, adjusting the hood in his hand as he pokes the needle in again.

The long vermillion markings under the eye sockets stare back at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that.”

It’s hard to not be curious about all of the parts that make up “König”. The mask is one of them.

“Why the tears?” you ask confidently while you establish the first braid.

“Hm?” He quirks his head to follow your voice, pausing the followthrough with the thread as you give an accidental yank to his hair.

“Your mask…under the eyes. Why tears?” You figured it was either something symbolic or just his personal taste. Everyone’s got a gimmick.

It seems like every aspect of his existence is a test of one’s curiosity, and you may have just failed.

He focuses his attention back on the stitch he was occupied with. “Fear tactic.” Oh.

Short and sweet. Simple and straightforward. It makes sense—

“I make them with the blood of my targets.” Oh.

Your fingers lose their rhythm for a moment, caught off-guard by the admission. Not so much surprised by the fact that he would do something like that, but rather that he confessed such a thing…to you.

“So you do that…presently?” How could you resist following up about that? It’s the perfect snare. This is the most you’ve gotten from him in weeks.

A beat of measured silence, yet it’s not uncomfortable. He likes to think about what to say, how to say it, before speaking his thoughts spontaneously.

“Only if I believe it’s truly deserved,” he explains. His tone doesn’t reveal if he’s displeased with the topic of work. “The blood actually doesn’t hold up against the black on its own, so Horangi suggested using bleach underneath so it will show better. If needed.” He runs a finger over a washed-out tear track. “Less maintenance with the chemical.”

It’s…it’s morbid, obviously, but you’re not sure if you expected anything less from someone in this line of work. And, of course, leave it to Horangi to feed the fantasy. They are nearly inseparable, besides the times that König’s with you.

Sometimes it’s hard to imagine him as murderous or malevolent—König, who has the most gentle, innocent blue eyes that have offered nothing but kindness to you, even in moments of fierce, consuming pleasure. König, who you’ve never seen, or heard, raise his voice at anyone in anger. König, who despises small talk because he can’t stand the awkwardness.

König, who enjoys the vibrant red sunsets on base and thunderstorms. König, who prefers blueberries over strawberries. König, who is obsessed with entomology books.

But there’s still another part of him that can take out entire platoons of enemies and have no more than a rip in his beloved hood afterwards.

The man under the facade of a callsign and reputation is someone who you may never truly meet, no matter how much he reveals. It feels like you’ve only met half of him despite knowing as much as you do about him, and that fact has settled as an ache in your chest.

“I see…I know it’s not really my place to ask about that stuff, but it’s hard to not wonder about you sometimes.” You’ve reached the end of the first braid, leaving the tail to sit at the crown of his head amongst the uneven layers he has going on.

You tie it off with a small black elastic. It’s a little messy considering the awkward length of his hair, but it looks like it’s meant to be there.

“It’s fine. I’m a big boy, I think I can handle it.” He gives a comforting laugh, amused at your timidness.

In every facet, he’s right. You can’t help but nod your head in agreement with a small smile, despite the fact that he can’t see your expression. “Well, I can’t disagree with you there.”

You begin the start of the second, and final, braid, grabbing the three strands at the front and twisting them into place as he speaks again. “I know it was my size that drew you to me in the first place,” he states confidently, shoulders shaking in amusement at the tease.

Your mouth gapes in feigned offence. “Wow, okay. Is that a crime?”

“No, not in my eyes. Look, look,” he brushes past the sarcasm, holding and stretching the now intact hood out in front of him to see the effectiveness of his handiwork. The seam is near invisible in the sea of black fabric (a ratty t-shirt).

It’s definitely better than the last one he did a few weeks ago. “Damn, that’s pretty fucking impressive. I’m almost done, hold on.” You hurry to tie off the hair, gently holding the sides of his head to see how even they came out. “Looks good, from up here at least. Come sit, let me see the front.” You pat one of his shoulders, freeing him from the cage of your legs and scooting further onto your bed.

“Danke. My spine didn’t love that, though,” he says with a theatric exhale.

He folds the hood in his lap, setting it on the bedside table with the needle and roll of thread. He all but tumbles back onto the soft sheets, groaning as he stretches his neck and shoulders out and lays comfortably on his back, long legs hanging over the side of the mattress.

His eyes flutter shut from the homely feeling of being in—or on—your bed. “Mm, I think I’ll stay here tonight.”

You acknowledge his thought with a small hum as you lean over his restful form to quickly assess his hair, dragging your fingertips along each side lightly. The shaggy hair will always suit him. It frames his cheekbones and jaw perfectly.

König opens his eyes at your touch. “So how does it look, doc? Will I survive deployment now?”

Another smile from you with a slight roll of your eyes. “I think it’ll do the job. Now go clean the black off your eyes if you’re staying. I don’t want it all over my pillows again.”

—

Soap saw the braids in König’s hair the next day before they deployed. An accident or purposefully, you’re not sure yet.

And now, two days later, he still won’t shut the fuck up about it.

“Would ye do that for me?” he asks, playfully quirking a thick brow.

“Probably not, no.”

An arm shoots out accusingly at you in disbelief. “That’s my point! I—”

“Wouldn’t be able to anyway with that fucking landing strip you call a mohawk.” You poorly stifle a laugh with a tight-lipped smirk.

“Away n’ bile yer heid, I’m just trying to help!” He rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to stave off his laughter too. It’s hard to be in his presence and not be overcome with a state of lively energy.

You’re in Soap’s—and sometimes Ghost’s—room, for no real reason other than company while König is at a (delayed) briefing.

Soap’s sitting on his—and sometimes Ghost’s—bed hounding you about the complex being that is König just because he can. You move about the room, finding things to tidy and organize to busy your mind.

“Have ye gone to town on each other yet?”

“Dude!?” You rip a pillow from under him and whack his head. Hard. His infectious cackling now muffled through the thick pillow.

“You’re insufferable. How the fuck does Ghost put up with you?” You try to suppress your giggling as you drop the pillow and join him on the bed in defeat.

A mischievous grin lines his lips at the question. “Well, he t—”

“No! No. Nope. I don’t need to know. It was rhetorical.” You hold up a hand to silence him, bringing it to cover his mouth. His day-old scruff pricks your palm as he tries to talk through your hand.

“Whatever you say next better be insightful or profound or else I’m gonna suffocate you with your own pillow.”

Soap, in fact, didn’t have anything insightful or profound to say about the situation.

— 

König wanders into your room again that night, and he’s filled with a gluttonous desire to consume you in any way that he can. 

It’s the least he can do for you. It’s the most you can do for him.

You rut against his clothed cock, straddling his hips tightly while your hands keep a death-grip on his hair. Once again, you find yourself on your bed with him under you, the clock on the bedside table glaring the angry red 12:56am.

His large hands have found their home on your ass, encouraging your pussy—still covered by your underwear—to rock harder over his length, which is still trapped in his briefs. 

He breaks away from your mouth when you give a rather forceful roll over him, a surprised gasp slipping through his now rosy lips. His grip on your ass slides down to your quivering thighs, rubbing over them soothingly as you work.

A harmony of softs whines and rough groans dance around the room as your pliant bodies move together. “This is somehow better than sex,” König mumbles, mostly to himself. “I don’t want to admit it, but I can cum like this if you don’t stop,” he adds with an overwhelmed huff. “Fuck, I will cum like this if you don’t stop,” he moans.

You let him, and he holds you tight as if you were something other than casual.

[mysteryanimator]

ANIMATION BREAKDOWN PROCESS OF THIS LETS GO (Sorry for any grammatical errors!)

SCRIPT/STORYBOARD: (you can watch here)

Now THIS. The script was very weak because I wanted to board immediately, so it started strong then fell off at the end (also generally I'm not a stronger writer, which haha fics my beloved). Now I know this, spending more time simmering with the script will genuinely only 1) stronger compositions for storyboards 2) it will be so much faster to board. Like I can board fast, but I can board fast AND well if I sit with the idea a bit longer. This will be a massive running theme how I like my shots earlier rather than further in.

side note I LIKE PANEL 11 A LOT, I just feeI didn't translate it well enough into animation which sucks because its a pretty panel and you get a softer moment from Olrox which I found was important to get across.

Also at some point, the 180 rule (which keeps characters on like one line behind the camera... not sure if I worded that right) gets broken and it bugged me for AGES but decided I had to just move on LOL.

These are my thumbnails b4 I go to animatic/cleaned storyboards which are SO MESSY (I'm a lot better at annotating my thumbs now LOL). The original prompt was top service blood bag x powerbottom vampire and i don't think i portrayed that well enough throughout BUT i think the intro did a good establishment. Which fun fact, this was scrapped but there was actually 20 seconds of Mizrak eyeing Olrox "What is it like? Blood?" Then Olrox leans down and commences the thigh glide.

These backgrounds are a mix of texture-bashing (walls/floors) along with some good ol' painting materials from scratch. Also, these are olddd and I can do a lot better yay, but was a good test to see how to make a consistent-ish scene.

ANIMATION: (You can watch the rough anim here)

I'll be super upfront how I don't like most of it AHHA. From starting this in July to posting this in September, I've improved a lot since then.

Since this was a bit ago, I don't remember too much but I remember going ham onto learning material from Dong Chang and animation servers. However in all honesty I think this was only really applied to the earlier shots. I got super frustrated with my "slow speed" so I tried to jump ship and do cleans super early on, which like lets be honest- pumping out two rough anims a day with uni on top is not slow idk what I was on about. This ended up giving me MORE work during the line/colour stage PFFT because I would end up correcting my mistakes in my roughs. Like Myst stop, this is for fun and you're learning, please take it easy LOLOL.

COMPOSITING:

Working on compositing this time around was slightly different, and I'll also admit it is not my favorite composite I've done (and again, I like my earlier shots then my later shots). My after-effects layers looked insane keeping track of the highlight glows on their clothes BUT it definitely paid off. Skin tones however were SO DIFFICULT (mostly in part to the fact I decided to experiment with how I approached it, so it definitely skewed how I worked with this)

I also definitely struggled between the dreamy look and keeping it clean and crisp, and while the dreamy blurred aesthetic does work in some cases, I opted out for the sake of clarity.

Beloved edge light my friend. It's making me learn SUPER late into it how I probably should have planned out a third shadow pass since edge light at the point is a crutch and I think planning it out ahead would get nicer more precise shadows LOL.

Because I brain rotted so hard for this animation I actually commissioned two people to help me work on this! I'll briefly talk about their stuff but please check out their work!

MUSIC: Astralbardkeep

Due the fact I don't have voiceactors, and I had a very specific vision in mind, I decided to go "you know what, let me be super self-indulgent". I had a lot of notes and inspirations for the music, BUT i wanted to have Olrox's theme from the original games peek through, which you will notice happens at the bite AND at the end.

TITLE CARD: Hataui0

This might've seemed overkill, but this friend of mine is very talented at making graphics/typography to suit the requirements of each individual project. (Also a secret ploy to make him make nocturne fanart /lh). So that entire end bit, he illustrated it along with that title, in which the themes I bestowed him were Mucha and Gothic art.

Thank you for reading if you got this far! Suffice to say this was supposed to be a compare and contrast between the animation I did in February, and while I may not quite find this body of work up to my normal standards, it substantial amount of improvement, which is the most important thing here! With the ten billion other things in my life going on, I can only be happy with the progress thus far :D

February on the left/September on the right

[bits-and-babs]

-ˋˏ 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄 ˎˊ-

summary: Following the death of your husband, you find solace in a fellow widower.

pairing: Frank Castle x f!Reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: Angst: Grief. Loss of a loved one. Desecration of a grave (not done by main characters). Navigating feelings for someone following the death of your marriage partner. Very vague references to violence. Softest smut I could muster, P in V sex, unprotected sex (the pull out method is NOT safe, ya’ll!)

Send me an ask || Frank Castle Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Day 10

The condensation on the glass of the beer bottle in your hands grounds you to the grass beneath your legs. The green strands feel more like emerald blades against the soft skin of your calves, just as your clothes feel like sandpaper and the lukewarm alcohol that slides down your throat burns like lava against your lips. All the small, beautiful things you used to appreciate with him all feel tainted, curdled without him by your side.

You exhale shakily, tears welling up in your eyes as you reach across to trace the arch of the gravestone, your husband's name etched into the marbled stone with an engraver that had probably written out ten other names that same day- so impersonal. It’s cold to the touch despite the warm sunshine spilling onto your skin, and the edges of the engravings feel as though they leave papercuts, too sharp to replace the soft, gentle touch of your late husband.

A sob rips its way up your throat, and you find yourself having to step away. It’s too much, too overwhelming to sit beside the stone for too long. Loosely gripping the emerald green neck of the beer bottle, you stumble blindly towards the bench on the other side of the gravel footpath just beyond your husband's grave. You had noted it, and the man sat on the end of it when you walked into the cemetery.

The exhale you let out as you set yourself down on the wooden bench is shaky, and your eyes cast skyward at the beautiful azure while you attempt to collect yourself and cease the tears that stream down your cheeks. They accumulate in the hollow of your chin before dripping down your chest and soak into the fabric of your sweater, leaving wet stains that darken the material. Fumbling to wipe the tears from your skin before they can do any more damage, you note the man beside you doesn’t make an effort to bother you, opting to gaze at a stone to the left of him.

You’re thankful for his silence; it gives you a moment to clean up. It’s only when you stop sniffling helplessly that the man raises his head, bistered irises slowly drifting over your face. He’s rough around the edges, with deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. His lips are pretty, the lower smaller than the upper, which has a sharp Cupid’s bow. His nose looks as though it’s been broken too many times, and there are creases in his forehead that appear to be a permanent fixture thanks to several years of frowning.

His face is framed with stubble that reaches his cheekbones, and there are deep shadows under his eyes that emulate that of bruises with their deep purple colour. He looks tired. Grief-stricken.

Again, he graces you with silence and offers you a wordless nod of acknowledgement, of understanding. He doesn’t speak, but the simple act says so many things.

“I understand how you feel.”

“I was there not long ago.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

No matter how often people tried to soothe your anguish with words, they never managed to achieve in one hundred comments what this stranger had in a single, wordless gesture of compassion. So you nod back. A short, soft tilt of your chin downwards in appreciation. It’s enough for him, it seems, because his head turns back to the stone of his deceased loved one, lips turned downwards as he gazed resignedly at the marbled stone as if willing them back from the dead.

