#standing pouch price

[writersdrug]

I need the bartender Simon having to escape upstairs for a few minutes just to control the monster in his pants just because of a more direct provocation from the reader

I was saving this ask and I think this is the perfect moment after Simon sees reader in his shirt, no?

Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, sex toy, pining, daydreaming about p in v sex

He doesn't dare go up to his room - even after the bar is closed, after you and Johnny are both gone, after his tasks are complete. His mind has been scrambled ever since you came down in his shirt, looking like you'd just woken up from having a nap in his bed. He knew that wasn't the case, but it was so easy to pretend. You made it easy, looking like wearing his shirt was just your typical Friday outfit. If he tried hard enough, sitting at the bar after hours, sipping on an Old Fashioned- he could imagine you were up there right now, lying stomach-first in his bed, wearing his shirt, with "LT RIELY" on your back - you weren't objective, he certainly doesn't think of you like that - but having his claim on you aroused the most primal part inside him. If only you could see what you've done. Did you even know it?

Price comes lumbering down the stairs. Simon doesn't bother to look at him; he sits at the bar, his Old Fashioned long gone, with an empty whiskey glass and the mostly-full bottle next to him. He was hoping to replace the thought of you with drinking, but he didn't have the stomach for it.

"I'm plannin' to see if Garrick wants to join the team." Price says, shrugging on his jacket. "I know he wanted to be his own man, but we could use him. Our girl's made this place quite popular."

Simon wants to spit out the words he'd just heard. Our girl. Whose girl? John's? Soap's? The entire pub? It was his name on your back. Not Price. Not MacTavish. He was the one you came to with all those receipts, numbers scribbled in the margins, trusting him to help you ward them off. Sure, you have fun with everyone, asking them all for help - but you go to him the most easily, whenever you need to feel safe. Bad customers, bad situations - you looked to him. Didn't that mean anything to Price?

He doesn't respond to his captain, choosing to stare at his empty glass instead. Price looks at him quizzically.

"Feelin' alright, there?"

Simon grunts. "Long day."

Price knows he's bullshitting him. He knows exactly what this is about. He sighs, pulling his beanie on and tucking the money pouch into his jacket. "If you want 'er, Simon, tell me to back off. Can't read your mind."

That has him pursing his lips, grip tight around the sides of his glass. He would have punched John, was he any other man. He knows exactly what Simon's thinking, yet he makes him work for it. Typical. His pride and his jealousy are fighting tooth and nail against each other, but he can barely say a word.

Price stands there a moment, waiting for Simon to speak - but he doesn't even spare the owner a glance. Bastard's always punishing himself... he thinks, sighing again.

"Bright and early tomorrow, lad." He says, heading towards the kitchen. "Lights off when you're done here." He knows Simon's capable of closing, but he repeats it every night regardless.

"Sir."

Price stops, halfway through the kitchen door. He looks at Simon, who's now staring directly back at him. There's a look in his face, something that reminds him of Ghost - the reason he became his right-hand man.

"Respectfully..." he says slowly. "Back off."

Price almost finds it comical. Like an animal staking its claim, staring at its rival - except they’re not rivals. The only reason Simon is bothering to play his captain's game, asking for permission to have what Price would happily hand over, is because he's his superior. Even if they're all retired from the SAS, no one ever really dropped the dynamics of the team.

He smiles, nodding his head once. "Understood." He says, shoving himself through the kitchen door. "But hurry up and say somethin' to 'er. I'm sick of you losing your mind during the rush."

With that, Simon hears him leave through the back door. He stays there for a moment, his mind reeling - he feels both satisfied and angry at the same time. It was a bit humiliating to tell Price to leave you for himself - you don't belong to him. But that was a problem he was going to fix. You had his name on your back-

For Christ’s sake, he’s got to give it a rest. You wore his shirt, that was all. You wore it – with no bra. Bare. Naked underneath the 141’s insignia, under his title.

And that damn bra is still in his room.

He can’t take it anymore. He unscrews the whiskey bottle and takes a few swigs, before slamming it back onto the bar top. He leaves the bottle and the glass there as he gets up, making his way across the floor, up the stairs, passing the office, and continuing up to his studio flat.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary. If you’d gone snooping, you either did a good job of hiding the evidence, or you didn’t really rifle through too much. His bed was untouched, his books and items where he had put them last – he goes into his drawers, checking to see if you had gone through anything other than his shirts. Considering everything is still where it should be, he assumed not. Though you did leave a mess in his shirt drawer – you’d been digging around in there until you found his old SAS shirt. Did you mean to do that? Were you looking for something with his name on it, just to drive him insane?

He goes back into his top drawer, muttering a curse as he pushes the contents aside. His cock is pulsing in his pants as he grabs his pocket pussy, slamming the drawer shut and heading towards his bed. He doesn't want to draw this one out - this is nothing more than a wank, just to get you out of his head. He sits at the foot of his bed and unbuttons his jeans, pulling his hard length out of his briefs – it bounces up and slaps against his abdomen, precum already smeared across the tip. He’s been hard for hours now, trying not to cum in his pants at the thought of your tits rubbing against the inside of his shirt. Do you have small, pebbly nipples? Or ones that are soft and pliant? He growls as he smears the tip of his cock against the lips of the toy, rubbing up and down the slit. He sighs, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You’re there, rubbing your lips on his cock, your hand wrapped tightly around his shaft as you stare up at him, licking and kissing his tip like a good girl…

He scowls and opens his eyes, sitting upright – he sees your bra hanging off the back of his chair, and he nearly passes out form how quickly the blood rushes to his cock. Pink lace, delicate and kinda skimpy… and your shirt, crumpled on the seat of the chair. You’d forgotten to shove them into your bag before you left. Or did you do this on purpose?

He's reaching out before he realizes it, slowly standing up and heading towards the chair. He wants to grab your bra, rub his cock in it until he stains it with his thick cum – but something in the back of his mind keeps him from touching it. One, it’s purely you, and he doesn’t want to ruin that. Two, he’s trying to cum. Not to cum to you. He’s doing this to get rid of your image in his head.

So, he goes for the next best thing. He grabs your shirt and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He lines himself up with his fleshlight and brings your shirt to his face; no wonder the drinks had turned it translucent, it was the thinnest fabric he had ever felt. Practically skin.

He presses it against his face and inhales: the scent of you, sweet, floral and spicy, fills his mind. It makes it all to easy to imagine that you’re sinking down onto his cock, and not that he’s stuffed it as far as he can into the toy. He groans, his eyelids fluttering shut as he pumps his hips once, then again… the tightness of the fleshlight slides over him easily, offering no resistance with the precum acting as a lube while he grinds up into it, heat knotting in his gut. The waist of his jeans hugs his thighs as he slowly and steadily pulses towards the ceiling, taking deep breaths of your scent.

He feels like an animal. Dirty, cheap, and desperate. He has to remind himself that it’s not about you, it’s about having a good wank and getting you out of his head. He drops your shirt on his chest and uses his free hand to cup his balls, groaning as he massages them. The schlick of the fleshlight around his dick is loud, the sensation borderline painful as he quickly fucks into it, curses spilling past his lips as he slams the thing down to the base of his length, catching on the Jacob’s ladder piercing on the underside, then back to the tip.

He shouldn’t, but he lets his mind slip elsewhere. What would you be doing? Would you have your hands on his chest, lips parted in a moan as you drop your hips onto his thighs, your cunt dripping and squeezing around his member…? What are you doing now? Are you still wearing his shirt? Are you lying back on your bed, playing with your breasts under the fabric and using your other hand to toy with your pussy? What do you sound like? Are you saying his name, or can you make any sound at all?

He falls back against the bed. “Fuck fuck fuck-��� he mumbles. He’s caught himself in a trap here – he can’t allow himself to indulge in the thought of you, begging him to take your hips and buck up into you – but it’s impossible to get you out of his head. Even if he could, he doesn’t think he’d be able to cum without you. He squeezes his fist around the fleshlight, groaning loudly from the pain, trying to drown out the sounds of your moans in his head… you’re always there, ever present, leaning over him and whimpering in his ear, need you, Simon, wanna cum on your cock, want it inside-

It's all too much for him, but not enough. He turns himself over, climbing up to his knees on the bed. He props himself up on his forearm, holding the fleshlight with his other hand as he ruts into it, stuffing his cock in as far as it will go, until the lips are smashed against the base. He pants and groans, mouth hanging open as he hovers over the bed; over you, holding one of your thighs up, touching his forehead against yours, watching as you’re covered in a layer of sweat, tits bouncing with each violent thrust of his hips. Both wrists secured above your head with one of his meaty hands, whimpers and whines spilling from your mouth as you struggle to remain coherent. Your cunt swallows him greedily, hugs him tightly, pulses around him, coaxes him to pound into you harder and harder, your walls twitching as slick gushes around him, your fingers digging into the back of his hand as you cry out his name, “Simon, Simon, Simon”-

He hisses through his teeth as his balls seize up, his abdomen going taut and his dick twitching in the toy. He rips the fleshlight off and grabs your shirt without a second thought, wrapping it tight around his cock and pumping it. “Gonna cum, gonna cum- fuck- oh, fuck-!” He mumbles to no one as his orgasm is ripped from him, hips canting repeatedly as cum spurts into the fabric of your shirt, leaking out around his thighs as he thrusts into it, thighs aching from the exertion. He bites into his hand and growls as he continues rutting, fighting through the overstimulation to chase what remains of his high – but he soon collapses on the bed, huffing and groaning into the mattress.