You join him in his grief, eyes cast back to your husband as you quietly plead to all the Gods above that he doesn’t leave you alone. You can’t be alone.

-✩-

Day 25

You see it before you even make it to the foot of your husband's grave. The green and brown shards of glass glistening in the sunlight amongst the brown soil that was yet to flourish new grass since his burial. You leisurely walk upticks to more of a jog as you approach, panic rising in your chest and tears stinging your eyes.

Frequenters of the graveyard had warned you of rowdy teenagers messing around and getting drunk around the site's perimeters. Maybe it was foolish to believe that people would be respectful even in a place as sacred as a graveyard, but the smashed bottles over your lover’s grave make you want to scream in dismay. Your chest heaves as the tears stream down your cheeks, choking on your sobs as you fall to your knees in the soil and begin to pick out the shards with your naked hands.

Clinking together as you gather the pieces in your palms, the fragments are sharp to the touch. There are tiny pieces that you need to pick out of the earth with your fingertips and large shivers that you manage to collect with relative ease. Still, you can barely see through the distortion of your tears as you work hard to make the grave presentable again.

“Ow-!” You cry out weakly, a fracture of glass slitting the skin of your middle finger across the knuckle. The frustration bubbles over, anguish crushing your chest as you drop the fragments again to hold the affected area. You can feel blood seeping down your wrist, smearing your palm.

It’s too much.

Ugly, wretched sobs wrack your body as you practically fold your body in half, clutching your bleeding hand to your chest and rocking back and forth. It’s so overwhelming, the torment of being alone, being without your husband who was always there to lift you up. He would be here with his arm around your shoulders now, telling you that it was going to be okay.

“Hey, hey hey, sh-sh-sh,” you hear a gruff voice sound behind you over the volume of your cries, hushing you in a gentle tone. It takes you a moment to respond, wiping your eyes with the back of your wrists before you look up, still struggling to swallow your tears. The mysterious stranger who had sat on the bench with you only a few days ago crouches on his heels beside you, dark eyes surveying the scene with a furious frown.

“Who did this?” He asks. His voice is coarse, rage laced between each word as he reaches across to pick up the glass you had dropped in your breakdown. He does it with little effort, as though the honed edges of the glass do little to pierce his thick, calloused palms—years of blistering, years of hard work layered between scarred skin.

Struggling to form the words on your quivering lips, you throw a half-hearted shrug his way, only for another heaving sob to break past your throat. You can’t see, but you hear the creak of his leather combat boots as he stands. The stranger is quick to cross the short space to the bin beside the bench you had met him on in order to discard the glass but immediately returns to his spot beside you.

He doesn’t try to rush your grief, to get you to relocate or even stand. The caring, albeit gruff-looking, stranger stays hunched beside you, just letting you know without contact or words that he is here for you. It takes you a good while to settle the heavy breathing, but when it finally stalls, you feel hollow, as though you’d cried out all your energy to water your husband's grave.

“M’gunna kill ‘em.” Despite the violent words, the tone is spoken softly but with conviction. You glance up, feeling your eyelids almost squeak with the effort it takes, finding his eyes searching the cemetery's edges in a crude investigation. It makes you laugh weakly, wiping the tear stains from your cheeks despite them beginning to dry in the open air.

“Don’t hassle yourself with stupid kids, please-“

“No. No, don’t you be worryin’. Alright? M’gunna make sure they don’t do this shit again,” he asserts himself with a stern point of his index finger, eyes set on your face with dogged determination. You swallow down the argument threatening to leave your lips, instead solemnly accepting this vigilante’s justice. He nods at your silence, taking it as the wordless go-ahead.

Standing again, he walks through the marbled headstones. His all-black outfit is stark against the bone colour of the grave markers, almost imposing.

“Please let me at least know your name?” You call to him, “So I can use it when I thank you!”

His footsteps hesitate in the neatly trimmed, glass-free grass, stalling slightly before jump-starting again. He doesn’t look back at you, instead opting to call over his shoulder. “‘S Pete.”

You remember it. Let the name play in your skull over and over in that gravelly voice so you couldn’t possibly forget it. Pete, Pete, Pete. When he approaches you days later as you readied to leave the car park with keys in hand, he informs you ‘they won’t be comin’ round here to bother you no more, got it?’ You manage to ignore the lingering thoughts of how he had managed to scare the teens from the area (given his bloody knuckles and busted lip, it didn’t take much to figure it out), instead choosing to focus on addressing him formally, with sincerity.

“Thank you, Pete.”

-✩-

Day 70

The rain beats violently down on the windscreen of your car as you pull into the cemetery car park, the water slipping down the glass, causing the landscape to ripple as you stop the wipers. The sky is black with thick clouds, and the water they drop pelts the car's roof so loudly that it drowns out the low-level noise of the radio.

When you park up, the ‘tik’ of the radio turning off when you shut down the car is so soft you’re almost certain you haven’t killed it in the din. Satisfied only by the dash light going dark, you sit back in your seat for a moment and just gaze out of the window in dismay. Maybe this was as close as you would get to your husband today. You’re almost sure he wouldn’t mind, not wanting you to catch a cold in this weather just to spend five minutes with him.

As you gaze out at the cemetery, watching the rain batter the cold headstone that marked your husband's final resting place, you almost miss the shadow of the darkly dressed man hunched over on the bench you frequented. He’s tall and broad, and you know almost immediately who it is without having seen him in nearly a month.

Sat out in the cold and wet, Pete hasn’t even bothered to bring a coat. With no hood to protect him from the elements, his hair is drenched through, and you swear you can see how red his nose is even from the car. Despite the discomfort he must be feeling, he sits forward on the bench, forearms braced on his knees and fingers interlocked as he watches the raindrops run down a gravestone.

You’d taken it upon yourself to bring the stone flowers when Frank was away. You had no doubt he was still visiting at some point during the day, but you thought it would be a nice thing to do, given he had helped you—hydrangeas, you chose, a symbol of gratitude. When you approached the stone on a day that was definitely sunnier than this, you had noted the engraving. “Precious are the memories of Maria Elizabeth Castle, devoted wife & mother.”

Perhaps it was presumptuous to feel as though you understood his pain, just as he had understood yours, but knowing he, too, had lost his partner made it feel as though your silent bond meant more than you had initially realised.

So despite your better judgement, you step out of the car and hop straight into a puddle, soaking through your sneakers. You don’t bother to complain, despite how it wets your socks and instantly freezes your toes, approaching Pete with your arms crossed over your chest to retain as much body heat as you can against the wild wind and freezing rain.

Since fighting with the rowdy teenagers, Pete had been lying extremely low. So low that even other frequenters of the cemetery claimed they hadn’t seen him in weeks. You had almost been concerned that something had happened to him, so to see him sitting on his side of the bench came as a relief to you. As you approach, he’s still yet to note your advancing footsteps over the racket of the rain against the gravel.

You can see him closer now. Water drips from his long lashes, mixing with the tears that have settled on his cheeks if his bloodshot eyes are anything to go by.

“Hard day?” You speak softly, snapping him out of his trance. His head twists sharply to look at you, eyes wild with survival before realising it’s you instead of some silly teen trying to pick a fight or something more sinister than that. You just give him a pitying look. He’s totally deserving of it; he looks like a drowned rat. Still, he casts your sympathy aside with a scowl, grumbling wordlessly.

“I get it,” you begin, moving to sit beside him as the rain finally starts to soak through your jacket and chill your body, “Big scary man doesn’t like to talk about how he’s feeling. But that’s not good for you, you know?”

You’re met with silence, his eyes sliding back over to his wife’s headstone. Pete looks devastatingly sad whenever he looks at it, like the weight of the stone crushes him despite the fact his humongous body could probably carry quadruple its size with little effort.

“… It’s okay to be hurting, Pete,” you murmur softly, and in return, you are gifted with the sound of him exhaling slowly, shakily, as if he was releasing some of the tremendous pressure he was carrying. It makes you smile, to see him make an effort for you.

“Something started it?” You ask in a hushed tone, loud enough to be heard over the clatter of gravel pieces tossed about by the heavy downpour. “Someone said something? Had a shitty shift at work?”

“Mmmh. I woke up, and she just… wasn’t there,” he said softly, exhaling again. It sends a devastating pang through your chest. You know that feeling well. Understand that sensation of still reaching across the mattress to feel your husband's warmth only to find cold, empty sheets instead. For the first week after his death, you opted to sleep on the couch in the living room just to avoid that torturous realisation every day. It was only recently you had managed a morning without crying.

You swallow back the tears that pinprick your eyes now, threatening to undo all your hard work. Tapping your toes against the gravel, you purse your lips as you consider a way to answer him that doesn’t sound condescending. He’s a grown man; he doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like a child.

“Have you spoken to anyone? A friend, family?”

“Got no family,” he admits, glancing over to the distant city lights of New York. “Got no friends. It’s just me.”

You didn’t find it hard to believe at all. Pete seemed like an entirely lonesome character, consistently appearing on his own, being the only one to ever visit Maria’s grave.

“You’ve got me,” you whisper to him quietly, and he looks to you now with those deep mahogany eyes, ebony lashes framing his brown irises so beautifully. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, shaking his head slightly before letting out another heavy sigh.

“C’mon. You’re gunna catch a death out here.”

“… Well, at least I’d belong,” you point to the gravestones carelessly.

Pete Laughs. A genuine laugh that makes your insides warm. It’s deep and chesty and makes your own lips pull into a smile of their own. You find that when you get into the car after saying goodbye, the cold isn’t as bothersome. You think about that laugh at night before you visit your husband in your dreams. Think about how the two of you can comfort each other without sharing words. It’s a strange bond you’re building, but you realise it’s making your trips to the cemetery a little less burdensome.

-✩-

Day 140

Twenty days. Pete is gone twenty days, the blackness of the night and the brightness of the day all blending together without him. You continue to visit Maria for him, laying flowers some days, always stroking her stone gently to let her know you were there for her. You would talk quietly to Maria, just as you did your husband, about how nice Pete was. How he always looked after you. You wondered if he looked after her this way too.

The day he returns, you’re utterly relieved. A desperate exhale escapes your lungs when you set eyes on him from inside your car. He’s sitting on his side of the bench still, gazing at Maria’s stone. A hoodie covers his hair and hides his eyes with the aid of a worn, black baseball cap, but it’s hard to confuse his abnormally large frame for anyone else.

Carrying your flowers from the car, you first visit your husband. Pete raises his head slightly as you approach, and you note a slight nod of acknowledgement despite not being able to see his face. He doesn't want to interrupt this special time. You both have this silent agreement, never wanting to bother Pete when he’s with Maria, and he grants you that same courtesy. You’re thankful for this. Thankful for him.

You lay the crystal-white lilies down across the grass. It had finally reached the height of the greenery surrounding his plot, covering the freshly dug grave. It’s less unseemly this way, but it reminds you of how long you’ve been without your husband, the love of your life. Stroking across his carved name and pressing a kiss to the curve of the stone, you hold onto these moments tightly, needing to feel close to him.

Finishing up after giving him an update on your day, you stand slowly, approaching Pete on the bench with a weak smile. You cry less with him here. He looked up at you through his long lashes, deep chocolate eyes taking in your expression. It��s only now you see the blue-purple bruises that cover his eye and cheekbone, the split in his brow.

“What the fuck happened to you?!” You gasp, sitting down quickly and taking in his mashed-up face.

“Ah, got jumped by those kids,” he shrugs off your concern, pointing to Maria’s grave in a quick bid to change the topic. “You’ve been looking after Maria while I’ve been gone-“

“No, seriously, are you okay?” You question him softly, eyes scanning his face. He looks like he’s been hit by a car, but Pete looks at you with a pointed expression.

“‘M fine.” His grumble does little to ease your concerns, but you’re kind enough to let him move the conversation along.

Sitting down beside him on the bench, you exhale a loud sigh of frustration. Pete watches you settle beside him, clearing his throat. “Thank you for looking after Maria.” He repeats himself, clearly wanting to make it known he appreciates your help.

“Mhmm. She needed somebody while you were away,” you smile weakly, taking in his pained expression. It was obvious Pete hated leaving Maria alone for weeks on end. He wanted to be with her frequently, just like you with your husband. “Where were you anyway?”

“Business trip,” he mumbles, brushing over his bruised knuckles with his fingertips. The blood blooms beneath the thin skin, deep crimson and violet framed in the yellow-green hue of a dying contusion. He looks exhausted. Whatever business meeting he had must have taken place in an MMA Octagon.

You sigh softly, plucking his paw from off his lap and taking it into your own hands. He’s massive compared to you, veins protruding from the back of his palms. You’re gentle when you massage the blotted skin, eyes flicking up to his face. Pete watches you closely, those brown eyes impossible to read when they settle on you.

“You need some time away from here,” you insist, standing up from the bench and pulling his large hand with you. “Let’s go get coffee.”

“Mhm- I don’t wanna be botherin’ you-“

“It’s no bother! Come on; it will keep me busy,” you insist, a gentle smile on your face in an attempt to coax him out of the depressive cocoon Pete consistently wraps himself in. Maybe you’re imagining things, but you can see the edge of his lips quirk upwards slightly, shaking his head as he stands too.

“Alright,” he agrees, much to your delight. So caught up in the idea that you could brighten his day a little, you forget to let go of his hand as you lead the way, leaving the cars at the cemetery. You’ve stopped at a road crossing halfway to the coffee shop when you realise you’re still grasping onto him, Pete seemingly not having it in himself to burst your little sunshine bubble and ask you to let go of him.

Over a few black coffees and lattes, the two of you have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around your deceased partners for the first time. It lasts for hours. Pete reveals himself as an ex-marine working in Kandahar in Afghanistan, informing you of his interests, like playing the acoustic guitar and reading. You find yourself taken aback, the two very ‘delicate’ interests a contradiction to his rugged persona.

The baseball cap on top of Pete’s head hides his eyes from the setting sunshine that pierces the window you’re sitting beside, but his smile almost seems to shine brighter. It’s infinitely warmer than that orange orb in the sky, simmering in your chest as you smile along with him. You hope you can keep him that happy, never wanting to see him as gloomy as you did that rainy day.

“Pete-“

“Frank.”

You pause, staring at him with an incredulous expression. He takes a sip of his black coffee, exhaling slowly with a ragged breath before looking at you through his long lashes as though he’s shielding himself from the fallout of your reaction.