His orgasm fades slowly, his heart ramming against his ribcage and the fog clearing from his head. Realization sinks in as he’s hyper-aware of your shirt, still wrapped around his dick, now soaked in his cum. He'd have to wash it, now. Filthy doesn’t even begin to describe how he feels, but he doesn’t find it in him to care anymore. He rolls onto his side, clutching your shirt in his hand. Fuck. One quick tug was all this was supposed to be, and now, he’s picturing you lying across from him. Face flushed, lips swollen and eyes hazy, smiling at him and panting. Telling him you love him. He’d say it back a million times. Listening as you breathe, as you talk about your silly little ideas for the pub, for redecorating his room… craving the moment where you drag yourself closer to him and snuggle into his chest for the rest of the night.

He hasn’t gotten rid of you, like he hoped for. He’s only made it more clear: he wants you. He wants his life to be threaded with yours, he wants to wake up next to you, he wants you to change his routine, to pick up his broken pieces and make a mosaic – and he wants to be there when you need someone, he wants to give you everything you want and more, whether that’s a life up in the clouds or down here, in his arms, in his small bed and lackluster apartment. You’d make it better; you’d make anything better.

He sighs, slowly sitting up and on the edge of the bed. Price was right – he’s got to hurry up and say something to you, or else he’ll be drowned in his obsession. You’d either agree to take this fucked-up giant on a date and end his misery, or you’d reject him, and he could force you from his thoughts and replace you with misery. It’s worked before.  

He pulls off his jeans and shirt and grabs the fleshlight, standing with a grunt and walking into his bathroom. He’s planning to clean the toy, but if he waits long enough, he might just be fucking it again in the shower.

[e-m-ma-lmfao]

can I request some cute fluff with Astarion - I think something cute would be tav’s never worn a dress and they put one on and Astarion is just mindblow by how good they look? 🥺

maybe he can do some chivalrous acts as well~

She Looks Breathtaking

pairing : astarion x (fem) reader

summary : astarion has never seen you in a dress, you haven’t been in one since you were taken from baldur's gate. you both find it hard to hide your excitement.

warnings : none :)

authors note: I hope you like this anon! (first, i finally played baldur's gate. second, i'm going to try and pump out the requests that I haven't gotten to.)

“Oh! Look how pretty this is!” 

You turn your head to look towards Karlach’s booming voice, much too loud for the small space you were in. She held up a dress, something you hadn’t thought about wearing in months. You hadn’t had any important events to attend.

Walking over to her side, you take the fabric between your fingers. “It’s beautiful..”

“You should get it. I think you’d look great, and I bet Astarion would like it too.” She nudged at your side, teasing. Your face flushed, and you ran your fingers along the hem of the dress, avoiding Karlachs gaze. She likes to poke fun at the obvious crush you had developed on Astarion, and everytime she did you regretted telling her more and more. 

Eventually, you find a small paper attached to the fabric showing the price of the dress, eyes widening at the disgustingly low price. 

“When would I even get a chance to wear it? It would go to waste, just weigh my bag down.” Karlach huffs, taking the price tag and reading it for herself.

“Are you kidding me? Even if you don’t wear it, you’d be a fool to ignore this price. Maybe you will attend some noble party when we get to Baldur's Gate!” She was way too excited but her energy almost made you agree with her, the dress was so cheap even if it went unworn for a long time. And you hadn’t worn one in..you couldn’t even remember.

You thought about it for a moment before moving for your coin pouch, pouring the amount into your hand and handing the coins to the trader. They slip out of your hand much faster than you'd care to admit, hiding your excitement from Karlach proving to be a challenge. “Don’t say a word to anyone, Karlach, I mean it.”

“Fine. But I better get to see you in it, at least try it on for me when we get back to camp!” You shake your head, amused by Karlachs childish antics, but you yourself can’t help but feel a little bit excited by the idea of dressing up. 

When you returned to camp that night you had forgotten about the dress in your bag, slipping your mind amidst the constant thought of being attacked or having to talk your way out of a hostile situation. 

So when Karlach came bouncing over to your side, your tent tucked away in a corner secluded from most of your party to keep your privacy, you could only give her a confused look. She seemed so excited and you had no idea why, and she was beginning to return the confusion.

“You gonna put on the dress or just make me stand here?” Oh! You let your bag fall to the ground, crouching down to rummage through its contents, searching for the dress. 

When you found it you laid it over your bag, standing back up to remove the leather from your body. You could hear Karlachs giggles as you shimmied out of your much too tight leather pants, only to have to pull the dress over your body right after.

Your hair was up, but you untied it and allowed your hair to fall over your shoulders. When you turned back to her, she stared at you with awe. “Woah..”

“What?” 

“You look..nice.” You giggled, which made her laugh along with you, both of you unaware of the approaching footsteps. His eyes trace along your figure, and he allows himself a moment of greediness to take in the full effect you have. You seem so happy, a smile appearing on his cheeks as he watches you smile gleefully and so..so..carefree. You're finally allowing yourself to have fun, and not worrying about protecting everyone else around you. And Gods.. you’re breathtaking. 

He would never admit to a living soul, or a non-living one for that matter, but he had been infatuated with you since the moment you asked him to join your party. You made him weak, and with his newfound freedom he wasn’t sure what the correct way to deal with it was. Obviously he could use his charm to lure you into his bedroll, but he wanted more, he wanted to be the reason you felt giddy enough to show your teeth with a smile. He wanted to be the reason you laughed, and fooled around, the reason you felt safe enough to have fun. 

He takes a deep breath in, to regain his confidence and charm, and he proceeds towards the two of you.  

Until his voice filled your ears and caused your eyes to shoot in his direction, “Well well..don’t you look nice.” 

“Astarion!” He approached the two of you slowly, staring at you and paying no mind to Karlach’s presence. 

“I’m gonna leave you two alone..” Karlach let out an awkward chuckle, making eye contact with you with wiggly eyebrows before sneaking away.

You look back towards Astarion, who is unable to make eye contact with you as his eyes roam along your body, preoccupied. You're certain he doesn't even realise Karlach has left from beside the two of you.

“Where did you get this pretty thing?” He looks back up to meet your eyes, smirk big enough to show his fangs which sends a nervous shiver through your body. A tingle in your neck reminds you of the favour you allowed him. Your arms cross against your chest, suddenly more nervous in his presence than ever before. 

“Just something I picked up from a merchant..” 

“In all the time I’ve traveled by your side , I’ve never seen you look so.. elegant.” 

“Wow thanks..” You roll your eyes with a snort, crossing your arms tighter across your chest.

“Now c’mon darling..you know I mean you no disrespect. Only pointing out the obvious. May I?” At first you're unsure what he’s even asking permission for, but when you see his hands reaching out to touch you, you give him a nod. 

He doesn’t hesitate, hands finding your hips. “See…usually you’re wearing that menacing leather, always so serious.” Your face scrunches up at his words, you’ve never thought your armour to be very menacing nor did you believe you were ‘always serious’. Only when the situation called for it. 

The heat of his skin can be felt even through the fabric. His thin fingers squeeze into the plush of your hips, then run along your waist, feeling the fabric between his fingers. “But right now, in this dress, with your hair undone,” He brings his hand up to run his fingers through your hairs, “You look so free. You’re beautiful darling..so beautiful.” 

You feel your face relax, and it only softens more when Astarions eyes meet yours once more and his pupils are blown . The softest smile blossoms on his face, which turns out to be contagious cause not soon after a cheek burning smile is on your face. Face hot as you look into his eyes, his hands still on your waist, thumbs massaging your skin through your dress. 

“I should take it off, I don’t want to get it dirty.” 

“Could you humor me?”

“Humor you? How so, Astarion?” 

“Keep it on, just for an hour. It’s been a long time since I spent an evening with a woman as beautiful as you..” 

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟐]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.6k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, mentions of abuse/alcoholism

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘

Summer brings longer days and sunrises that spill like molten gold over the horizon.