“My real name is Frank.”

Licking your lips, you take a moment to allow the information to sink in. You’re unsure why he would hide this from you, shield his identity like this- but given his battered state whenever he returned from a ‘business meeting’, you could guess it was due to his line of work. It also informs you it’s better than to go prodding at him, trying to get answers. The less you knew, probably the better.

“Frank…” You correct yourself slowly, to which his eyes duck to the surface of the table as if he finds the grain in the oak wood oddly fascinating. “What d’ya say we head back to my place so I can offer you a drink that’s a little more satisfying?”

It’s your turn to catch him off guard now, his eyes snapping up quickly to process your expression- as if he thinks you’re lying. His mouth falls open to answer you, but no sound comes out, his brain running quicker than his lips can follow.

“There’s no pressure,” you inform him gently despite your heart rapping violently against your ribcage. You glance towards the clock that hangs from the wall opposite your table, “But the shop is closing soon, and I don’t really feel like ending our conversation here.”

Frank’s eyes flick to the wall and then back to you, nodding slightly as if to urge himself onward.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

-✩-

The bronze brandy you hold in a crystal glass blurs your vision as you listen to Frank talk about his time in the military while sitting cross-legged on your living room floor. He won’t tell you much, insisting upon not bringing the mood down with gruesome tales of IEDs and blue-on-blue fire. Instead, he offers you stories of his friends Curtis and Billy.

An ache settles in your tailbone where you're seated on the carpet, just across from your guests' boots. Frank has settled into an armchair, swirling his brandy in the glass that looks minute in his giant paws. You don’t have it in you to move to the sofa, wanting to be close to him and take in his finer details.

In the low light of the living room, you can’t help but get lost in the contours of his face. His misshapen nose, the length of his ebony eyelashes and the curve of his Cupid’s bow. At some point, you lose track of the conversation, caught up in the view of his pecs beneath the grey cotton of his T-shirt. It’s evident that Frank is huge, but in this overhead lighting you can see the shadows of his muscular body beneath the sofa material, and you can’t help how your mouth almost waters.

“You good?” Frank’s voice cuts through your needy haze, your eyes snapping up quickly to focus back on his face. He’s watching you with a raised eyebrow.

“Y-Yes! Yes, I’m fine, honestly!” You insist, embarrassment upheaving your intoxicated stomach as he nods slowly, obviously taking note of how you had been staring at him. He could read you like a book, and had been able to since the day he saw you crying in the cemetery with a beer in your hand. How many days, weeks, months has it been since then? He made the days move quicker, always looked forward to seeing him.

“Have I overstayed my welcome?” He queries carefully, his eyes flitting to the picture frames that contain your happier memories of your deceased husband. It takes your drink-laden brain a moment to catch up to what he’s inferring.

“God, no!”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m- tryna insert myself. I’m not tryna replace him-“

“Frank,” you plead, voice cracking on the single-syllable name like it’s a desperate lifeline. “I am so fucking lonely. I’m so empty.”

Fuck.

It slips out of you so easily in your distress, anguished by the idea he might walk out of the door and leave you to spend your evening alone. Your heart plummets into your stomach when you see his expression shift, a look of surprise settling into the fine lines on his face.

“Hey now,” he whispers when he sees tears welling in your eyes, his gruff voice husky with the low volume. Frank leans forward in the armchair, reaching down and hooking his hands under you. You’re too overwhelmed to fight off his embrace, and his firm hold pulls you to your feet and settles you on his lap.

It’s intimate. You can feel the warmth of his body through his layers of clothing, and his forehead runs hot when he presses it to yours. The brandy makes your skin prickle where he touches you, his breath tickling your face as he breathes slowly and calmly.

“Deep breaths in, go on. You’re fine, I promise.”

His words of encouragement settle your hiccups. Your sobs tearing at your throat, sink back into your chest, and you exhale shakily with him, following his rhythm.

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, praising you for bringing yourself down from the emotional cliff you had just threatened to throw yourself off. “That’s good.”

You don’t know when it shifts. When the churning agony in the pit of your stomach twists into a warm buzz of something a little more addictive. His nose bumps yours as he holds you, forehead still pushed up against your own. His body dwarfs you, his palms on your hips smothering the flesh there. Your heart leaps.

When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there, and it tickles your nerve endings. You whimper softly, your own lips parting as you feel his mouth skirt around yours, just barely teasing at the supple flesh.

Your breathing labours once more, but this time its breathy keens instead of the rattling sobs he’d just pushed aside. His fingers skirt up the hem of your sweater, his warm, calloused pads trailing the ridges of your spine and sparking a heavy need.

“Frank,” you whisper, and it edges on a whine. The rumbling response that rattles in his lungs has your heart lurching out of the cavity of your chest.

You expect a burst, a sudden lurch towards something more primal, but Frank’s hand slowly drags up your throat to hold underneath your jaw. His grip is gentle, feather-light as he slightly tilts your chin to press a fuller kiss to your mouth. It’s so soft, his hulking body so delicate with you as he pulls you into him ever so slightly.

Brandy burns on his lips, and you can taste it, smell it on his tongue. It’s fruity and sweet with notes of oak that match the scent of his cologne. You’re breathing into his mouth, disarmed by the tenderness he offers you and losing any and all hope of a confident persona.

Trembling, your hands lay limp on his chest, fingers balling around the black cotton T-shirt he wears. They’re pulling at the fabric, clinging onto literally anything they can find because you feel like you’re floating, the alcohol in your system burning up and being replaced by the far more intoxicating kisses.

“Y’okay?” He whispers to you, lips barely leaving yours as he does. You’re nodding because God knows you can’t string together a sentence right now.

You could cry. His scabbed knuckles reach up to brush at the skin of your cheek, and you feel an overwhelming surge of emotion. These hands, the same that evidently found violence a more persuasive argument, were so affectionate with you. It was as though Frank disarmed the fighter in him, turning on the safety and locking him in the back of his mind.

A part of you finds inspiration in his demobilisation, urging yourself to let go of the safety blanket you were clinging to. Your hands slip down his front, feeling the ridges and contours of his fit, muscular body through his shirt as it descends. It’s as though your body lights up when you push your fingers underneath the hem of the cotton, buzzing hot between your thighs with a feeling you’d long forgotten.

“Mhmm,” Frank hums softly against your mouth, feeling your palms explore the smooth skin and the rippling muscles beneath. Your hips lift slightly from his lap, moaning as something throbs through you. It’s sickly sweet and drips like honey, and you find yourself chasing the awakening of a side of you that had been neatly stored in a box and left at your husband's bedside.

“You don’t need to,” he mumbles, and he’s right. You don’t. But you’ve never wanted something as much as you want this, every atom, every proton, neutral and electron of your body vibrating with a panging ache

“I want to,” you reply, the words like cotton in your mouth as you watch his eyes flit across your face. He takes you in, drinks in your beauty and commits it all to memory in a way only a widower would- spurred by the underlying fear of waking tomorrow having forgotten the little details. How long your lashes are, how your lip quivers when he runs his palms up either side of your ribs. The look in your eyes when your eyes lock; that sheer drop hanging above a four-letter word that’s too early to say aloud yet settles between the moments of shared silence.

“C’mere.”

-✩-

Frank’s palm settles on your throat as he sinks into your heat, his fingers lightly pressing into the curve of your jaw on one side, his thumb on the other. He applies no pressure there and simply holds you as he whispers praise against the angle of your cheekbone.

You clasp his bare shoulders with trembling hands, moaning out his name as he slides into you ever so slowly. Ragged scars litter the skin of his shoulders- slash wounds and destruction left by bullets. You decorate them with little, red crescent indents, your nails digging into his skin as you bloom around his cock.

“Pretty Girl,” he mumbles softly, and you let out a slightly pained whine as you stretch to fit him, “I know, baby. I know. D’you need me to stop?”

Frank’s words are slurred together as he holds himself back, knuckles white as they grip the bed sheets. You shake your head quickly, horrified by the prospect.

“D-Don’t stop,” you wheeze, your cunt fluttering around him. The stretch is delicious, the mild pain arcing something hot up your spine.

The sinews in his jaw flex as he rolls his hips forward, rocking into you fully. His thighs settle against the curve of your ass, and he presses kiss after kiss to your temple as he peppers you in compliments.

“You’re so good, bein’ so good for me,”

“That’s it, Good Girl. Can feel you relaxin’ for me.”

“There? S’That it? Yeah, that’s it.”

Frank’s forearms settle on either side of your head, his palm resting on your crown to steady your body as he begins to thrust into you. You wail softly, back arching off the pillows as he slides out of you, and back in. He touches something inside you that makes your vision blur, fizzing like static.

Each time he works his way out of you, your cunt tightens around the head of his cock in a desperate attempt to keep him there- a subconscious fear that he’ll disappear beneath the earth too.

“I’m right here,” he breathes, one of his hands moving to the inside of your thigh to push your legs wider. When he slots his hips against yours again, his pubic bone grinds against your clit. “M’not goin’ anywhere.”

You sob. Frank’s winding your arousal up and up, pulling it right until you feel it throbbing around the edges of your being. His fat cock-head pushes up against something that obliterates you, punching the air from your lungs and making you choke around his name.

“That’s it Darlin’… That’s it,” he coaxes you, slipping his ring finger over the hood of your clit and rubbing in tight little circles.

Blackness- you think. Or you’re so far gone that your mind can no longer process what you’re seeing. Your orgasm bears down on you with an intensity that has your thighs quaking around Frank’s hips, your toes curling and cramping as you wail his name.

The afterglow embers continue to smoulder hours after you settle into his arms. Frank lays on his side, tracing his fingers over the divot of your spine as you gaze up at him. He’s tired; you can see it in his half-lidded eyes, the edges of sleep creeping up on his mind.

His lips are kiss swollen, his shoulders red and littered with scratches you had no idea that you had inflicted upon him.

Despite your embarrassment, Frank had smiled when he saw them—made a joke that you’d added to his collection of scars.

Though sleep also threatens to pull you under, your eyes are naturally drawn to the golden necklace that hangs from Frank’s neck. A golden wedding band hangs from the chain, glinting warmly under the low lighting of the lamp settled on the bedside table. You reach for it, tracing the circumference with the pad of your thumb.

Frank pauses for a moment, watching your mind work behind your eyes as you fall into the depths of your brain. It’s a sobering moment, knowing Maria and your husband hang over you both- feeling their loss once more. You don’t hide your thoughts from Frank for long, looking up at him through your lashes and holding your breath.

“… Do you think they’d approve?”

The man settled under the covers beside you doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns his palm over, brushing his knuckles over your cheekbone. You melt for him, leaning into his affections as you wrap your hand around his wrist. His pulse thrums in his veins beneath the thin skin, and it’s beautiful, a perfect tempo.

“I think they’d approve of whatever made us happy.”

Happy. You’d forgotten what happiness was, how it felt and tasted following the death of your husband. It evaded your every attempt to grasp at it. Only now did you rediscover the elusive state of mind. It was different to what you remember, almost foreign.

It felt like body-warmed bed covers. Like wet sneakers and cuts on beer bottle glass. It tastes like brandy and smells like coffee shops. It looked like Frank.

You release the breath you’d trapped in your throat, feeling the weight of grief shift ever so slightly from your shoulders.

“I think so too.”

END

authors note: I began this fic in July of 2022. It’s been sat in my WIPs folder all this time, and I finally managed to find a way to finish it. I don’t feel like it’s perfect, but I do love it very much. I hope you do too.

🏷️ Tags: @hoeneey @howaboutcastiel @welcometostayingawake @syrma-sensei @ethanhoewke @foxilayde @bookfrog242 @wh0reforbucknasty @zakizigekwe @ahookedheroespureheart @buckys-other-punk @anxious-sappho @alexloveskili @captainrexstan @knights-power @southcrnbelle @niallsbunny @hold-our-destiny @vermillionwinter @stormkobra-5 @erenbissexual @alwritey-aphrodite @maggotzombie @deadpige0n @bakerstreethound @whatthehekko @cottagebunny9 @bit-dodgy-innit @peachyproserpina @pedrosprincess @inklore

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[avastrasposts]

Six and a half minutes - Frankie's version

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

Buen provecho!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right on time, cariño.”  

[teethondafloor]

Wait On Me - ¡Rescue Me! - (Bill Kaulitz x fem!reader)

This is an extract from the Wattpad fanfic I am currently writing, where each chapter is named after a song on Tokio Hotel's "Scream" album :3

Year: 2008

Warnings: Fluff and mentions of depression

My username on Wattpad is @Kazoozia if you're interested in reading the rest!

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After the concert ends and the lights are flashed back on, I feel a rush of fans behind me heading to the exit doors, their footsteps trampling over any litter left abandoned on the ground. I am one of the first people to leave the venue, as I was stuck hovering near the back of the room all night. However, I can't complain. The concert was unbelievable; Tom's rapid and clean guitar solos are still looping in my head after the show. My ears feel muffled and swollen as they are put at ease once the music is turned off, the large amps projecting a sharp ring when they are suddenly unplugged from their instruments. Deafened by their blare, I walk out of the building, feeling the cool breeze of the night slap me across the face as I inch closer to the outside. The realisation of how hot it was in that room hits me like the cold wind around me, melting away at my touch. I move away from the doors, looking around. I see some parents stepping out of their cars, growing impatient as they wait for their kids to come out of the building behind me. Making space for them, I stand at the wall of the venue with the front doors to my left and call myself a taxi back to the hotel.

As I wait for my taxi to arrive, I can't help but think about the concert again and again. I have the whole night playing over in my head like a broken record, repeating the same lyrics and tunes, burning them into the cracks of my brain. I was blown away by the intense energy from the crowd, perfectly complimenting the lively spirit of the band. I think of Bill. I'm still left speechless from his long stare and his teethy smile, shining in my direction. As some fans walk by, I feel their smiling faces glancing over at me, clearly remembering me for the plethora of noise I made at the back. I gently smile back at some of them as they pass, a sudden feeling of embarrassment washing over me, causing the hair on my arms to rise. God, did I disturb the show?

Busy watching the whole concert play out in my mind, I look up, noticing the taxi pull up on the other side of the pavement in front of me. I pull on the car's door and hop inside, watching my head as I lower my body into the vehicle. When I close the door behind me, I feel the car starting, shaking underneath me. It's rough interior brushes up against my bare arms and there is little room for my legs. It smells like hot shit, but I'll cope, I smile to myself. We drive through the lit up streets of Berlin, the city's graffitied walls blending into a solid, bright pink colour as we drive past them with speed. Looking out at the line of buildings and bars, I dig through my right jean pocket, grasping my crumpled up concert ticket in my palm. I uncrumple it a little and gaze at it's contents. I should've asked for a signature, I think to myself. A little bummed, I still doubt that I'll ever forget a night like this; the electricity of the concert rushing through me still. I scrunch up the paper once more and shove it back into my pocket, and as I look up, I see the hotel edging closer towards us. "This is me." I say to the driver, hoping that he stops near here so I don't have to walk back to the front doors from the parking lot behind the building. To my surprise, he stops just at the front doors of the hotel. I guess luck is on my side tonight, I think. I feel the car stop, the force pushing me forward a little until I bounce back into my seat again. I thank the driver and pay him for the trip, and as I exit the car I glance at my watch, "10.40pm" staring back at me.

Holding onto the straps of my backpack, I enter through the hotel doors and check into my room after a long, eventful night. I stumble towards the elevator doors and step inside, grazing my fingers over the buttons, until  pressing one that leads to the 5th floor. In the elevator, I feel my eyelids starting to lay heavy on my eyes, covering them over almost fully. I sway as the elevator travels from the bottom of the building right to the top, until I hear the 'ding' of the elevator stopping at my floor. As the doors slide open and reveal my face to the other side, I collect myself, step out and take a turn to my right, now walking towards my hotel room. I walk with my eyes half shut, tired and worn from the excitement of the night. On my way down the corridor, I walk past a few people, not batting an eye as they pass; until I hear someone call out from behind me. At first I don't think to turn around, assuming the call is directed to someone else in the hallway. All of the sudden, I feel firm footsteps running towards me, causing cold air to hit my back from the sudden movement. Before I turn around I feel a slight tap on my shoulder. I stop in my step and watch how this tall figure steps in front of me, cutting me off. They are now facing me. Silence settles between us, before they finally speak up. "Sorry to bother...uh...you dropped this" they hand me a crumpled piece of paper. A look of confusion shoots through my face which soon relaxes when I uncrumple the paper, realising that it's my concert ticket. "So...you're a fan I'm guessing" I hear them smile through their words, making me look up slowly. A sharp spark shoots into my throat, through my veins and burns at my fingertips.

It's Bill. Bill Kaulitz. My mouth peers open when I see his face, looking down at me with a smile. His hair is still caked with hairspray, now a little more flat, leaving only some strands pointing up to the ceiling. His fully black, emo attire contrasts with the yellow hallway lights, beaming above us. He looked like my shadow, ominously towering over me. "Oh my god.." I blurt out, not intending him to hear. "Bill, uh..." I shake my head, electricity rushing through me. "What are you...doing here?" I scrunch my eyebrows. He looks down at the floor for a second and then glances back at me before answering. "I'm just..." He thinks "on a walk around the building!" As he examines my face his eyebrows slowly lower and he turns his head slightly to the side. "Were you...at my concert? This nights concert?...You were the girl at the back right? The one screaming." he huffs gently, smiling and awaiting my answer which he clearly already knows.

"Yeah-" I chuckle and nod "yeah that was me up there...I hope I didn't disturb the concert too much." I smile awkwardly.

"No way!" His smile widens, revealing his teeth "You killed it! You brought that concert to life!" I bite the inside of my cheek as I smile, surprised by his enthusiasm. "And you...you were amazing up there- the...the whole band was. you killed that." I say, shaking my head. Bill laughs quietly and looks down at his feet, taking in my praise before opening his mouth to say something. "Thank you thank you...tonight was great for me too, I only fucked up like...once or twice" We both laugh and I notice him looking me up and down subtly.

"It was perfect, don't stress it." I say, reassuring him. We stand in silence for a moment, not knowing what else to say when I finally speak up, breaking our eye contact. "Well, I'll let you go now, you can have your...stroll around the building" I say jokingly. Bill looks away, chuckling softly. "Yeah uh...I'll do that!..." He takes a step forward, heading up the corridor before suddenly hesitating. "Oh my god I'm awful...I don't think I got your name sorry..." He stutters a little when he says this, anticipating my answer. Charmed by his awkwardness, I smile and gaze into his eyes. "y/n" I say, nodding my head.

"y/n" He repeats my name back, letting it's taste settle in his mouth. After a moment of brief silence, he breaks our eye-contact, his eyes shooting quick glances at me "Well, I hope you have a nice night y/n." Standing inches away from me, he raises his arm out, inviting me to shake it. I take his hand gently, feeling his cold rings pressing against my fingers. He looks at me for just a second longer and heads down the corridor before I can say my goodbyes. I turn back, my eyes following the back of his head.

Stricken with shock, I'm stunned to my core. What the hell just happened, I think, my back now to him. I just spoke to Bill fucking Kaulitz. Although I am frozen over in shock, I still feel a sort of warmth clustering inside my stomach. I think of his awkward smiles and prolonged stares. In that moment he was so...human. Up until now I've never really seen him in this light, as the only light that is flickered onto him is through interviews and photoshoots; where he is glamorised and simplified, leaving out the human part of him in between each flicker. Seeing his authenticity slip through his stutter, made me realise that Bill in fact is not a shadow that towers over me which I can morph into my own liking, but a person; one like me. I look down at the concert ticket, now warm in my grasp. Maybe I don't need that signature after all.

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Rummaging my keys through the keyhole, I step inside my breezy hotel room, locking the door behind me. I had left some windows open before leaving for the concert, which left the day's cold breath swirling around the room, blowing on the long and cheap curtains which brush against the carpeted floor. Feeling the air grazing my arms, I take a hold of my elbows in a gentle embrace while I step towards one of the windows, reaching over to shut it. A final huff of air escapes the window as I close it, shuffling the curtains delicately before they settle at last. I look out at the city below me, the sky painted a rich blue with shiny white glitter scattered all over. The moon casts a beam of light onto the city's buildings, which disappears into their shadows, creating a maze of black alleyways in between them. Admiring the view at my feet, I pull the curtains over the window, the rings holding them up jamming as I force them towards me. The moon's faint light still peers through the thin fabric, reflecting onto the carpet. With little light in the room, I shuffle towards the small lamp on table next to my bed, and blindly feel the switch with my fingers before pressing it. As the room bursts into a warm wash of light, I set my bag down on the ground next to the dresser.

What a night, I think. The exhaustion from the long day hits me once more, and I feel myself yawn as I stretch my arms out in front of me and rest them on my head. I take a moment to breathe, process. My mind is fogged with moments from the concert and the taxi and the ticket and Bill. Bill. Mostly Bill. The realisation that he is in the same building as me right now is slowly setting in, leaving me speechless. God. What if I run into him again? That would be awkward...I think? I don't know. I can't think right now. I need to uh...

I rub my eyes with both hands, wanting to keep myself awake. Trying to gather my thoughts, I look around again before untying my converse and unzipping my jeans, sliding them off of my legs in a struggle. I pick my jeans up with one hand and throw them into the corner of the room, where a pile of the rest of my dirty (or not so dirty) clothes helplessly lie. Honestly, I lost track of what pile that is a while ago. I stumble towards the small bathroom across from me and I hit the light switch with my hand, its bright flash blinding me. I hold onto the edge of the bathtub in the room, propping myself up while I turn the shower on and wait for the warm water to flow through its pipes. The cold and sharp water drips onto my knuckles, sprinkling me with its thin shards; I wiggle my hand above the bath, shaking it off. grabbing my band shirt by its sides, I pull it over my head and arms, dropping it onto the bathroom floor. As I hear it fall behind me, I slip out of my underwear and step into the tub, watching my head on the railing above. The water is warming up now and I can feel its warm droplets hitting against my skin, washing away the excitement of the night.

I stand in the shower for almost an hour, letting the water cleanse my mind as well as my skin. The burning steam from the shower fogs up the glass surrounding it, trapping the heat inside as it sinks into my pores. After allowing the water to warm me up completely, I sigh and turn the shower off, carefully stepping out of the tub. I grab a towel off of its rack which is bolted onto the wall, first drying myself off and then using it to wrap my hair in a tight turban. I walk out of the bathroom, hearing the soles of my feet patter on the damp floor under me after each step. I wander over to my white sheeted bed and throw myself onto it, my eyes looking up at the ceiling above me. I sit for a while in silence, my mind tired and still fogged with the hot steam which soon disintegrates into the air, revealing the thoughts which I had suppressed the whole night. 

What am I doing? I think. I glance over to my bedside table which holds a small lamp, a pile of university leaflets and pages of forms to fill out. I sigh and roll onto my side, my eyes now pointing to my laptop; I haven't turned it on since I got here a week ago. I've been avoiding writing for weeks now, which is definitely not helping me develop my portfolio. Stupid fucking portfolio. mountains of monologues and poems that I never manage to rhyme properly. They say I need to showcase my best work, for the world to know what I can do. But I just...can't. I can't help but keep proving that all of this is for nothing. I don't know what's wrong with me...I wanted this, I did. I said I would travel all the way out here to find a decent university that will take me in for what I am, for what I can do. For what I thought I could do. But what if I can't do this anymore? What if I'm sick of trying? What if these pages I'm writing mean nothing and I'm wasting my time trying to be understood. When the world was made for visuals and I can only communicate with words. God. My mind spirals down into a hole, the same hole that was left deep within me when my music career failed and plummeted into it. I'm so scared that writing will dig deeper, leaving me hallow. I notice my breath quicken as these thoughts race through me and even as I wallow in self pity, I hold myself, forcing any comfort I could find left within me onto myself.

I yawn gently, looking around the dimly lit room as the bedside lamp flickers slightly. I reach over to the drawer, pulling it open with ease and dig out my silver iPod mini, clutching it and the earphones dangling from it in the palm of my hand. Switching off the lamp, I pull the hotel's white duvet over me; soft folk melodies singing me to sleep. Laying with my thoughts tangling in my head, I skip a song and a familiar tune starts to play: "This used to be our secret...Now I'm hiding here alone..." It was 'Rescue Me'. I remind myself of the the same lyrics that played at the concert a few hours ago. Hours ago when loud music also drowned out my thoughts. I curl up into a ball as the song plays, feeling the duvet absorb my body heat and create a soft mist of heat hovering over me like a warm aura. I fall fast asleep, screaming in my head, my voice desperately trying to escape me. "...My S.O.S on radio...The only chance to let you know...What I fear...Can you hear?...Come and rescue me..."

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- teethondafloor (Zuźka)

[talesfromthesnogbox]

Nailed It

Summary: Eddie paints Steve's nails, Steve realizes some stuff. That's it, that's the fic.

Words: 1,745

Notes: This is all because I got my nails done on the weekend and thought "hmm, it's like super intimate having someone touch your hands for the better part of an hour"

AO3

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“So, whaddya say Harrington, yours next?”

His Saturday afternoons off had become Steve’s sacred Eddie days. He loved hanging out with Robin, but she usually worked the closing shift Saturday, and ever since adopting Eddie into their rag-tag group, Steve found himself wanting to hang out with him more.

On this particular Saturday afternoon, Steve and Eddie found themselves in Eddie’s messy bedroom of the new townhouse the government had gifted the Munsons. It wasn’t anything unusual for them, lounging on Eddie’s bed, a joint half-smoked between the two of them, a Bowie tape on in the background. But today, Eddie had pulled out something new.

From his closet, he’d pulled a dusty basket out, filled with nail polish in a rainbow of shades. He’d picked a forest green one, and got to work on himself, buffing his nails carefully and painting the varnish in smooth coats. Steve watched aptly, almost missing Eddie’s question.

“Sorry?”

Eddie smirked, and gestured to the basket. “Pick a shade, you want in?” 

Steve scoffed. “Isn’t nail polish—”

“Dude, if the next words outta your mouth are ‘for girls’, I—”

“No! No, that’s… I just… I don’t think it really fits my whole…” Steve waved his hands around his torso. “You know? You’re… well you’re you, it goes with the whole metal thing. I’m…”

“Hawkins royalty?” Eddie deadpanned.

“Come on, that’s not what I meant. You don’t think it would look out of place wearing black nail polish with my whole… I dunno… prep thing?”

The other boy scoffed. “Who said it had to be black polish? There’s a world of colour here Harrington, pick one.”

Steve eyed the basket carefully, looking through all the options. Eddie really did have a wide array of colours to choose from. It was clear Eddie used nail polish as yet another way to express his loud personality, stomping over gender norms and challenging people’s perception of who he is by the array of soft pinks next to the shiny black and vibrant red. He thumbed over the tops, picking up a few colours he thought could look nice, pretty even. 

It had taken El calling Steve pretty for him to understand that it wasn’t just something you could call girls. Boys could be pretty too, hell he’d even thought that on a few occasions, seeing men in passing with soft billowy shirts and perfectly coiffed hair. Steve looked back up at Eddie, his tongue between his lips as he focused on steadying his non-dominant hand, his hair half tied up falling in his eyes… and oh, he thought, a moment of understanding washing over him, Eddie is also sort of… pretty.

His cheeks burned red and he turned his attention back to the basket of varnish in front of him, picking a random colour from the bunch. It was fairly neutral, a soft terra cotta orangey brown that didn’t seem to be totally opaque; he thought it would look nice against his skin. “This one?”

Eddie nodded his head in approval of Steve’s choice, shaking his hands to dry the paint on his own nails. “Go wash your hands, scrub the gunk under your nails, I’ll start after mine are dry.”

Once Steve’s hands were sufficiently clean, Eddie got to work. He shook the bottle and twirled it between his hands, then took Steve’s hands in his to inspect his canvas. Steve almost immediately flushed. 

You see, Steve loved holding hands with the girls he’d dated. It was customary to hold a girl’s hand while you walked, or over the table waiting for dinner, but he’d never had his hands held so delicately by someone else.

Eddie thumbed over Steve’s nails, checking for rough or sharp edges. He definitely didn’t notice how Steve gawked at him.

“Looks good man, tell me if you hate the colour and I can start over.” 

Steve nodded, speechless in the moment while Eddie shook the little bottle again and twisted the lid. He took Steve��s hand again, shaking it a little.

“Dude, let go, you’re tense as hell.” 

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry, just not used to this.”

“Don’t worry big boy, I’ve gotcha.” Eddie threw to him with a wink.