Kinich sits by the river to watch, washing clothes in the bubbling water and listening to his mother hum nearby. Her voice is lovely like this, carried lightly along the wind, part of her he wishes he would’ve inherited. She has these rare moments of peace sometimes, when she’s among her crops and the weather is gentle, where she’s temporarily able to forget about the house-shaking fights from the night before. Kinich tries not to disturb her in those times; mostly, he learns just by watching her.

His father, on the other hand, stays out later every day—longer days mean more time to gamble, and Kinich is often left yawning by the time the front door slams open. Their Mora pouches grow tighter and tighter, and his mother stops bringing him to the market with her.

One day, she stops going at all.

Then, she stops humming.

Kinich gets used to having the same meals every day—he eats Grainfruit so much that he gets sick of it, and vows that once he has the option, he’ll never eat it again. He stops thinking about making friends and starts thinking about his own survival. When he has some time, he finds ways to make his own fun anyway; he harvests plants to weave into rope, then makes his own swings on the trees nearby. He finds that he likes the feeling of flying through the air, though he hasn’t quite gotten advanced enough to do any true climbing yet.

Every so often, Kinich thinks about the tribe. He can hear them occasionally, on nights of celebration—the firelight and vivacious laughter pierce the night, even all the way out here. He hasn’t gotten the chance to visit the main village in a while, and courier visits are infrequent, not that his parents receive much mail anyway. Perhaps a mountain of bills, if nothing else.

In even rarer moments, he thinks of you. 

It comes on days when his mother locks herself in her room and his father disappears for hours, the quiet desire for companionship. He feels truly stupid even pondering it, but he wonders how you’re doing sometimes. He wonders if you ever learned how to make flower crowns, and if the other kids in the tribe are being nice to you again. 

He wonders if you’re alone, and sometimes, he wonders if he could be too.

“Yanta passed away,” his mother murmurs one day, cutting up a Grainfruit. Kinich’s stomach lurches at the thought of taking another bite of the crop, but he says nothing; he never complains to his mother. Instead, he stands beside her at the kitchen counter on a short stool, carefully grinding grain into flour. “The courier came by today and told me.”

For a moment, Kinich says nothing. Observant as he is for his age, he gauges his mother’s expression—she’d known Yanta a long time, after all. But she doesn’t look sad, at least not truly. Instead, she just looks…resigned.

“I’m sure she’s in a better place now,” he manages to reply.

His mother smiles bitterly. The knife cuts through the soft fruit with too much force, blade hitting the cutting board with a loud thud—Kinich nearly flinches at the sound.

“I’m sure she is.”

They lapse back into silence, and his mother stares out the kitchen window, wistful. He tries not to think about that too much, because he’s unsure how to feel about the implications.

(He knows she’s thinking about somewhere far away, but he wonders if he’s in that vision, too.)

Kinich learns that the price of his mother’s smile is his own usefulness—she smiles when he brings home larger harvests. When he can contribute, she ruffles at his hair and tenderly takes the basket from his hands. He finds that he likes that feeling—being useful, being needed. It’s the reason why he works so hard, the reason why his small hands form calluses, skin turning rough from labor.

A commotion sounds from outside—his father is home. His mother places the knife down immediately, moving on pure instinct. She takes up the cloth by the sink and wipes down her hands. It’s a pitiful thing, full of holes and threadbare from years of use. Kinich thinks he should weave a new one the next time he has a chance; the thought that it might please his mother makes his chest warm.

“Go to your bedroom,” his mother orders, hurried. The flour sits on the counter, forgotten, only half-finished. He looks at it longingly, even as his mother pushes him out of the kitchen.

He just manages to slip into his bedroom by the time the front door slams open, nearly flying off the hinges. Kinich’s eyes flutter shut, lips pressed into a thin line—the losses today must’ve been worse than usual.

“Don’t slam the door! Kinich is sleeping,” his mother argues. There’s a series of groans and squeaks—his father is stumbling into the furniture again, probably making a mess. “What’s got you so upset already?”

“It was the damn orphan kid,” his father slurs, spitting on the floor. Kinich silently seethes in disgust. “She’s always running around our fucking property, guess since she’s got nowhere else to go.”

Kinich isn’t sure who his father is referring to, but it doesn’t really matter anyway. The screams outside the door grow louder, until it feels like the walls of the house will fall from the noise. If he were any younger, he might’ve folded his pillow over his ears in an attempt to block out the noise. He’d stopped doing that years ago, though, having grown used to the chaos.

His mother screams and cries until the daylight disappears completely, and his father yells and inflicts as much damage as he can—both to the house and to his wife. Kinich pretends to be asleep the whole time, grip tight on his blankets. It’s not until the moon rises in the sky, watchful, that his parents tire themselves out, retiring to bed with fresh bruises. 

It’s quiet, at least for a bit.

The next day, Kinich rises with the sun. 

His mother is already outside, and his father is…somewhere. It doesn’t really matter where the man is, only that he isn’t here, and Kinich can enjoy the fleeting peace. The routine comes easily to him in the mornings—he sets about rearranging the scattered dining chairs and dragging the table back into place. It’s a useless endeavor, he knows, considering they’ll probably end up downed again by tomorrow. But there’s something about these small victories, in which he can pretend his house is normal for the day—where he can pretend it’s just him and his mom.

He cleans quietly, humming to himself, then decides against it—it doesn’t sound like when his mother does it.

She comes back inside a few minutes later, not sparing him a word. It makes something sting in his chest, the lack of recognition—he’d hoped she would praise him for tidying up, or maybe ask him to help her harvest. Still, he continues cleaning, grabbing a broom to sweep up the remnants of things his parents had broken in anger. He sweeps up smashed bottles, careful to avoid the glass, before stopping at the mess under the counter. He pauses.

For reasons he can’t explain, the sight makes him inexplicably sad:

The bowl of half-ground flour, shattered into a thousand pieces and flung across the floor.

/

When the air cools and leaves begin to fall from the trees, a ghost appears in the forest.

Kinich first notices it one morning after he goes outside to water his crops and check on their growth. The forest leaves are still full-bodied by this time, but they’re turning; as he walks, the emerald ceiling turns to deep reds, burnt oranges, and pale yellows. Yesterday, the breeze was gentle, but today it nips at his skin—he pulls his thin jacket tighter around himself. 

He’s not a superstitious or fearful person by any means. He’s grown used to being alone over the years, and the creaks of the house and the whispers in the forest don’t scare him like they used to. 

Still, he’s inclined to admit the chill that runs through his blood when he finds the small bag of berries awaiting him. 

It’s placed in such a specific location that he can’t help but feel it’s meant for him—a stone that marks the perimeter of his garden plot. There’s no note, though he checks thoroughly for one, nor any indication of who it might be from. The thought makes him a bit uncomfortable—no one from the village usually comes through here. He tries to pretend it doesn’t bother him, but he finds himself rushing home after the fact.

The gifts don’t stop coming. 

It’s always inconsequential, little things like cheap candies and leaf whistles left on stones. They’re placed in very particular spots—areas around his crops, around his traps, or the trees where he usually sits to be alone. Kinich starts to feel like someone is watching him, and the shadows in the forest seem to loom a bit longer than usual. A collection of tiny trinkets and treats grows in the corner of his bedroom.

It takes three more weeks before he discovers that ghosts are, in fact, not real.

With the temperatures dropping, he decides to visit his crops a bit later than usual that day, when the sun is fully up and provides some semblance of warmth. The thought of the ghost still lays dormant in the back of his mind, but it’s less of a concern—after all, it doesn’t seem to pose a threat.

(And really, he can’t complain about having extra candy every now and then.)

He just about reaches the clearing when he spots a shadowed figure knelt over his crops. Initially, Kinich mistakes it for a wild animal—there’s no shortage of them around here, and they’re always interested in chewing at his plants. He readies himself to scream in an attempt to scare it away, but it suddenly moves in a way that is distinctly human—he freezes where he stands. Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward in the foliage to get a better look.

The figure rises just as his eyes narrow on the small object now laying on the stone.

It’s a crown, woven with jade and gold flowers.

“It’s you,” he breathes, mostly out of shock. You jolt like a deer in the headlights at the sound, eyes wide, and there’s a beat of silence before you turn and sprint away. Truthfully, Kinich considers himself a smart kid, but even he feels dumbfounded by the whole situation. It takes him about another second to start chasing after you, an impromptu game of tag with no clear objective.

“Stop!”

You’re quite swift for a child, but Kinich is faster, knows these woods better; he catches up to you with ease, and his fingers wrap around your wrist in a fashion that reminds him of when you first met. This time, you try to break out of his grip, but it only makes him hold tighter. In a panic, your ankle catches on a tree root, and that’s all it takes for both of you to go tumbling down.