Steve flushed at Eddie’s words, watching him go to work on his nails. The other boy was once again lost in concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he swiped the paint over Steve’s pinky finger. He gave Steve a look, searching for approval with the colour, which Steve nodded to, and let Eddie continue. 

It was a wonder to Steve just how soft Eddie’s touch was. His hands were rough in a way that he could tell Eddie had been helping his uncle with their new vegetable garden in the backyard, the tips of his fingers calloused from playing his Warlock. But despite all that, his touch was just so damn gentle. Loud, boisterous Eddie with the touch of an angel.

“You good up there Steve-o?”

Steve blinked, and shook some hair from his eyes, coming out of his Eddie-induced trance. “What? Yeah, yeah I’m fine, why?”

“Well I’ve asked you like three times what you think Robin is gonna say about this.”

“O-oh.” Steve chuckled as a deep flush painted his cheeks. “Robs will love it, she’s begged me to let her paint my nails every time she stays the night like a ‘proper slumber party’, maybe I’ll actually let her do it sometime.”

“Oh? And why haven’t you?”

She’s not you. 

Steve shrugged away his answer, brushing off Eddie’s question. Every instinct within him told him to flirt, but this was Eddie, this wasn’t some random Hawkins girl he’d met up with on a whim. The Harrington Charm™ wasn’t meant for just anybody and —oh… did he want to flirt with Eddie? 

“Dude.” Eddie snorted. “You look like you just saw a ghost. You’re not gonna hurl on me, are you?” 

“You wish Munson.” What???

Eddie’s brow furrowed and he paused. “No, I really don’t actually.”

“Yeah, no you’re right.”

The other boy tightened the cap on the nail polish bottle, setting it aside. “Are you like… good? Like are you okay man?” 

Steve straightened, taken aback by Eddie’s question. “Yeah, yeah! Totally. I’m great, I’m just…” Eddie looked at him expectantly as he looked down to check out his nails. “Do you think they need another coat?”

Eddie smiled and took Steve’s hands again. “That can definitely be done. But I think they need to dry off a bit more first.” 

“Cool.” Steve and Eddie locked eyes, Eddie still holding Steve’s hands. 

“I can like… let go if you want me to.” 

“Yeah… no… yeah I’m good like this.” 

“Cool.” Eddie echoed Steve, not letting go. A few moments passed, before Eddie broke the tension with a sharp inhale. “Alright I think they’re dry enough for round two.” He got back to work, and this time, Steve had no issue unabashedly staring at his friend.

The tongue poke of concentration was back, and Steve wondered if he even knew he was doing it. His hair was a mess as per usual, but today he’d pulled the upper half of it back into a messy bun, leaving his neck exposed. His jaw looked strong, clenched, and his neck long and biteable. Biteable. I’ve never thought someone’s neck looked biteable. Eddie wore a tank top today, loose around his thin frame, but Steve noticed the definition in his arms; it was clear that toting around amps for Corroded Coffin had been paying off, among other things.

But still, his touch was so incredibly soft. 

People had Eddie all wrong. Sure, he was an oddball at times, making nerdy references, listening to loud music, wearing all the chains and the leather and the hanky that alluded to his preference for S&M, but he wasn’t some big scary mean nerd. Eddie could be a lot, but he could also be caring, and sensitive, and funny. He didn’t take bullshit from his friends, he held his inner circle to a higher standard, and knew that they’d expect that of him in return. Eddie was good, and oh god, do I have a crush on Eddie? 

Steve flinched with the realization, Eddie smacked his hand, bringing him back to the present. “Gonna make me get it all over you, hold still.” And wasn’t that something Steve had probably said in a much different scenario.

When he was done, Eddie pulled Steve’s hands up to eye-level to admire his work. “Not bad, usually Red complains that the colour bled into her cuticles but I think she just likes to complain. Whaddya think?”

Steve (reluctantly) took one of his hands out of Eddie’s grasp to look at his newly painted nails. It actually looked quite nice, and something about the fresh coat of paint made him feel different, like he was breaking out of a mould he once shaped.

“It looks awesome, thanks man.”

Eddie smiled bashfully, fiddling with the bottle. “No sweat. Hey, give it a sec and I’ll give you some lotion.” He pulled out a green tube and spread a dollop on each of Steve’s palms. “Wayne swears by this stuff in the winter, his knuckles get really bad.” With both of his thumbs, Eddie got to work rubbing the lotion into Steve’s palms and over his knuckles. “Wouldn’t be a proper manicure without a little massage, would it.”

All thoughts left Steve’s brain, it felt like Eddie’s fingers left a trail of fire where they went, gently but firmly coating his hands with lotion. It was good, Steve was relaxed, and he felt closer to Eddie than he ever had… but he didn’t want to move away.

“There. Now you’re done.” Eddie brushed his thumbs lightly over Steve’s palms, still not letting his hands go.

“Hey Eds?” Eddie quirked his brow in response. “You wanna grab dinner?” 

Eddie’s face was unreadable. “Like… out somewhere?”

“Yeah.” Steve paused. He’d never asked out a guy before, would Eddie think he was asking him to dinner just because he was the only gay guy Steve knew? Would he think Steve was trying to make fun of him? “Or, I dunno, we could order a pizza or something.” Nailed it coward.

The other boy smiled. “Sure Harrington, but if you fuck up those nails with pizza grease or something, I’m not redoing them.” 

Steve chuckled and smacked Eddie’s arm lightly. Maybe next time.

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #05 - Stamp

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #5 - Stamp

Briar tilted his head as he watched Vy'thanis spread a clean cloth on his workbench and check a few tools. The half-Elezen was a little puzzled by the Duskwight giving him a slightly nervous look, even as the tall man smiled at him. Briar could practically sense the tension and it made him nervous as well. With a soft hum, he pulled his legs up to crisscross as he settled on the couch, just watching the jeweller.

Briar had never had much chance to see someone work with gems or the finer metals. Goldsmiths and jewellers were uncommon in the Shroud, although woodcarvers could make some beautiful things. Briar had heard once upon a time Gelmorra had been full of skilled artisans who worked with ores and stones to make beautiful things, but it seemed that had been taken from the Duskwights along with many things. Was that perhaps why Vy'thanis seemed a little uneasy? Briar could only hope it was a force of habit and not a true fear that he would betray Vy'thanis. That was not something he would ever do.

Still, he didn't want to rush the other so Briar sat quietly, other than brushing his red bangs back so he could see more clearly. He watched as Vy'thanis took a deep breath, gave him a quick smile and picked up what seemed to be a very plain and ordinary small stone, at least in Briar's eyes. He waited to see what tool the Duskwight would use, but he didn't expect the subtle thrum of aether to fill the room. Briar's ears perked sharply and he straightened in surprise, head tipping to one side again.

Vy'thanis gave him another smile, a knowing one this time, as he cupped the stone between his palms. The feel of magic in the air grew more intense as Vy'thanis rubbed his palms slowly over the dull stone and revealed a sudden myriad of colours. Even the brown was polished to something that gleamed like the finest polished wood but was mixed with spots and stripes of blues, greens, reds, and golds as if a rainbow captured inside it.

The Duskwight smiled as he murmured to himself, lost in his work to Briar's eyes. "So, what do you wish to be, hmm?"

Vy'thanis turned the stone over, smoothing away rough spots with a touch as he considered it closely. Coming to a decision, the jeweller nodded. He touched the stone, shaping it with magic and touch. He didn't change it over much, perhaps not wishing to remove the stone's natural beauty. He coaxed it into a shape similar to an arrowhead, although softened so the edges would not harm the wearer. A little hole appeared at the wider base of the stone and then Vy'thanis ran his hands over it for a final smoothing polish to make a simple, but striking pendant.

"There," the Duskwight said, his deep voice full of pleasure. "Beautiful."

"It is," Briar said quietly, finally speaking as he gave Vy'thanis a look of quiet awe. "What is it? I mean, I see it is in the shape of an arrowhead, but what stone is that?"

"Mmm, most call it 'boulder opal'," he explained. "It's opal found in iron-heavy stones deep in the earth. Rather rare and very beautiful."

"It is," Briar agreed, looking at the pendant. He blinked when Vy'thanis pointedly offered it to him, taking it carefully. He had worried it might be fragile given the delicate play of colour, but the stone was solid and warm in his palms as he cupped it. He turned it back and forth in the light, fascinated by the way the colours gleamed and changed with each movement.

"You should keep it," Vy'thanis said, relaxed now that Briar's response had been nothing worse than admiration and wonder. He hadn't truly expected a greedy response, but people had surprised him before. Still, given Briar's innocent reactions, the Duskwight couldn't help but feel slightly guilty for such worries.

"What?!" Briar looked up, fingers curling around the stone instinctively so he didn't drop it in surprise. "Vyth, I couldn't. It must be terribly valuable."

Vy'thanis waved away the worries. "I have several others that I will work on later. I think this one was meant for you. Here." He took a moment to look through his supplies and a bronze bale with a matching chain. "Here, let me see a moment."

Briar obediently handed the pendant back to watch the Duskwight work again. A little whisper of magic had the bale opened and through the pendant's hole, melded together again in a moment. Vy'thanis threaded the delicate chain through the bale, nodding. The burnished bronze suited the deep browns of the opal well and he leaned closer to Briar. The half-Elezen blushed but didn't move as Vy'thanis measured the chain. A few moments had it just the right length to slip over Briar's head and rest a little below his collarbones.

The opal gleamed, warm and solid against his chest as Briar touched it reverently looking up at the Duskwight again. "It's wonderful."

"It suits you," Vy'thanis murmured before perking. "Ah, before I forget. The last thing for an artisan. Well, at least one that works in jewellery," he chuckled. He turned the pendant so the slightly flatter back was toward the Duskwight. He brushed his fingers over it and his stamp appeared as if carved into the stone. "Every skilled master has his mark."

Briar smiled as Vy'thanis stepped back, picking up and turning the pendant so he could study the stamp. He ran his thumb over it slowly, feeling the delicate lines etched into the stone. "I like that," he said softly. "I can touch it and remember that you made it. For me. Thank you, Vyth."

Vy'thanis was still a moment, eyebrows raised before he blushed a little and smiled. "You're very welcome, Briar."

The lovely Vy'thanis belongs to @vythanis/ @valdiis .

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Out of the Woods

So finally here is the fic to accompany the Liebgott Taylor Swift moodboard (as seen below) Pairings: Joseph Liebgott x reader. Warnings: swearing, gore (reader is a nurse), war themes

Normandy 1944

Joseph Liebgott had never been the easiest man to get along with, he was stubborn and opinionated and was built like a ticking time bomb, the slightest thing could set him off and that was the mistake Y/n made when she first bumped into him.

“Hey, watch where ya going ya shit head!” Y/n stumbled forward, her threadbare boots scuffing in the mud as she dropped the wooden crate of medical supplies, cursing as the valuable, clean bandages unravelled into the sludgy puddle. The path outside the aid station was a thick mire and often reminded Y/n of the way her father had reminisced about the trenches of the Great War.

“ I should watch where I’m going?” Y/n spat, narrowing her eyes at the paratrooper, “You’re the one who just cost first battalion half of their medical supplies.” Throwing the salvageable bandages back into the box in anguish, the crumpled lumps of clay-coloured cloth were no good now. Y/n wasn’t sure how she was going to break the news to Eugene; the medic wasn’t known for his anger but knowing their situation this would surely push him over the edge.

The paratrooper spun around to face her, his skin pale and dark eyes encircled by purple, “oh so first battalion got their own personal nurse now? No wonder those fuckers are so cheerful,” he sneered, oblivious of the accident he had inflicted and not bother to offer any kind of assistance as Y/n fumbled anxiously for the supplies.

“No, I’m distributing supplies to all the medics in each battalion of Dog, Easy and Fox company actually, but maybe when I find out which battalion you’re from I’ll conveniently skip them,” she snapped back, thrusting the waterlogged box aggressively under her arm, no longer concerned by the trail of sludge leaking down her white apron.

“Good day, Corporal.”

Holland 1944

The second time they met was no better. Joe had been injured on a patrol and his neck was bleeding profusely through the rudimentary bandage wrapped poorly in a limp scarf.

“Liebgott just let me look at it God dammit,” Y/n reached over, her nimble fingers trying desperately to remove the bandage from his neck but he flinched away. Her fingers barely brushed against the dressing as he shot up from his seat in a receptive, crumbling leather chair situated in the corner of the temporary aid station, having once been someone’s home that now lay abandoned and derelict.

“No, get off me. I don’t need your help. Where’s Doc Roe?” Liebgott snapped, and Y/n sighed elaborately; she was in no mood for this kind of attitude. There were eleven other men in the aid station who would all greatly appreciate being attended too.

“Doc Roe is dealing with other casualties. You got me or nothing.”

Liebgott snorted, “Guess I’ll just bleed to death then.”

Y/n protested but Liebgott had already shouldered his M1 and was making his way towards the entrance.

“Why won’t you just let me look at it?” Y/n hollered, a little louder than she had intended and alerted the other paratroopers.

Joe spun on his heels, his mouth-eaten jump boots, scraping the rough, wooden floorboards.

“I don’t want some woman half-assing a dressing because she wants to be part of the war effort. This is no place for a woman, it is a man's war,” he vituperated her, taking no notice of the stares he was receiving from his friends. “I don’t want your help,” his word was final and his boots were heavy as he departed leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

“I don’t know what his problem is with me, Gene,” Y/n sighed, as she finished unpacking the fresh medical supplies from one of the many crates from their much-needed supply drop. Her muscles griped, but soon relaxed as she finally took a seat on one of the crates; Y/n had been on her feet all day. “I don’t know why he hates me.”

Eugene's dark eyes followed her movements, sending a sympathetic smile her way as he dropped down beside her on the crates, “Liebgott is a hard man to read, ma Chérie.”

Y/n simpered, the right corner of her lips turning upwards at the nickname. Eugene, with his dark hair and kind eyes, had always been a striking character and the two were of one mind. His friendly but subdued nature seemed to draw people to him, making him a favourite within the company, including with Y/n who despite what other men in the Company thought was always a welcome hand by Eugene’s side,

“I just don’t understand why he hates me.”