Kinich hits the ground hard, tangled in your limbs, and he groans when his shoulder skids in the dirt—instantly, his mind is assessing the value lost in the event of an injury. If he gets hurt, how will he pay for it? How will he hunt? How will he harvest?

The thought just makes him angrier as he straightens to his feet, unsteady and brushing grime off his clothes. You’re a bit slower to rise, still on your hands and knees—Kinich pulls you up by your collar instead, lips curled into a snarl.

“Why are you running from me? Why are you leaving these things?” The words come out in a hiss, frustration boiling over. “Why are you doing this?”

You tear out of his grip, looking just as indignant.

“Because Chief Wayna said you’re lonely!”

Nearby, birds flock away from the noise, a rush of darkness flying overhead.

Kinich flinches at your words—he’s not even sure if it’s true, but the notion of it sends a pulse of lightning through his heart. Lonely? He turns away, fists clenched.

“Well, he’s wrong. So you can go back to the village.”

“I don’t think he’s wrong,” you say, arms crossed. “You’re the only kid out here, right? That would make anyone lonely.”

He thinks of his parents; on an average day, it’s true that they don’t talk very much. But that doesn’t make him lonely—in fact, he thinks he’s doing just fine by himself. Thinking of friends and other things makes him less useful to his mother, and he despises that thought.

“You don’t even know me,” he argues, eyes narrowed, and you huff. 

“I don’t. But that’s why I’m here,” you say. Kinich watches as you squat to the ground, thumbing over the thin petals of the flower crown. “Because I want to know you. I want to be friends. Is that so bad?”

He rolls his eyes. “There’s plenty of other kids in the village. Go play with them.”

You’re more stubborn than you let on, he realizes. Because even as he explains every reason why you shouldn’t be here, your feet remain firmly rooted in place, a pout written over your lips.

“I don’t want to play with them. I want to play with you.”

He’s not sure why the words hit him as hard as they do—you’re just a child who wants to play. Maybe you’re bored with the other kids, or maybe they still don’t like you, but it’s not like you’re coming to him out of genuine necessity. 

(Distantly, he reminds himself that he’s a child too. He forgets that sometimes.)

“...Why me?” he probes, tentative. “Why does it even matter to you?”

You seem to sense that a crack has formed in his resolve, and your expression softens. The wind rushes by as you outstretch one hand, holding the flower crown out to him—an olive branch.

“Because you’re the one who offered to help me back then,” you say, nearly a whisper, “and that matters to me.”

For the second time since he’s met you, Kinich finds himself genuinely speechless. He’s not a talkative person to begin with, but it’s not out of a lack of things to say—it’s out of a lack of necessity. There’s no need to speak in the life he lives, only to move. To survive. But here you are, latching onto him simply because you want his company.

I don’t need friends, he thinks desperately.

Before he can stop himself, he gently plucks the crown from your hands.

You smile.

In the next few weeks after that, Kinich lets you come around, if only for a few hours.

The forest clearing becomes your meeting place—he learns a lot about you among the crunching leaves and bare trees. He learns that you’re an orphan, that your favorite season is spring, that you think his eyes are pretty. You don’t tend to think before you speak, only saying things as they come to mind. In a lot of ways, you’re his opposite. 

He’s not sure what the feeling is that takes root in his chest.

Next, he teaches you what he knows. You had suggested it offhandedly one day, that he might teach you how to weave—that maybe you might be able to do something more complex than flower crowns. He had been a bit hesitant—he doesn’t consider himself an expert, after all—but relented after you asked over and over.

(He always seems to relent when it comes to you.)

He finds that he likes the way your eyes sparkle when he teaches you something new, or when you successfully try something for the first time. You’re overjoyed when you weave your first rope, when your traps come back full, when your first plant finally blooms. Kinich merely watches, a warmth permeating his chest. He starts to crave your company, the way you cling to him, the way you need him. Soon, he starts to think that a small part of him might have needed you too.

Despite his willingness to spend time with you, he’s quite strict with your time—once the sun dips, he’s quick to send you off. 

“Go home,” he says, looking pointedly toward his house. He’s always waiting for something. “And don’t let anyone see you.”

You never disobey, mostly because you have no reason to—ascending the mountain in the dark is difficult anyway, and you don’t want to overstay your welcome.

And though his house still shakes and rocks with screaming every night when he returns, Kinich finds it a bit easier to sleep when he thinks of meeting you the next day.

/

Kinich’s mother disappears on a winter night.

Something startles him awake, and his eyes slide open to see the moon hanging over the inky sky. It’s uncharacteristically quiet, save for the subdued snoring of his father passed out on the couch. At times like these, Kinich misses the warmer months; the river outside has long since frozen over, and he sometimes relied on its steady bubbling rush to put him to sleep.

These days, it’s too cold for you to make the trip down the mountain. The ice makes it far more dangerous to make the descent, and even someone as stubborn as you wouldn’t risk it. Kinich thinks he finally understands what loneliness means.

Winter also means more time spent inside, and forced quarters with his father. The weather seems to take a toll on the man—he skips work more and more these days, citing an ache in his bones. Kinich’s mother works longer days now, desperate to feed them all. He helps as he can, setting traps in the forest to catch wild game, but it’s not enough sometimes. Some days, he sleeps with his stomach empty. 

He sits up in bed, slow.

He’s still short enough that his feet barely dangle above the ground when he swings his legs over the edge, wincing when he first makes contact with the cold floor. It had been snowing when he had first fallen asleep, cheek stinging from the force of his father’s hand. Outside, a blanket of white is settling, still undisturbed by human interference. His footsteps are light, trained from years of practice.

The door creaks open, millimeters at a time, lest he accidentally wake his father. He peeks a single eye out of the crack, observing how the man lays draped over the couch. Several bottles of alcohol lie vacant on the table, emptied down his father’s throat in one of his fits of rage. He’d lost more Mora than usual today—Kinich’s mother had been the unfortunate scapegoat for his anger, and Kinich as well when he came to her defense. 

He slips through the opening in the door, agile, creeping past his father’s sleeping form and into the kitchen. It’s still a mess, as a result of earlier. One of the cabinet doors sits unlatched at an awkward angle, evidence of the fight. Kinich’s fingers twitch to fix it, but decide against it; it would make too much noise, and the cabinet is bare anyway. 

He moves on.

His mother’s bedroom—technically his parents’ bedroom, but the two haven’t slept together in years—is half-visible through a crack in the door, but it doesn’t look the same as he remembers. The bedsheets are smoothed down, his mother nowhere to be seen. He glances out the window again—there are times when she awakens in the middle of the night to take walks, craving temporary silence, but the notion seems unlikely with the current weather.

Kinich eases the door open quietly, exposing the disaster to his eyes.

His mother’s things are strewn about the room in various states of disarray—someone had left in a hurry. The bed frame also sits crooked, revealing a loose floorboard beneath that had been pulled aside. The perfect place to hide something, whether it had been jewelry, Mora, or something else.

A seed of panic plants itself in his stomach. 

He rushes over to the front door, tripping as he goes—he slams to the floor with a cry. A hand slaps over his mouth in fear, eyes flickering over to his father. The man turns over, but doesn’t awaken, so he scrambles to his feet, finally seizing the doorknob and throwing it open. 

Nothing but a starless night awaits him outside—a burst of freezing air surges into the house, but Kinich doesn’t feel it at all. Instead, he stares out into the snowy landscape, gaze following the trail his mother had left behind.

Shallow footfalls leading away from the house—leading away from him.

Kinich is not ignorant; even young as he is, he understands the situation instantly.

His mother had weighed the value of her son and the value of her freedom, and he had not been the final choice.

That night, Kinich doesn’t cry.

Instead, he creeps back into bed, deathly quiet in his footsteps and wincing when the door creaks. A shiver runs down his body; teeth chattering, he slides beneath his thin blanket. His father doesn’t stir, and for once, Kinich doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel anything at all.

For a few minutes, he tosses and turns. It doesn’t help—the dread settles in all the same. There are too many questions and not enough answers to placate him. He thinks of his mother and her smile.

Distantly, he wonders if he can blame her, or even hate her. If he weighed his options, would he have made the same choice? If he had been more useful, would she have stayed?

What more could he have done?

As he falls back to sleep, Kinich wonders how long it will be until spring comes again.

[neckromantics]

Spoiling Astarion?

Bringing him back little things that remind you of him whenever he stays back at camp just so he knows you're still thinking of him while you're apart.

Astarion being so used to receiving little gifts from your travels that when you arrive back at camp, he's standing by your tent with his palm outstretched just waiting to see what you've brought him this time. The giddy little grin that's plastered on his face when you fork over the shiniest object you could get your paws on. All varying in degrees of monetary value, for sure, but all with a unique story of their own.