“I don’t hate you,” the gruff voice caused the pair to turn; Y/n felt as though she may have whiplash from the speed at which she spun around, concerned by how much he could have heard from their conversation and worried that he would now think she was pathetic, lamenting about trivial problems. Joe, standing in the doorway leaning against his M1, seemed to have not heard the conversation or if he had he never made a comment. Instead, his dark eyes made their way towards Eugene, bloody bandages still pressed against the wound on his neck.

“Are you free to look at my neck now, Doc?” He asked, ignorant of Y/n presence - why should this be any different to any of their previous interactions? He stared blankly at Eugene.

“Sure, Liebgott,” Eugene stood up and moved over to his fellow paratrooper. “Take ya self a seat, I’ll grab ma things.”

Eugene disappeared, his heavy footfalls seemed to echo his departure and was the only sign Y/n needed.

“I’m going to head out, Gene. I’m shattered,” her hands fumbling into her musette bag, hastily stuffing the extra box of syrettes Eugene had given her into the inner pocket. Joe’s eyes seemed to dance after her, an unwanted shadow documenting her every movement. They followed her out of the door and even as her boots squelched unpleasantly down the track, her legs carrying her rapidly away from the watchful eyes. She couldn’t find it in her to turn around, to face him, too afraid of the glare he always sent her way.

Bastogne 1944

The Luftwaffe started dropping bombs around midnight. Y/n with blood encrusted under her short nails, had just finished her rounds, checking on all the wounded soldiers she had patched up during the day. The distinct whistling from above was her first clue that they weren’t going to have a quiet night. Like a deathly siren announcing the beginning of the end. Reneé appeared beside her, anxiety etched on her delicate features.

“We are in for a long night, Y/n. Grab what supplies you can.”

Y/n nodded, hurrying towards the store room when the first bomb whistled down on the church, shaking it from the rafters, dust falling in great clouds from the ceiling.

“Y/n, come quickly. We have to evacuate everyone.”

Along with the other nurses, Y/n helped Reneé evacuate the walking wounded first, sending injured soldiers into the snowy streets of Bastogne. Next came the more severely injured, hauled out on stretchers between two nurses.

“Y/n, stay out here with the wounded, check their wounds. We have to make sure no one has torn any stitches trying to escape. I’m going to try and get some more out,” Reneé called, hurrying back into the crumbling church with several other nurses hot on her heels.

Great flames billowed from the surrounding buildings, the night was ablaze with fire and smoke, and the earth shook with each eruption. Soldiers had started firing the Ack Ack guns at the aircraft above. The noise was deafening, a constant pounding over the top of the whistling bombs and explosions. Y/n could feel her heart pounding, a constant thumping in her ear reminding her that she was miraculously still alive.

The church was struck again and Y/n had to fight the urge to follow her friends into danger, but the wounded soldiers needed her. Lights flashed up behind her, illuminating the terrified nurse and her patients. She turned to see a jeep approaching, a wounded man strapped to the front wailing in agony, thrashing against his restraints. The jeep swerved to a halt and a figure came running towards her.

“EUGENE!” She cried out running to embrace her friend.

“Ma Chérie, are you alright?” Eugene hugged her tightly to his chest. Y/n couldn’t help the tears that began to fall, the growing emotions of the evening finally spilling from within her.

“Gene, Reneé went back inside,” Y/n sobbed, just as the third shell hit the church. They both watched in horror as the front of the church caved in, stone crumbling down into the street and blocking the entrance.

“NOOOO!” Y/n cried, thrashing against Eugene’s arms but he wouldn’t let go.

“No Y/n, please. There is nothing we can do. I can’t lose you too,” he admitted, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as they shared in their grief.

Joe sat shivering in his foxhole, the cold seeping into his bones in a way that the winter in San Francisco never could have.

“Hey Joe,” George called out, plonking himself down beside him. “How ya doing?” George shoved his scuffed leather boot against Joe’s clothed leg, prodding him like an impatient child.

Joe turned to him, “How the fuck do you think I’m doing, George? I’m freezing my fucking ass off in the middle of the woods for a CO who can’t even make a decision.”

“Alright, jeez. Sorry for asking,” George raised his hands in surrender. “We just got news from Bastogne.” George began, trying to gauge Joe’s reaction. “It was hit by the Luftwaffe. The aid station… it’s gone.”

“Oh fucking brilliant. Now if we get hit we ain’t got no aid station either.”

George swallowed quickly, “Y/n was in Bastogne.”

Any words Joe had thought of died in the back of his throat. His face went as white as the snow on the ground and he could feel the sweat growing on his palms, his stomach plummeting into his jump boots.

“Is she…?”

“I don’t know, Joe. Doc’s not back yet but I wanted to prepare you in case.”

“In case of what?” Joe snapped, standing from his foxhole and slinging his M1 over his shoulder in anguish. “And why should I care anyway? It’s not like I like her or anything.”

“Fucking hell,” George whispered under his breath. “Joe, when are you gonna grow some balls and admit you’re in love with her. Everyone can see it, including Webster and he’s oblivious to most things.”

It was true George had to spell it out to him back in Holland before he got hit.

“Webster sent a letter to Hoobler the other week asking if you’d finally told Y/n.”

Joe sighed, running his hand over his face, deep in thought.

“Is it really that obvious?”

“Hell yes. I bet even the Krauts on the other side of the clearing can see it.”

Joe nodded slowly, “okay. As soon as I find her I’m gonna tell her.”

George nodded, watching as his friend hurried away to check if Eugene had returned.

“Let’s just hope he’s not too late.”

Y/n groaned as she straightened her back, stretching after what seemed like hours of bending over to apply dressings, carrying wounded men to transport vehicles, and digging through the rubble to collect supplies. Her friend's bodies had been retrieved from the church and lay in a neat row under rough, army-issued blankets. Y/n couldn’t bring herself to look at them, couldn’t bring herself to accept their fate.

She had seen members of Easy Company coming and going. A few had been sent by Captain Winters to help, bringing with them more wounded paratroopers from the front line. Y/n was too preoccupied to notice the familiar figure approaching her, she didn’t notice until he grabbed her arm firmly and spun her around to face him.

“Liebgott!” She gasped, raising her hand to smack him. “What the hell is your problem? You scared me half to death.”

Joe looked a mixture of shocked and confused until his cheeks grew a bright red.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He seemed genuinely sorry but Y/n was too consumed by her emotions to think rationally.

“Well you did a darn good job of that didn’t you,” she snapped. “You know if you’re just here to be mean or make some rude comment then you can forget it. I’m not in the mood today. I just lost my friends.” Y/n knew she should not have snapped, it wasn’t Joe’s fault but all the emotions were bubbling up inside her and if she felt anymore pain her heart would burst.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Joe began, he reached forward to take Y/n hand in his own. It was warm, comforting and almost felt familiar, as if he had been holding her hand all their lives. She let him but watched in confusion by this unusual act.

“I’m so sorry about your friends, Y/n. I know this must be difficult for you. I’m here because… well when George told me the aid station had been hit I couldn’t think of anything else than making sure you were okay. Y/n I realised something and…”

“Joe, let me stop you right there. Why would you care if I was okay or not? Joe you hate me… and… and I’ve never understood why?” Y/n sobbed, bringing her hand to cover her mouth, muffling her whimpers into her bloody sleeve. “Why do you hate me, Joe? What did I do wrong?”

Joe’s heart shattered at the sight of the broken woman in front of him. Her shoulders shook violently and tears flowed freely down her dirty cheeks, smudge with ash and mud. She looked frail, weak even and Joe hated that he’d caused it.

“Y/n, I never hated you. Why would you think that?” Joe moved towards her, collecting her hands in his own larger ones once more and rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Talk to me, Y/n. Please.”

“Well you always shout at me and… and you wouldn’t l-let me treat your wound and y-you avoid me all the time,” she stammered, looking up at him through tear-filled lashes.

“Oh Sweetheart,” Joe pulled her against his chest, his breath felt warm and tingly against her neck. Y/n had never noticed that he was only slightly taller than her and her head fitted perfectly in the crook of his neck. Her hands wrapped into tight fists against his jacket and she could feel his heart hammering against her hands. “I don’t want you to ever feel like that again.”

“Joe…”

“Shh Mein Liebling, it’s all going to be alright now.”

Austria 1945

Y/n had never dreamed that she would get to visit Austria. It seemed as if it was a world away from the likes of Bastogne and the horrors of war. Its tranquil, turquoise lakes and steep mountains with their snow-covered peaks seemed the pinnacle of the landscape. Work had become scarce too, other than the occasional scrape or sprain it had mainly become stock control and arranging supplies to be sent to the Pacific where the fighting had yet to cease. Y/n knew that both herself or Joe could be sent to the Pacific at any time it was inevitable, and neither of them was going to get through the war unscathed.

For now, they were at peace and in the comforts of her room, under clean sheets with her legs tangled in Joe’s and her head resting on his chest, Y/n couldn’t help but feel at peace. The steady thrumming of his heart and the gentle rise and fall of his chest coaxed her too and from sleep in waves. She didn’t want to move, afraid that she would disturb her sleeping paratrooper but at the same time her legs had gone numb hours ago and she could feel the pins and needles begin to prickle their way up her legs.

“Joe?” She whispered, reasoning her hand cautiously to brush a stray brunette lock out of his eyes. Joe’s nose wrinkled and he screwed his eyes shut tighter with a sigh. Y/n smiled as she watched him stir from his slumber. It was one of life’s greatest pleasures to see Joe so relaxed, so at peace even if for just a while.

Joe moaned, his long lashes fluttered against his cheeks before they opened revealing his chestnut orbs.

“Good morning Mein Liebling,” his voice was gruff and sleepy but the smile on his face said that he was more than conscious enough to show his love.

Y/n smiled back at him, “Good morning handsome. How did you sleep?”

“It’s the best night's sleep I’ve had in a while, although I don’t recall much bc sleeping happening.” Joe grinned and Y/n's cheeks grew bright red at the thought of last night’s activity. Glancing around the room there was evidence everywhere. Clothes strewn across the floor, the mirror hung lopsided on the wall, the desk was cleared of any objects and the paper that had once occupied it lay across the carpet.

“I have to admit it’s the most enjoyable night I’ve had in a long time,” Joe admitted, tangling a lock of her hair around his finger.

“Me too,” Y/n admitted and Joe smiled once again.

“What does it mean? Mein Liebling?” Y/n asked, running her fingernails slowly over his exposed chest.

Joe laughed, “my darling. It’s been your nickname for a long time.” He admitted his cheeks rosy and his smile nervous.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve been calling you that for far longer than you’ve realised. I just didn’t want anyone to realise I was talking about you. Figured the other guys would give me hell about it.” Releasing the lock he’d wrapped around his finger, he sat propped up by his elbows so he could face her.

“Y/n, I need to ask you something and it’d be real nice if your answer was yes.”

Y/n sat up now too, her expression a mixture of anxiety and confusion but the soft smile on her lips encouraged him to continue.

“Y/n will you come home with me, back to Chicago I mean? I can get my old job back at the cab company and we can buy a big house…” he paused a grin spreading across his lips. “A big house with lots of rooms, for all the little Liebgotts we’re gonna be making.”

Y/n laughed, smacking Joe’s arm.

“You’re lucky you’re good looking Liebgott.”

“Am I taking that as a yes?”

“Yes, you can.”

Joe grinned at her, his cheeky little smile followed by a little laugh causing Y/n’s heart to swell beyond what she thought was possible. Wrapped in Joe’s arms in their little room in Austria Y/n realised that maybe they were finally out of the woods.

Tags: @georgieluz @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @lieutenant-speirs @sharpshootershifty @liberteuniteegalite @msmercury84 @desert-fern @mayhem24-7forever @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @mads-weasley @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @merriell-allesandro-shelton @sweetxvanixlla @hesbuckcompton-baby @ronsparky @mutantmanifesto @malarkgirlypop

[angelst4re]

hey lovely could you do an jace nsfw alphabet? i dont think ive seen one for him. i love your writing your the best! ❤️

of course!!! i remember seeing one a while ago, i'm not sure where it's gone!! but of course i had to do it anyway cos i love these!! :)

Jace (Wayland? Herondale? Morgenstern? Lightwood??) NSFW Alphabet!

warnings: NSFW!! it's in the name!!

notes: sorry for not posting much lately, i've been too busy learning how to edit because I'VE MADE A JAMIE TIKTOK!!! i haven't posted anything yet but if you want to follow me this is my account :) anyways...

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He usually doesn’t care for it, but you’re the exception. He would make sure he takes care of you in every way he can, especially if he has been rough with you. He’d clean you up before he brings you a glass of water and the two of you would either just cuddle on his bed or he would run a bath for you. In the beginning of your relationship, he wasn’t sure what aftercare was really about, or how it worked, but he knew he wanted to make sure you were okay after sex, and he knew he didn’t want you to leave as soon as you had both finished. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favourite body part of his own is definitely his hands. I mean come on, they’re beautiful. Although they’d carry many scars from fights and other marks, he loved the way they looked on your body, especially as his hands are rather big. Of course he’d love to see his hands caressing your hips, pulling you closer to him, and around your neck, but he also just loved the way it looked when you would hold hands, and when he could compare your hand sizes and he would make fun of how small yours looked in comparison to his. 

His favourite body part of yours… he would say your face and argue about how that it is technically a part of your body. He loves placing kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, your nose and especially your lips. He loves the colour of your eyes and how they seem to darken when he knows you’re needy. But if he had to choose an actual body part he would say your neck as he loves to leave bruises there with his mouth and he very much enjoys the sounds you make when he finds that one particular spot. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves to cum inside you, you could go as far as saying he perhaps has a breeding kink? But he’s never really thought that far ahead. He just loves the thought of you being full up with him in as many ways as possible, knowing that even when he’s not fucking you, part of him is still inside you. This also applies to when you give him blowjobs, most of the time he makes sure you’ve swallowed every last drop, unless he’s feeling a bit more adventurous, which then he’d cum on your face. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I don’t know if it’s really a dirty secret but he liked you for a while before the two of you began dating, and he once accidentally walked into you in the shower. It took everything in him to hold back and walk away, he wanted to wait for you to get out, tell you how he felt and fuck you so hard youd forget your name. But he held back another week, but he didn’t leave your room without a pair of your underwear. After that night, he spent the rest of the week hooking up with random girls and imagining they were you as he fucked them, but no matter how hard he tried, he knew they just weren’t you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

OH HE IS EXPERIENCED AND YOU KNOW IT!!! He knows exactly what to do in the bedroom, and he knows exactly what you like and what brings you to the edge quicker than you could say his name. Whenever you want to try something new in the bedroom, it’s likely that he’s already familiar with it. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He doesn’t like to admit it as it makes him seem “too vanilla” but he loves missionary with you. He loves watching your face as he fucks you and your eyes roll back. He loves being able to run his hands over your body and lift your hips up to his. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

It can go both ways, for example if he’s had a bad day he’d rather be more serious in the moment, but if you two had just come home from a party and you were both drunk, there would be a lot more giggling involved. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He likes to keep it clean and tidy down there, shaving every couple of weeks as he prefers how it looks. Although, if he weren't to shave the hair he grows is quite light and so isn’t very noticeable when it begins to grow out. 