A couple of old coins from an ancient crypt. The entrance of which you'd all stumbled upon when Karlach punched a wall of a cave in victory after a particularly tough battle, only to come back with a handful of bones and cobwebs. The look of shock on her face when the entire wall came crumbling down on the group was enough to have you in stitches, entirely too weak from laughter to stand. You laid beneath the rubble for so long that Gale had assumed you developed a concussion and needed rescuing.

The PRETTIEST, crystal goblet that you'd stolen right from under a rich lady's nose under the guise that you were testing her drink for poison. You'd downed her ale in two gulps the second you exited the building. Was in the middle of patting yourself on the back for being oh-so cunning when you nearly fell on your ass. It was a sick, twisted coincidence that her ale did, in fact, turn out to be poisoned. But, at least you had a spare antidote on you that you gulped down before Shadowheart could find you in such a state. (And make fun of you, no doubt.)

A set of handmade jewelry– not stolen this time, if you can believe it. Wyll had pointed out the small shop to you while the two of you were out shopping for supplies. Said something about how it might be a good idea to pick out a new pair of socks since you'd been complaining about how holey yours had become after so much running around. Which was a good idea, truly– but the second you'd set eyes on the shop window, you knew what you wanted. A matching necklace and earring set, lovingly crafted with silver chain, so very delicate. So very understated that one could almost miss it among the rest of the more garish examples that sat alongside. Three, very small, opalescent stones shone so pretty at you beneath the sunlight that you could hardly look away. You would have given the shopkeep your left kidney just to see Astarion wearing them, but thankfully, it wasn't necessary. (You became so feral in your excitement to hear the very reasonable price that you nearly threw your entire gold pouch at the clerk's head and then kissed him on the mouth.)

You're an eager one. Astarion never has to wait– always receives his gifts before you can so much as slip your travel pack off of your shoulders. He goes real quiet for a moment. Has this far away look while gazing down at whatever it is, turning it over in his palm a couple of times to really study it.

The two of you sit together while you go through the rest of the day's spoils, and he listens while you tell him all about how you found today's special little trinket. Insists you spare no details in how you acquired it. (Unless any of those details are boring, dear. Do spare him of those.)

You know that there have to be some things he enjoys more than others. You know that there has to be some things you've given him that he outright dislikes. There have been a few occasions where he'd poked fun at you for bringing back something silly. Like "The roundest pebble you'd ever seen, Astarion, look at it roll!" or "This drawing of the two of you that you'd doodled on a stray sheet of parchment when you couldn't find anything else no matter how hard you tried!". BUT he has never refused anything you've chosen to bring back for him.

He thinks it's rather sweet that you've dedicated yourself to proving you still think of him when he stays behind. Wonders why you are the way that you are. Sort of loves you to death for it. Definitely does NOT invest in a bag of holding for everything once it all begins to stack up.

Definitely doesn't insist on you taking one half of the jewelry set so you always have a little piece of one another on you at all times. That would be ridiculous. (Earrings or necklace, darling?)

Sequel?

[ofstarsandvibranium]

The Stranger in My Doorway

Fandom: Star Wars - The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x GN!Reader

Summary: You run an apothecary and, for the most part, your usual clients come in looking for pain relievers, salves, bacta sprays, etc. But in walks in a new client looking for something that does quite the opposite.

A/N: something short as i try out writing for qimir. lmk what yall think!

You hear the door open at the front while you're rearranging some products in the back room.

"I'll be with you in a moment!" you hear no reply and quickly move around a few bottles and salves before rushing to the front.

In the doorway of your shop stands a man looking rather disheveled. His hair covers part of his face as he looks around your shop. His clothing sags around his body from the rain.

You clear your throat, "Can I help you?"

"I heard you're the person we go to if someone needs a remedy made," the man states as he continues to take in your shop.

You nod, "Yes, sir. I own and run the best on Batuu. I can make anything you need."

The man looks back at you and with a tilt of his head he asks, "Anything?"

You feel a little uneasy as he stares at you, but you try to cover it with a cough, "Um, I use the term lightly. But I can try my best."

The man slowly walks up to your counter, eyes staring directly at you as he approaches, "Even if it is something that could harm someone rather than heal?"

Your eyes dart to the windows of your shop and the door, to ensure no one is watching or listening. You lean in, "For the right price, maybe."

The man smirks, "A thousand spira for an undetectable poison."

Your brows shoot up to your forehead in excitement, "Done. When do you need it?"

"Tonight. I will come by and retrieve it," the man pulls out a small sack and opens it. You hear the clinking of the spira as he grabs them. He sets five pieces onto your counter, "Five hundred spira now. You get the rest after I have ensured your poison works."

You quickly grab the money, "It will. I can assure you, this isn't my first time doing this, sir."

The man smirks, "We'll see." Without another word, he turns on his heal and heads for the door. Over his shoulder he says, "See you tonight," and then exits.

___________________

You closed your shop early to work on the poison. You wanted to make sure you weren't bothered and no one could catch you making something deadly.

Once it was finished, you waited for the stranger to appear in your doorway again.

When night fell, he returned. The rain had stopped but the ground was still damp. The man stood in your doorway again, clothes and hair no longer clinging to him. You get a better look at him now and you register that he's quite handsome.

As if hearing your thoughts, he cocks a brow at you and you shake your head, letting him into your store.

You lock the door behind you and watch as he picks up the vial from your counter. He holds it up, looking at its color, "What kind of poison did you use?"

You point to the vial in his hand, "That one contains chronamite. Used for a quick death." You dig out a second vial from your pocket, "This one is made from charon venom. Causes a slow and painful death as the venom infiltrates the person's nervous system."

The man fully faces you, leaning back against your counter, arms crossing over his chest, "Why did you make two?"

You shrug, "You never specified how you wanted to use the poison. So I made two. Take your pick."

The man smirks again, looking down at the vial in his hand and the one in yours, "I'll take both."

He takes out his pouch again, pulling out more spiras and setting them on your counter. You look at him with wide eyes, "You don't even know if they'll work!"

"I have a feeling they will," he slowly walks up to you, looking into your eyes and then at the vial. He leans in, lips close to your ear as he whispers, "I think this partnership will be very beneficial to the both of us." He then plucks the second vial out of your hands and heads for the door.

You take a glance at the spiras on your counter and then call out, "Wait." You and he turn to each other, "You gave me an extra thousand?"

He waves the vials, "For the extra vial." You nod in understanding and he says, "See you next time." He gives you a mischievous look and leaves.

You let out a deep breath that you didn't know you were holding. There's something about this man that makes you curious. And now you're hoping you will see him again soon.

[aetherdoesthings]

a new job

forethoughts: i'm currently on a train going to my next location and my head is light and i feel like puking as i'm typing this because someone has terrible motion sickness :D. anyways apologies if the quality of work isn't of the same as my previous ones; i am running on a glass of sparkling water. also apparently i'm only a few followers away from 300, so you know what that means...

notes: fem!reader, botanist!reader, arlecchino being a good father

Arlecchino trekked through the bustling streets of Fontaine, her crimson eyes gleaming at anyone who dared to stare for too long. She tuned out the sounds of random Fontainians whispering and saying her name to one another, instead focusing on her task at hand. In her hands was a bouquet of romaritime flowers and rainbow roses, all fresh and handpicked by herself. One more bouquet, and her collection would be complete. After that, she’d be off to the Opera Epiclese to watch her children graduate. The thought alone of Lyney, Lynette and Freminet graduating was enough to bring a smile to the Knave’s face, but she kept her poker face on, keeping her excitement and happiness to herself.

The Harbinger stepped into the flower shop, admiring the bouquets set out on the stands as she stepped into the building, ignoring the bees that fluttered around. 

“Hi! How may I help you?” Arlecchino’s muscles tightened at the sudden sound, before relaxing when her eyes landed upon the source of the sound. You were standing in front of the Harbinger, wearing a simple white dress. It didn’t help the Harbinger relax when she saw your jade eyes and a white headband on your head. 

“And you are..?” The Harbinger mustered the question out of her mouth, a wave of deja vu washing over her.

“I’m Y/N, the owner of this flower shop!” You smiled at the Knave, not a single drop of fear in your heart as you faced the woman that could end your life just by looking at you. “Is there anything you’re looking for? Or picking up an order?”

“Well… I would like to purchase a bouquet of lumidouce bells.” Arlecchino cleared her throat.

“Alright!” You walk towards your collection of lumidouce bells, picking up a bouquet for Arlecchino. “Here you go!”

“Right. Thank you.” Arlecchino took the bouquet of lumidouce bells, juggling it with her other two bouquets. She reached into her pocket, fetching out her wallet.

“T-That’s alright. I couldn’t possibly charge the Knave for some little Mora.” You chuckled, shaking your head.

“I insist. How much, clerk?” Arlecchino waited for your response.

“U-Um, sixteen Mora.” 

Sixteen? For a bouquet this size? Arlecchino thought to herself.

“Take it all.” Arlecchino handed you a pouch of Mora, leaving it in your hand. “There are at least six thousand Mora in there.”

The Knave’s thin lips curled upwards at the sight of your jaw ajar, staring at the Harbinger’s pouch of Mora as if you had the whole world in your hand.

“I-I couldn’t possibly-”

“Take it. These lumidouce bells look to be in excellent condition compared to other shops who bargained for a higher price. You are quite the modest person, are you?”

You look at the Harbinger with a sheepish look, as you made your way to the counter, the Harbinger’s money still in your hands as your shaking fingers click on a few buttons on the machine, printing the receipt for the Harbinger. “I… just like to make people happy, really. I like my lifestyle. It can be better, yeah, but I’m happy with where I’m at.”

“I see.” Arlecchino made her way towards you, standing on the other end of the counter.

While the two of you were waiting for the receipt to print, you chirped. “May I ask why you have three bouquets of flowers?” Arlecchino looked at the bouquets of flowers she had, adjusting how she held them to assure the best quality of all three of them. “My children are graduating tonight.”

Arlecchino’s heart churned at the sight of your smile and glimmer in your eyes. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for them!”

“Thank you.” Arlecchino replied, looking at each bouquet, the recipient’s faces flashing in her head, which only fuels her pride and joy.

“Say, I noticed you have romaritime flowers on you. As an advice, romaritime flowers are found underwater, meaning they thrive being submerged in water. It is advised you drench them in water to keep them healthy and alive. Here.” You grab a spray bottle of water, pressing down on the trigger ever so slightly, letting a sprinkle of water hit the romaritime flowers. In an instant, the colors brighten, as if it was brought back to life. Arlecchino’s eyebrow raised at the sight, fascinated by the newfound knowledge in botany. 

“Did you study botany while you were at school, clerk?” Arlecchino asks, as you set the spray bottle down.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Arlecchino couldn’t stop herself grinning at the sound of you calling her ‘ma’am.’ “Arlecchino. Call me Arlecchino.”

“Okay. Yes, Arlecchino. I did study botany!” You smiled, proud of your hard work and achievement.

“Interesting.” An idea formulates in Arlecchino’s head, as she studied your figure once more. The receipt was printed, as you handed it over to Arlecchino.

“Well, have a fun time at the graduation ceremony! I wish the best for your children!” You exclaimed, the corners of your mouth shooting up to your lips as your eyes met Arlecchino’s crimson ones.

“Hmn.” Arlecchino walked out of your store, the faint rustle of the bell filling up the empty space. The Harbinger made her way to the Opera Epiclese, a thin smile on her face as her mind pondered about you and your profession, then about the children at the House of the Hearth.

You were about to close your store and head home, when spiders crawled up your spine, the hair on your body rising and your muscles tensing up. Alarm and panic raced through your mind as you whipped your head around, scanning the dark streets of Fontaine for any sign of your source of fear. 

“I have a proposition for you.”

A scream was ripped from your throat as you jumped, stumbling a few feet back as your eyes zoned in onto the voice. The Fourth Harbinger stood at where you once were, half of her body cloaked by the shadow, only a fraction of her body exposed in the light. 

“A-Arlecchino.” You stammered, your mind still in flight or fight mode.

“Don’t be scared. I’m not here to harm you. Rather, help you.” The Knave took a step towards you, her eyes telling you no secrets or revealing anything whatsoever about her plan. You took a deep breath, nodding your head as you composed yourself.

“I want you to be a teacher in the House of the Hearth. To teach the students about botany. I believe it will be useful for the children to know about nature and the world around them, help them survive and grow used to being in nature’s terrain.” Arlecchino announced. “Naturally, I will pay you a sum of Mora monthly, and provide you with the basic amenities you require.”

Your jaw dropped to the ground, your soul headed for the other direction. “You want me to teach kids about plants?”

“Yes. Starting next week. I will provide for your travel necessities to arrive at the House safely.”

“I’m not sure if I’m really qualified to teach-”

“Did I stutter?” A crimson glow emanated from those dark pools. You gulped, nodding your head, accepting the Harbinger’s offer. The darkness in her face disappeared, replaced by a thin smile as she dipped her head at you.

“I shall see you then. Have a good night.”

“Have… a good night.” You mumbled out, watching the Harbinger disappear into the streets of Fontaine. With Arlecchino out of your sight, your shoulders slumped, as you turned the key, allowing yourself to step away from your store and be one with the dark as well.

Maybe getting that degree wasn’t so useless after all.

[syluscore]

You Lure Me In

~Captain John Price x fem! Reader~

MY FIRST EVER KO-FI COMMISSION!! This is my 3000 word request option! Please note that this is catered to specific requests made by the buyer: pet names they like, kinks they like, body type specifications, etc.

Word: 3591

Content warnings: age gap (price in late 30s, reader in early 20s), sub and dom dynamics, primal play dynamics, reader being chased through woods, anxious reader, daddy issues, degrading/praise mix, a bit of manipulation, so many feminine pet names, size kink, reader is petite with small breasts, possessiveness, edging, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, p in v sex, mating press, tummy bulge, creampie

!!!!!!GHOSTKENNEDY IS STRICTLY 18+! MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!

He stands behind you, the back of your head against his firm chest. You can feel how hard his cock is against your lower back. You don’t have to face him to know all of his attention is focused on you. His presence alone demands obedience and submission, and you’d be a fool to try and repel it.

“Patience…you don’t wanna do anything stupid,” he mumbles darkly into your ear. His calloused hands graze the skin of your exposed arms, causing goosebumps to rise. The roughness of his skin harshly contrasts the gentleness of his touch. His intentions–obvious and impure, down to the very root of them. His fingers trace little circles into your shoulders, a false sense of security, but you know where this will end up. Where it always ends up.

Captain Price leans down, pulling your hair back behind your ear, his lips grazing the shell of it. “Run if you’d like, little bunny. Feeling quite generous, I’ll give you a head start.”

You turn your head and gaze into his blue eyes. That thousand yard stare gone as he focuses on you and only you. You wanna melt beneath the intensity of his stare. It feels like he’s taking you apart with his eyes, breaking you down to the measly atoms that compose the simplest pieces of your being. You want to cower, you want to give yourself over to him, but your fight or flight reflex is kicking in–just as he wants it to, just as he knows it will.

Useless in resisting it, you push yourself off of him and run straight for the pitch black woods ahead. Running is pointless. Hiding is pointless. He’s a professionally trained hunter and killer. He merely likes the chase. He could easily reach you and overpower you in a mere seconds, but he gives you the head start to satisfy the piece of himself that commands him to be a predator hunting his prey.

You’re already stumbling over the brush of the woods, massive roots breaking through the uneven ground, slopping through the mud, and the low hanging branches–all causing you to be hindered. Your heart is in your throat, your lungs feel as if they’re constricting in on themselves, squeezing tightly like a kid’s juice pouch. But deep in your tummy, through the adrenaline and fear, is an excitement growing from the feeling of being his prey.

Your bare legs and arms are being torn up as you run haphazardly through the trees. Only barriers protecting your skin being a tiny sundress and sandals. You may as well be naked at this point, which would really render you useless. That man wouldn’t give you the chance to run if you were naked–pouncing on you immediately, weak to his own animalistic desires.

Your tiny and weak frame is nothing in comparison to his toned and well trained body. You know he has to be hot on your trail already. You’re sweating and tired after barely having run at all, and wherever he is, you know he hasn’t used an ounce of his endless energy. It’s all merely childsplay to him.

You can’t keep your mind from wandering… wandering to what he’ll do to you–what he’ll put you through–when he catches you. Will he punish you? There’s no question on if he’ll hurt you, oh no. You wonder to what extent it’s going to hurt because he loves giving pain, and you love receiving it.

Before your brain can catch up with your body, pain radiates in your limbs and chest. You roll over from your tummy to your back to alleviate the pain, but to no avail. You hit the muddy ground hard, the wind knocked out of your lungs and you struggle to take an adequate breath. 

You cross your arms over your chest in an attempt to comfort yourself. You rub your sore muscles as you focus on catching your breath. You realize you’re sobbing harshly and not at all quietly. 

“Tsk. You make it too easy.” You practically jump out of your skin, digging your nails into the ground beneath you, ready to push yourself up and take off again. But a heavy, dirty boot presses into your chest, trapping you against the ground. You grab his ankle and try to pull him off of you, but the more you struggle, the harder he presses against you. 