And when it comes to you, he believes it’s your body and your choice. Hair is natural, and nothing to be ashamed of! 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Oh Jace is such a romantic when it comes to you. He’ll hold you close as he fucks you and whisper things in your ear, telling you how beautiful you are and how he’s never loved someone as much as he loves you. But this can also change when you want him to be rough, he can be very dominant, shoving your face into the pillows, calling you degrading names that makes you even wetter than he imagined possible. But deep down, he’s a romantic. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’d masturbate almost every night before you and him got together. Now, he doesn’t really have a need to. But sometimes when you’re away or when he’s in the shower and thinking about you, he’ll get off to the thought of you. Sometimes when he’s finished he’d feel guilty for doing this, but in the moment he’s too horny to even think straight. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Should I make a list? I’ll make a list. 

Edging

Orgasm control

Hair pulling

Choking and breath play

Handcuffs 

Spanking 

Breeding 

Daddy kink 

Cockwarming 

Thigh riding 

Spitting

Degrading

I could go on and on about this but I’ll stop here. 

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

His bedroom, your bedroom and the bathroom. He likes to know you’re comfortable and there’s not a risk of being caught. He doesn’t like the thought of anyone seeing you the way he sees you, he doesn't want anyone hearing the noises you make as they’re all for him! He even made you rush back to his room from the greenhouse when you made him hard from sitting on his lap. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The way you look at him when you’re needy. He would have to hold back from taking you over the kitchen table if you were to give him that look during breakfast. But also when you would surprise him with new lingerie. When you walk from your room to his in your robe with nothing but a lingerie set on underneath… prepare to not be able to walk in the morning. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

The thought of having a threesome isn’t something he likes. As I’ve mentioned, whilst dating Jace you are his and only his. He doesn’t like the thought of another man touching your body, and equally you don’t like the thought of Jace fucking anyone else. So that’s something that’s off the table, at least for the moment. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

HE LOVES TO GIVE ORAL. Jace is the king of giving head. He knows exactly what to do and just how you like it. He could spend the rest of his life between your thighs, quite happily. Even if neither of you have the time or the energy for sex, he will still go down on you like a starving man. He loves to give <3

He also loves receiving, as any guy would. He loves when you drop to your knees in front of him and take him down your throat. However, he will always prefer to give. What a gentleman. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It all depends on the mood and the moment. If you had a heated argument and you ended up pushed against the wall with his tongue down your throat then you’d expect it to be rough and fast. But if you’d just come home from a date then he’d carry you to the bed, take his time with you and show you how much you really mean to him. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If either of you need to do it, then you need to do it! However, it doesn’t happen very often as he’d rather take his time. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

If you’re comfortable with it! He doesn’t want to put you in a situation where you don’t feel safe or comfortable

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Oh he could last all night and all day if you asked him to. He’s trained all his life so he has stamina, and he definitely shows it off in the bedroom. You’d be a drooling wreck beneath him before he’s even begun to sweat. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t own any, but he surprised you with a vibrator for your birthday one year and he loves to use it on you, or to watch you use it on yourself. He would happily experiment with more if you were to ask him. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He loves to tease. He’d place his hand on your thigh at the most inconvenient times and begin to move it upwards. You’d swat him away but it would only encourage him to tease you more. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not very loud, but he’ll definitely moan your name and let out low groans as his hips roll against yours. He tries to keep quiet so the others don't hear him but if you're both home alone then... ;)

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Jace lost his virginity in the greenhouse with a girl he only dated for a few days. He had been very cocky and told her he’d fucked loads of girls before and then when it finally came to the act he wasn’t too sure what to do and when she left he was feeling quite embarrassed, but thankfully she ended up moving away so he never had to see her again. He didn’t have sex for 6 months after that, and he even read a few books on how to improve in the bedroom, as he never wanted to feel that same shame again (and he never did!)

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s definitely hiding at least 7 inches down there, his cock would be the biggest you’ve taken and it’s very satisfying ;)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He’s horny all the damn time. You could literally just breathe and he’d be turned on. He’s always had access to sex whenever he wanted it, being as stunningly attractive as he is, and girls would throw themselves at him so he’s never really had to suppress the feelings before and control himself until he met you. You can even tell when he has to hold himself back from crashing his lips into yours and taking you on the bathroom sink. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He could fall asleep quite quickly after he finishes, but he makes sure you’re looked after first. When he’s certain that you’re happy and comfortable, he can fall asleep with you in his arms <3

[sebsxphia]

bambi. | dream a little dream of me.

rhett abbott x little!reader.

￫ description: rhett spends the evening winding down with his bambi. based off this drabble here.

￫ word count: 2.4K.

￫ c/w: age regression. other than that, fluff, fluff, fluff.

￫ a/n: i understand this is niche, therefore if you’re on my taglist, i completely understand if you don’t read this! | woodland creatures | agere masterlist | main masterlist |

If it was any other Friday night, you and Rhett would be found down at the Handsome Gambler or sinking down a couple beers on your sofa and watching a corny action film from the eighties and debating weather Rhett could pull off that stunt or not. But tonight was different.

The week had been gruelling for you both, with heavy workloads and exhausting physical labour on your ranch for five days straight. There were still bits and pieces to do over the weekend, but you both always tried your best to get most of the work done during the week so your weekends could be spent lazing around with each other in a heap of bedsheets and day-old clothes. Understandably so, you were exhausted and you let yourself float in that familiar and fuzzy headspace.

Rhett could gauge that you were feeling really tiny within your age regression and he set up everything appropriately. Your living room floor had been coated in soft blankets for you to sit on and he had surrounded you with an array of plush cushions and pillows. He knew when you were feeling small within your age, your limbs would get floppier alongside it and Rhett had baby-proofed your surroundings.

The coffee table was pulled up to the sofa in your living room and you were comfortably sat between both. Colouring books aged three years and up had been put to the side and Rhett opted for a stack of coloured paper and pencils for you to scribble whatever your little mind would see. Alongside the scribbles you were deeply focused on, there were toys scattered across the table.

There were baby building block toys, that you would put in the matching shaped holes. There were plastic farm and zoo animals that Rhett ensured were big enough and had no rough edges. Your gathering of Sylvanian Families was placed neatly together and your beloved toy horse that he fixed up was placed at the corner of the table, with a compromise from Rhett.

“‘m sorry, Bambi, I don’t wan’ these little creatures' tiny furniture to get lost ‘nd I don’t wan’ Peach gettin’ any more ouchies, okay?”

You happily complied with the comfort of having your beloved, velvet creatures nearby.

You were snuggly sat in your baby grow that was patterned in delicate and detailed drawings of woodland creatures, including tiny baby fawns. Your pacifier clip that was attached to your romper was decorated in cartoon illustrations of cowboys. The pacifier itself was resting lopsided in your mouth and decorated with cartoon animals. Occasionally in between your drawing, you opted for your Giraffe-shaped chew toy that was layered with different textures.

Off to the side of the living room was the kitchen where Rhett was cleaning up the last of the pots and pans from your comforting and warm meal of macaroni cheese. He had never made macaroni cheese before he met you, but with love and patience, you taught him how and by now he knew the recipe like the back of his hand. He always had the ingredients in your home, ready to create the meal when you needed it most.

Unknown to you, Rhett was watching you cautiously from the kitchen as he dried up the remains of the pots and pans from your dinner. He had baby-proofed your surroundings and there were no real harmful elements around you, but he understood that your headspace was no older than one and he worried.

He took on the role of your caregiver high and mighty on his shoulders. He would protect you to the ends of the earth and the trust you put into him was something he didn’t take for granted lightly. Watching the way the cogs turned behind your eyes and how your body physically de-tensed in his hold as you regressed, was something he would always hold dear and close to his heart. The feeling of cradling you gently as you let yourself become vulnerable in his arms was something truly special. It was an unbreakable and undeniable bond, and he was devoted to you.

From the kitchen, he watched the way your tongue poked outwards from the corner of your pacifier as you concentrated feverishly on your drawing in front of you. Your hand came upwards towards your eyes curled in a tight fist. You rubbed at your eyes haphazardly, in an attempt to stifle an exhausted yawn on this Friday night. Rhett smiled knowingly to himself and turned his back momentarily to place the last of the cook pots in the cupboard and tuck the dishcloth on the rack of the oven.

As he opened the cupboard, he retrieved your milk bottle, strawberry milkshake powder and your milk of preference from the fridge, and placed them all in line on the kitchen countertop. When he turned back around to face you in the living room, another attempted stifled yawn was futile.

The exhausted yawn took over your body whole and you scrunched your eyes shut tight, the pencil in your hand almost going limp against the colored paper. When you came to, Rhett let out a chuckle quietly to himself and made his way over to you. He was gentle on his feet as he padded across the floorboards to your bundle of plush cushions and pillows.

“Hey, Bambi,” He soothed out in a low and quiet tone. As he steadily placed himself down next to you on the cushioned floor, you gave him a sleepy yet gleaming smile from behind your pacifier. “How y’ gettin’ on?”

Rhett knew that within your tiny headspace right now, for you to be nonverbal was normal. You gave him a gleeful verbalized hum, acknowledging his presence and question, still letting your hand scrawl on the paper with your pencil.

He tucked himself next to you and drew his broad arm around your back. You fell into his chest and side almost instantly, positioning yourself against his familiar warmth. His hand came up to the side of your head and he scratched his fingertips soothingly on your scalp, helping you regulate with his touch and subconsciously soothing you into that sleepy state. He knew it was nearly time for bedtime and he would be gently winding you down with his touches and quiet voice. His other hand stretched out and his nimble fingers pointed at the coloured paper. He let out a quiet gasp.

“Bambi!” A hushed exclamation, “Did you draw this?” You nodded vigorously, the ring on your pacifier knocking against itself. “Baby, it’s beautiful. My little one is s’ talented.” He tickled at the side of your ear with his other hand and you let out a giggle.

You tapped the pencil on the paper at the scrawl of a shape and let out a squeal, before turning to meet his eyes. Rhett clocked it instantly.

“That’s me?”

You squealed again and let out a single, “Dada!”

“Where’s Bambi? Can you point them out to Dada?” You tapped at the paper to another shape and he hummed approvingly, a prideful smile twisting on his lips.

Rhett pointed to the last scrawled-out set of shapes and colours, and he watched how your eyes drifted to the corner of the table where your beloved toy horse he had fixed up was sitting.

“Is that, Peach?”

You nodded again and mumbled out from behind your pacifier, “Tu’ day.”

Rhett let out a silent, “Ah!” and a rumbled chuckle, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest. His hand was now cradling your head against him and you wrapped your whole body into his. He put the pieces together and he knew you were referring back to the Tuesday just passed. It was an almost alarming hot day that came from nowhere and you took the evening to ride out on his horse to the wildflower fields, far, far off from your home. He remembered how after you both made your way back home, you were both tuckered out, but you smiled to yourself and told Rhett with a loving and whole look in your eyes, “I needed that. Thank you, Cowboy.”

He was silently touched beyond words that you would remember that day and that you treasured it so fondly that you would draw it, even within your tiny headspace.

“Bambi was s’ sleepy after that horse ride with Daddy, weren’t you?” He craned his face down to take in your sleepy eyes and the way your eyelids were struggling to stay open. The knuckle of his index finger came up and gently brushed against your nose and he still watched with adorning eyes how your nose twitched slightly.

You gave him a small nod and completely succumbed to his grasping hold, burying your face into the crook of his neck and latching your arms around his neck. Rhett read how your body was melting against his, how your muscles relaxed and your breathing was starting to even out, getting slower and slower with each passing second.

“Alright, little one. I think it’s time we get y’all ready for bedtime.”

There were occasions when at these words from your caregiver's mouth you would protest and plead to stay up for just one more hour, but your body had completely succumbed to the exhaustion. You weren’t putting up a fight anymore. You just wanted to sleep, curled into your Daddy’s chest.

Rhett waited for a beat and at your silent admission, he let his arms drop to your legs, scoop you up and hoist you to his hip as he stood. He took you into the kitchen where he placed you down gently on the wooden chair seated at the kitchen table. You let out a protesting whine as his comforting warmth left your body, your face contorting into a frown and a small pout behind your pacifier. Your hands reached out as fast as they could and you held onto the cuffs of Rhett’s plaid shirt, tugging on them to not let him take a step further.

He cooed at you and took your hands in his, squeezing them tightly and placing two kisses on the backs of them. “It’s alright, Bambi. Daddy’s right here. M’ not leavin’ your side. I’m just gon’ make you a bottle, okay?”

You gave him another verbalized hum in agreement to acknowledge what he had said and you tentatively let go of his calloused hands. You attempted to watch what Rhett was doing with big eyes, but your eyelids were drooping at every blink. The milk was poured into the pot and left to warm slowly on the stove.

At this point, Rhett came back (which was only two steps away from the oven, but it felt like miles) and lifted you, sat himself down on the kitchen chair and brought you to sit in his lap. You resumed your previous position of wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face into the crook of his neck. You inhaled his familiar and comforting scent of cedar wood and leather, and Rhett’s hands placed on your back felt your ribs expand and then let out of any tension you had.

Gently he began to rock you against his chest and in his arms. All that could be heard was the crackling whoosh! of the gas on the stove and quietly in your ear, Rhett’s low voice, humming a lullaby.

“Stars shinin’ bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper, I love you. Birds singin’ ‘n the sycamore trees, dream a little dream ‘f me.”

He continued for another two verses of the lullaby, his drawl getting lower as he went on before his head picked up and he heard the bubbling foam of the milk rise to the top of the pot. Slowly, and without causing too much disturbance to your nearly asleep frame, he untucked you from himself, placed you back on the kitchen chair and drew together your bottle. It was a combination of milk and a little dusting of strawberry milkshake powder.