He takes a long drag of his cigar before flinging it into the mud behind you. You clench your thighs together as he releases a puff of smoke between the two of you. You’ve always hated smokers, grossed out by it since you were a child, but he somehow makes it hot. Has your pussy throbbing beneath your flimsy little dress that could barely be called that. So thin and short that it was basically a slip.

He removes his boot from your chest and you finally take a deep breath, filling your lungs and alleviating the burning for air within them. Before you have time to blink, he’s straddling your hips. His knees on either side of your hips and his hands wrapped around your wrists and pulling them up above your head, securing you in place. You could try to struggle to get free, but he’s left you very little wiggle room beneath him.

You’re completely and utterly at this mercy, again. A position you’ve found yourself in (happily and willingly) countless times. You trust him even when you shouldn’t. Trust him no matter how much he pushes your limits. You relinquish control to him like you're passing him a piece of gum. Maybe if your daddy had shown you more attention as a child, you wouldn’t beg for Captain Price’s approval and praise like a desperate whore. Maybe. Wouldn’t be out here seeking out the oh so sweet male validation that only an older man can fulfill–that hollowness your dad gave to you from failing to love you properly.

Or maybe it’s entirely biological–primal. The way you yearn for him and the way he needs you with every fiber of his being. Your coupling should’ve never happened. Him in his late 30s, you in your early 20s. An entire relationship built of red flags and toxic dynamics. You wonder if maybe it was the same delicious shade of red as the apple in the garden of Eden. Could Eve have been as helpless to resist it as you are in resisting John?

But God, what you feel for him is raw you’d dare to say it’s even biblical in a sense. Your flesh and his intertwined in some profound way that your bodies were destined and created for. But you were never the religious type–controlled by your sinful ways and desires. Perhaps you’re looking for any reason to explain the way your pussy aches and drenches itself just thinking about this dirty old man. Perhaps he’s the deity you’ve prayed to all along–your very own God in the flesh.

“Look at you. Dirty fucking girl,” He looks over your body, almost like he’s appraising you. His cock somehow grows harder at the sight of you with mud down the front of your white dress, scratches and dirt littering your legs and arms, and dirt across your cheek that you must’ve accidentally spread while wiping away sweat. “Gonna love ruining you.”

Your voices come out barely above a whisper, “Thought I was already ruined.” He groans in response to your words. How broken and little you sound.

“Mm, not enough, sweetheart. Going to destroy you from the inside out. How’s that sound?” You don’t mean to, but you rut your hips up into him in search of friction. It’s instinctive. He knows what he does to you when he speaks to you this way. And he always uses it to his advantage.

“Haven’t even started touching you yet and you’ve already gone dumb. Trained you so well, haven’t I? Yeah…just a dumb little girl who needs me to show her what she needs, is that it?”

He holds your wrists in one of his large hands as the other cups your chin, holding your head in place so you’re forced to stare at him face to face.

“Yes, Captain,” you whisper out before biting your lip, trying to keep little noises from slipping past your lips at his little touches. You feel properly defiled and he hasn’t even really begun his destruction on your body.

He grabs your face, pinching your cheeks together tightly and forcing your mouth open, looking like a fish out of water. “What have I told you about keeping those little noises of yours from me? Wanna hear every pathetic noise that comes from those pretty lips. You haven’t forgotten, have you? Maybe I need to teach you again. Punishment could be very beneficial for a dumb bunny such as yourself.”

He releases your cheeks and you whine out, “Noooooooooo… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it, wasn’t thinkin’. ‘M sorry,” Your words slur in your needy state. The sound of your own voice has your cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He chuckles at you meanly. “You never think, sweetheart. All you know how to do is be a whiny little brat, isn’t that right?”

You whine out your objections, causing a smirk to grow on his face as you prove exactly his point. Your eyes meet his and the mean look on his face causes your bottom lip to start trembling.

He leans forward and leaves gentle kisses across your damp cheeks. “That’s why you have me, isn’t it? Need someone to do all the thinking while you sit there lookin’ pretty. Just taking what I give you,” he mumbles against your skin.

“Please,” You whisper out, your hands clinging to his chest. One of his hands caresses your sides appreciatively. The thumb of his free hand wipes up your tears before rubbing your lip, causing you to part them for him.

He slips his thumb into your mouth and your lips immediately suck it in, your tongue swirling around it. The salty taste of your sweat and tears overwhelms your taste buds and causes more wetness to pool in your panties. 

You continue sucking on his thumb, paying no mind to any of his other movements. Your eyes shoot open when his hand starts playing with the waistband of your panties. 

“This where you need me?” his fingers release your waistband and rub over your slit through your panties. “I think so. So wet for me already. Is my girl needy tonight?” You eagerly nod your head and he smiles at you before placing one last gentle kiss to your lips and moving down your body.

He desperately wants to fuck you so hard you can’t tell what hurts and what feels good. Wants to hear you scream and beg for him to stop while ignoring you and going harder. But he sees how sensitive and needy you are tonight. Knows you need extra love and care tonight–and it definitely can’t wait for aftercare. You in need of princess treatment? He’ll malicious compliance his way into getting you to beg him to treat you like nothing more than a slut. Yeah. That’s how he’ll get his way. That’s how he’ll get you exactly where he wants you.

He kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbones and licking your hot skin.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, baby. Love this tiny fucking dress on you. But unfortunately,” he rips your dress entirely down the middle, causing you to gasp out as you gawk at the effortless way he does it, “It’s in my fucking way.”

John stares at your exposed chest, very fucking pleased that you skipped out on the bra today. He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive and you’ve never been more appreciative of the fact your chest is not well endowed–bras not a requirement for dressing yourself.

He doesn’t bother uttering a single word as he brings his mouth to your nipple and immediately starts sucking it into his mouth, dragging his teeth across it and feeling it harden between his lips. He kisses all around your tit and mumbles, “Love these tits.” And his mouth latches onto the other one.

Your back arches off the ground as you moan out. You’re not sure if it’s possible to get any wetter than this, and if he doesn’t touch you where you desperately need him soon, you might just combust. 

“Sir… I… please, I need you.”

“You need me? Thought you already had me, sweetheart. Where do you need me, hm?” He teases you and it has you whining yet again. You hate it, but you can’t help it. Can’t help these atrocious noises that have you wanting to run and hide away forever.

“‘M so wet… want you to play with me. And touch me,” you give him your best puppy dog eyes and he places one final kiss to your nipple before kissing down your stomach. Usually, he’d make you get more specific. He loves getting you all flustered from saying filthy words, but he’s running out of patience and you look so good laid out in the mud.

He places one final kiss above the hem of your underwear before gripping them between his fingers and yanking them down, not even bothering to wait for you to lift your ass up. He’s stronger than you, he doesn’t need your help and he doesn’t care if you get rug burn from the way he ripped them from you. You’re a big girl, you can take it.

“Gonna eat this messy cunt like it’s my last meal. You deserve that, my little bunny girl? Chased you down in the dark, only fair I taste what I caught–what’s rightfully mine.”

“Yes!” You immediately respond to him. Your legs are quivering from how you keep rolling your hips, searching for that sweet friction. “It’s yours. All yours, ‘m all yours.”

He moves his face down between your legs and you feel his facial hair drag across your skin as he leaves sloppy kisses all along your folds. His beard is already getting wet from how obscenely wet you are for him.

When his mouth finally latches around your clit, you let out a sound that’s borderline a scream. You’re immediately grinding on his face. All it takes is a few little licks, kisses, and sucks and your toes are curling, already on the verge of coming. But he pulls away right before you do, kissing your thighs until you come back down from the edge before going back to licking at your cunt. 

And he does it again. And again. And again. He does it until you’re thrashing around in the mud, all your limbs shaking with need, and you’re crying again.

“Please,” you speak out through your tears, “Please let me come. Wanna come so bad. Need it. Need to come–come all over your face. Please make me come.”

He loves hearing you beg, isn’t afraid to let you know this constantly and will do whatever it takes to get you to that begging and pleading mess beneath him. So pleased with what he’s hearing, he doesn’t even think about pulling away. Before you can continue begging, you’re coming on his tongue while screeching out into the night.

Your body trembles with aftershocks and you feel as if you’ve turned into jelly. Your head is completely empty, the only thing you’re aware of is the blood rushing through your body and the post-orgasm exhaustion setting in quickly.

“Oh fuck!” you yell out as he shoves his cock into your still spasming walls, all the way to the hilt. Your eyes open wide and you see a nearly rabid looking John above you. His face and beard are glistening with your arousal and it makes him look all the more feral. Maybe he has gone completely feral, because he doesn’t bother waiting for you to adjust to his size as he starts thrusting inside of you. 