With an instinct from yourself, as Rhett came back over to your side, you slipped off the kitchen chair and outstretched your hands to him. He carefully and gently hoisted you to his hip and carried you back to the living room, with the warm bottle in his hand.

“Alright, little one, let's get you cosy against Dada, yeah?” Rhett hummed as he placed himself down on the sofa. He propped himself up in the corner at the end and sat you in between his thighs with your head resting on his upright chest. One hand still held the bottle for you and the other reached for the television remote on the sofas arm. The television had already been quietly playing in the background for the entire evening and he switched it on to an episode of, ‘In the Night Garden’ before you could blink.

Rhett brought the bottle to you and began feeding you, with it still held in his hand. From this angle, he could ensure your safety and could carefully hold the bottle to not let you drink down too much too quickly, or wipe your chin briefly with his thumb. His spare hand was soothingly rubbing your arm, with his fingertips ghosting over your arm hair and tickling you gently. As you parted from your bottle in parts, he would return to running his fingers through your hair and scratching firmly enough on your scalp to regulate your sleepy-induced state. Occasionally he would dip down and place fluttering kisses on your temples, murmuring quiet words of praise against your warm flesh.

The sweet taste of the milk was dancing on your tastebuds and as your eyes were focused on the television in front of you, they were struggling immensely to stay open for more than five seconds.

Rhett clocked the remaining droplets left in your bottle and gently lowered it down, to not get the droplets caught in your throat and tickle you with a horrible cough. Instinctively, he knew this would signify the end to you, but he waited for you to confirm this before pulling the bottle away entirely.

“Fin’, Dada.” You murmured out with sleep lacing your words.

Very few words had been spoken by yourself this evening, but Rhett took this as your sleepy admission. The bottle was placed to the side and he brought you in closer to his chest. His nimble fingers found your pacifier in quick time and placed it between your lips. Another flurry of kisses was placed to your temple and as your breathing evened out to a slower pace, you felt the low rumble of Rhett’s chest underneath you as he spoke the last words you remember that night.

“Atta’, Bambi. Close your eyes, little one. Daddy’s got you.”

taglist: @beachbabey @tallrock35 @currentlybradshaw @unmistakablyunknown @iloveprettyboysblog @wkndwlff @flames-thebitch @randomfandomgirl96 @kmc1989

tagging those who may be interested: @sunblchdfly @lewmagoo @bradshawsbitch @peachystenbrough @becks-things @mangokitkats

[pareidoliaonthemove]

A Little Revenge

It had been intended as an escape from whatever doom was poised over his head.

Snorkelling or diving, even doing an inspection of Tracy Island’s underwater environs in Thunderbird Four was Gordon’s favourite way to avoid irate brothers, or, god forbid, grandmother or sister. Once Scott and Dad had gotten over their reflexive panic of ‘Gordon’s in the ocean; sharks are in the ocean. Oh-mi-god, Gordon’s gonna be eaten by a shark’, Gordon had more or less been left to roam their marine backyard at will, provided he took a variety of safety equipment and checked in at regular intervals with John on Thunderbird Five.

So when Gordon had announced he was going to spend the morning snorkelling on the northern reef, he hadn’t expected anyone to join him.

That his companion was Virgil was of particular concern.

His immediate older brother was a competent diver (Gordon had made sure everyone was safe in the water), and he did take an interest in the marine environment – although it usually took the form of raiding whatever footage Gordon had taken on his explorations and inspections for inspiration for new paintings or music. So it wasn’t totally unprecedented.

What worried Gordon was the fact that a week earlier, he had … miscalculated a prank designed to loosen up Virgil’s nerves (which the man could have used as musical instrument – probably a cello, given his size). Instead of a cute little brightly coloured foam volcano fizzing cheerfully from a tiny paint tin, it had somehow fermented into a seemingly never-ending explosive geyser hurling massive globs of foam throughout the lounge. And given Virgil’s preferred perch on the mezzanine, the fountain had an extra height advantage. It managed to coat liberal portions of the photovoltaic glass ceiling, only to then rain down onto everything below.

Of course, Alan had quickly dobbed Gordon in, playing Judas to save his own scrawny neck, and Eos had happily provided the film evidence. John evidently busy reviewing footage to ensure his own possessions were prank free.

An alarmingly magenta hued Scott had informed Gordon that Gordon would personally clean up all traces of the mess, with his toothbrush and tongue if he made one – just one, Gordon! – sound of protest.

Virgil had contented himself with collecting up his ruined canvas and disappearing to parts unknown, leaving his ruined boots at the edge of the contamination. His clothes had appeared in the laundry with everyone else’s, but the man himself didn’t put in an appearance until breakfast the next morning.

And Gordon had been walking on eggshells ever since. It had taken three days, working around rescues, to restore the lounge to its original colour scheme, and hoping Scott’s inspection wouldn't include free climbing the rock walls to ensure that the portions of the rough-hewn mountain not visible from the ground levels were cleaned.

And Virgil hadn’t said a word.

Well, not about the incident.

Scott raged, Grandma lectured, John threatened, Alan ‘duded’, Kayo’s mere presence threatened Gordon to even think about putting a foot out of line and Brains was, inevitably, oblivious to the whole affair. While Virgil … carried on as if nothing had happened.

Gordon wasn’t fooled, as calm and easy-going as Virgil was, there was no way he was going to let what had happened go without extracting revenge.

And Virgil was of the school of thought that held that revenge should be swift and proportional to the crime. So for it to have been a week since the ‘incident’ with no payback … it was uncharacteristic. And worrying.

So to say Gordon was nervous was an understatement.

So if Gordon spent rather longer than usual checking over Virgil’s gear before they got in the small boat to head around to the north of the Island, it was understandable. After all, he was going to be on the exact opposite side of the island from the rest of his family, with the one person who was currently out for his blood.

Other than the Hood.

And the Mechanic – man, did he have a thing about wrecking Gordon’s pride and joy!

And not to forget Parker.

And Sherbet.

But Virgil didn’t have anything sinister – like, for instance a length of chain, a large anchor and gallons of fish guts and blood for tying up aquanauts and enticing sharks to eat them. Just his regulation snorkelling gear, and his large semi-robotic underwater camera.

Gordon relaxed slightly. Virgil had been fiddling with upgrades to the camera rig recently, and obviously wanted to test out his current pet project.

So it was a somewhat more relaxed Gordon that steered the little electric motorboat out of the boat-house cavern and around the island, mooring the aptly named ‘Squids Getaway’ to the buoy fifty metres out from the edge of the reef.

One last check over of their gear, a quick reminder of the plan for the dive, and a mandatory status report to John, and they were over the side and into the water.

Gordon immediately headed shorewards to the reef, while Virgil spent a minute fussing over his camera, but he soon overtook Gordon, hitching a ride on the rig as it zizzed along to commence the path Virgil had programmed into it.

Gordon quickly caught up, pride refusing to let a brother beat him in the water, especially when said brother cheated, but quickly lost himself in his inspection of the reef, and the census he had planned on conducting.

It all quickly settled comfortably, Virgil cruised idly among the corals, popping up to the surface to breathe more frequently that Gordon needed to. All that muscle mass his brother sported might be a godsend on a rescue, but it was a liability underwater. But he quickly descended again and resumed his consideration of the reef, carefully not touching anything.

Gordon kept an eye out for Virgil, as he knew Virgil was keeping an eye out for him. The only problem that seemed to be occurring was Virgil’s dratted camera seemed to be following him, bursting into his peripheral vision from behind him with an annoying frequency. As Virgil meandered closer to him, Gordon reached out to tap his shoulder and flourished his divers slate at him. “Keep camera clear. Nearly bumps into me,” scrawled on it.

Virgil peered at the slate, flushed and signed ‘Sorry’, before pulling up his control unit and tapping at buttons. The camera immediately altered course, heading out into deeper water, before circling back around to Virgil’s side.

Gordon signed back ‘Thanks’, and ‘Carry on’, before returning to his census of the reef’s inhabitants. At first, it seemed to be going well, but gradually Gordon noticed that the various reef fishes seemed less shy than normal. Gordon thought it was curious, but decided that the inhabitants of this section of reef had become accustomed to his presence – after all, he had been focusing on this particular sector lately.

But then the fishes seemed to be crowding him, swarming around his head, darting in at him and then back again. In and out, in and out, the waters around his face and head seemed to have become a marine merry-go-round, fish darted in at his head, backed off away, and then joined a cue to come back to what appeared to be designated points to dart back at his head.

Gordon frowned. This was feeding behaviour. But what were they eating?

Gordon twisted in the water, looking for something behind him, but there was nothing there, just the ever increasing school of various fish.

He didn’t see the hāpuku coming.

The meter-long fish lunged into the school, mouth agape, and engulfed a largish fish in the crowd. As the hāpuku continued on its way, it slid past Gordon’s nose, as he turned his head to identify the large block of movement in his peripheral vision. It’s powerful tail slapped the snorkel out of his mouth, sending it spiralling down towards the seafloor.

Gordon grabbed at it, missed, and kicked immediately up for the surface.

Virgil surfaced a couple of dozen feet from him, his camera rig bobbing up beside him. Gordon immediately struck out towards him, quickly covering the distance.

“Did you get that?! Tell me you got that!” Gordon’s excitement was palpable.

“The groper slapping you upside the head? Yeah, I got that.”

Gordon frowned. “New Zealand waters, Virg. It’s hāpuku, not groper. Or wreckfish.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cultural sensitivity.”

Virgil blinked. “Oh. Right.” He frowned. “Has that happened before?”

“Lost my snorkel? Hundreds of times. You know I buy them by the crate.”

“No, all the fish …” Virgil gestured a circle around his head.

Gordon frowned. “No,” he admitted. “That was weird. That was feeding behaviour, but what were they eating?” He ran a hand through his hair in confusion.

And brought his hand back in front of his face, staring at the greasy yellow goo that liberally coated his fingers. “What?”

He brought his hand to his face and sniffed, then incredulously stuck his tongue out and licked at the substance.

“Is this … spray cheese?” Gordon stared at Virgil in perplexity. His other hand reached back, and encountered more of the same.

Virgil grinned, his camera rose higher in the water, and tilted upwards. A second later a jet of spray cheese shot at Gordon’s face, hitting him square between the eyes.

Gordon’s jaw dropped, and he was in danger of taking on a lungful of seawater.

Virgil smirked. “Yup.”

“You …”

“Yup.”

“The camera …”

“Yup.”

Gordon stared, treading water as gobs of spray cheese dripped off his face.

Virgil edged closer to him, and put extra energy into his treading water, lifting him higher out of the water to loom over Gordon, his eyebrows creased into an ominous frown.

“A little taste of what will happen to you if you ever – repeat ever – mess with my paints again, Gordon. Understand me?”

Gordon gulped. “Yes, Virgil. I understand perfectly.”

“Good.” Virgil smirked. “I think it’s time we went home, don’t you?”

Gordon nodded, his eyes wide as he stared at his immediate older brother. Damn, Virgil could be scary when he wanted to.

Gordon more than agreed he had to get home.

He had some booby traps to defuse.

Before Virgil went back into his studio.

Notes:

I saw a throwaway line somewhere about feeding reef fish with ‘cheez whiz’. A couple of days later I thought, I bet Gordon would stick that on someone’s hair. And then I thought again ...

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the TOS or CGI Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[sanctus-ingenium]

how clean are you colors before you merge them into the lines for painting? because i cant seem to find a balance between "my god i need to do this whole thing from scratch (too sloppy)" and "well whats the point of painting here (nothing left to paint if i merged the lineart)". sorry if this doesnt make any sense idk how to word myself better sometimes

I think I get you! Honestly I have a kind of threshold I reach where I know that I’ve done all that I can on separate layers and if I were to keep them separate, I’d just be creating more hassle for myself/forced to select layers and keep everything properly organised and it becomes a drag when I’d just rather be painting. And this is usually because I want to take advantage of the mixing effect of Sai’s paintbrush tool to start blending stuff. Also all my colours are on one layer anyway from the beginning (if I need especially ‘clean’ colours I might have a layer for them but I always merge them to the main colour layer before continuing). (also sorry I am away from my pc for a bit so I can’t show you actual Sai screenshots.. you will have to imagine). I ended up writing out the whole process in a way which is probably unhelpful

So for a painting like that one in the last post, I do my lines. Then I close the lines with a separate layer in the same folder (because the lineart looks better with gaps, but i fill colour by selecting outside the lineart while the folder is active, inverting selection, and paint bucket tool. Then delete the layer that closes the lineart). Base colour is usually the most common one in the palette. When I plan to merge the lines I usually make them solid/normal layer mode and colour the lines exactly to match the colours beneath, which is tedious but helps avoid the kind of translucent look lines on multiply layer give. But for that one the lines are on multiply. I lock the colour layer and paint in the other colours - different markings, materials, etc. It can be pretty rough because I know I can just paint over a wonky looking edge, but not so rough that I will have to go over it excessively later. Then with the lines and colours still on 2 separate layers, I put them both in a folder and clip a multiply layer onto that for cast shadows. Paint in cast shadows (again, it’s pretty rough, I know I will be merging & touching up everything at the end so it doesn’t have to be perfect. I hate multiply as a way to shade but I wanted shadows fast, again like I said it was a sketch I over-rendered I didn’t plan to polish it up so much. Normally I choose shadow colours and paint them like normal in the colour layer).

Then I merged the folder and the multiply layer into one layer (i usually make a copy of the lineart to keep it intact, just in case, and keep it hidden in the psd file). I make a new layer and paint in details that need to be sharp - usually around the eyes and face, where there is a focal point. This is because the default paintbrush in Sai has a slight mixing effect, and if I went in on the same layer it would not be as sharp. I use this new layer to paint in areas that need this sharp contrast and clean, tapered lines - like the stray hair and fluffy bits. Then merge all. Now I paint over the main layer all the things that don’t need that sharp treatment, this time taking advantage of the slight mixing effect of Sai’s paintbrush - I like this effect a lot and it’s what I use to blend the lineart into the colours, you can kind of ‘pull’ the lines out a little into the surrounding colour to make them less stark. Then I clip a new multiply layer to it, all one shade, to dim the entire painting so that the stark white highlights stand out more, clip a new layer on that, do the white highlights, merge all and bam it’s done