Thankfully, you’re drenched so he moves effortlessly as your walls are already trying to milk his cock for everything he’s got. You’re moaning and mumbling incoherent words as he continues to fuck into you, fast and hard. He bends down and sucks the skin of your neck, his happy trail and pubic hair rub against the sensitive skin of your pussy–your body barely registering the burn from how overly stimulated you already are.

Your ankles lock behind his back, but he isn’t having any of that. He leans back, gripping your calves and forcing your knees to your chest. Your tiny body contorts, bending to his will so easily. 

Your tummy is bulging out around his cock. Every little movement of his cock is outlined on your belly. He bends forward, using his body to help hold your legs in place and one of his hands comes down to your abdomen and presses down on the bulge there.

“Feel that, baby?” He asks through pants and groans. “Feel how this tiny pussy struggles to take my big cock? Look down at it. Look how deep inside of you I am. Rearrange your fucking guts around my cock. Nothing but a tight hole for me to fuck.”

You manage to look between the two of you and he moves his hand so you can see exactly how deep inside of you he is.

“Holy fuck! You’re gonna break me, you’re gonna fucking break me,” you cry out, in desperation or fear, maybe a mixture of both, you don’t really know. You don’t really care as long as he doesn’t stop.

“Feel me in your lungs? Folded in half for me. Being such a good girl, you know that? Taking me so goddamn perfectly, fuck.”

You can tell he’s getting close by the way his thrusts become inconsistent and his groans become more throaty. 

“Come for me, bunny girl. Know you can do it. Know you can give me one more,” he demands as his hand goes down to rub circles on your wet clit. The pleasure, the pressure, it’s all too much. Your body is on fire and you can barely breathe in this position. 

“It’s, fuck, it’s too much. I can’t, I c-,” you pant out brokenly, “Can’t. It hurts! Hurts so fucking good.” Despite your protests, he doesn’t relent and the pressure builds up in your belly. “Oh, god. Oh, ‘m gonna come.”

“Don’t talk to god, talk to me when I’m fucking you. Call out to me when you’re creaming my cock.”

“Captain!” you scream as you do exactly that. You’re letting out inhuman noises as you cream his cock.

“That’s it. Gonna stuff this pussy full of come, just how you fucking love it. Fucking milk this cock, baby. Milk. This. Fucking. Cock.” He practically growls out between harsh thrusts. He buries himself to the hilt and his hips stop their movement as he shoots his come deep inside of your aching and throbbing pussy. Just when you think he’s done, more pours from the tip of his cock and you’re overflowing with his thick seed.

He pulls his still hard cock out of you and shoves his fingers inside of you in its place, almost like he’s plugging his come inside of you. Which he is. He gave that all to you and you’re going to keep it exactly where it belongs.

Your body is a mess, covered in sweat and mud and possibly even a little blood. You lay boneless in the cold mud, unable to muster up any energy to move for several minutes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, bunny girl. Need to clean up your mess.”

You weakly nod as you reach out for him. He grabs your hands and pulls you up so your face is right in front of his softening cock. You start sucking on the base of him, your nose buried in his pubes as you suck the entire length of him clean. You gently lick and kiss his tip before moving to his balls and sucking those clean too.

“Such a good girl for me, doing so well. Took my cock so well and cleanin’ me up like this. Makin’ me so proud.”

You whimper at his words and you pull your mouth away from his pelvis. He brings his face to yours and you start licking his cheeks and lips clean too. You get carried away, sucking on his lips until he opens them so you can suck on his tongue too.

He pulls away and whispers, “That’ll do. Come here.”

You wrap your arms around him as he lifts you up off of the ground, your legs wrapping around him as well. He begins to slowly walk you two back the way you came. His come leaks from your used pussy and trails down the front of his shirt, the feeling occasionally causing you to shiver and cling to him harder.

Your eyes are drooping as you nuzzle your face into his neck, sleep threatening to pull you under.

“Such a sweet girl, playing with me like this.” You hum sleepily in response. “Love when you run from me. You know why?” You shake your head as best as you can in your position, but he understands.

“Because there’s nowhere you could ever hide from me. I’ll chase you to the ends of the Earth and everywhere in between, then back again. I’ll always chase my little bunny girl.”

~masterlist~

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[rileyslibrary]

Your opinion isn’t part of the recipe, Sergeant.

Synopsis: After a successful mission, you and the boys decide to spend a day at the park, celebrating with a picnic. Ghost is barbecuing with Price while Soap and Gaz are annoying the living hell out of them. You? You’re looking at the havoc taking place in front of you.

Relationships: 141 x GN!Reader / Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader (brief and near the end)

Word count: 1,176

Notes:

I’ve had this image in my head for quite a while, and I wanted to put it in writing.

There’s a scene involving a sausage. If any of you filthy minds associate it with anything other than what it really is, I swear to Freud, I’ll grab you by the ear and drag you to the naughty corner. 

Platonic and fluffy

Want more?

———————————————————————

It’s amazing how they haven’t ripped each other’s heads off yet. 

You all get along so well on missions, that you wonder if it’s the military institution that makes you so well-behaved and orderly. Because what you’re witnessing right now is nothing more than a circus.

You’re sitting on the picnic bench, sipping an ice-cold beer and munching on some thinly sliced carrots you prepared at home. You sprained your ankle on the last mission, and it’s making it difficult for you to participate in anything happening around you. Thank God, you think to yourself.

Soap and Gaz are playing football about twenty metres away from you, which is dangerously close, given the velocity with which they kick the ball to each other. They’ve already hit the table once, launching empty beer cans into the air and shouting “STRIKE!” as if they invented foot bowling. Ghost gave them the death stare and Price politely asked them to keep “the fuck away from anything alive, especially when it’s already injured.”

Ghost is barbecuing. He’s wearing that stupid birthday present you all got him—a tactical vest shaped like an apron with the word “chef” written at the top. It had the same loops a conventional military vest had for attaching pouches for bullets, knives, and walkie-talkies. The loops on that apron, however, were used for organising one’s tools, sauces, and spices while barbecuing. It was a funny gift, and he smiled when he opened it, but you never expected him to wear it. Look at him now, rocking that bad boy as if he was the one who chose it.

Price is standing next to him with a beer and a cigar in his hands. He’s looking at the grill but not touching anything. Ghost clarified that if anyone else touches it, we will eat their fingers along with the sausages. And, even if he didn’t mean the threat, you wouldn’t dare to put his abilities to the test. Especially after seeing what he’s capable of doing at work.

You try to eavesdrop on their conversation, but Soap and Gaz’s shouts drown it out. An F-16 would pass over your head right now, and you’d still hear Soap screaming, “That didn’t count; it was out!”. But, despite the chaos, you can make out some words. They’re reminiscing about the good old days, talking about their first deployment together, their comrades, and only using salt and pepper on steaks.

Price is Ghost’s companion throughout... everything. Whether that’s on a mission or a day out. He can’t seem to bear the entropy that the other two are causing, and he’s not comfortable talking to you yet. Price is as calm and talkative as Ghost desires. Or, perhaps, Price knows what Ghost wants.

Soap and Gaz appear exhausted from football and return to the picnic area. Gaz sits across from you, apologising for being “too sweaty,” and you start laughing. You’ve wiped the blood off of that guy during an enemy attack, and yet, he worries about sweat. 

Soap, on the other hand, isn’t much of an etiquette expert. He’s creeping up on the grill, and Ghost threatens to mark him with the spatula if he gets closer. “I’ve already salted the steaks; I don’t need your sweat,” he says.

Soap ignores his warnings and stands there, hands on the sides of his hips, looking at the grill. He gives unsolicited advice about the cooking time and when to flip the pork chops. Ghost tells him his opinion isn’t part of the recipe but turns the pork chops anyway.

Gaz murmurs that he’s hungry, and you offer him a carrot. He makes a disgusted face and asks Ghost—who is taking his sweet time with cooking—when the food will be ready. Ghost then turns to Price, warning him to get a grip of him before he does, and dares Gaz to come close to see for himself. You smirk and nudge him to go, but he shakes his head, telling you he hasn’t gone crazy just yet.

At some point, Ghost becomes distracted by something Price says and leaves the spatula next to the grill. Soap seizes the opportunity and uses the spatula to poke at the meat. Ghost notices him, but as Soap attempts to run away, he catches him by his maw-hawk and draws him closer. Instead of hazing him, he gently touches his shoulder. He explains why pressing on meat while cooking drains it of its juices. Soap crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods like a student.

Price takes up the football and challenges the two sergeants to a game so they’d leave Ghost alone. He says two against himself, and they make a snide remark about his age, saying he smoked an entire cigar and drank five cans of beer. In response, he throws the ball up and shoots it midair with his foot, demonstrating his abilities. Soap and Gaz run after it like dogs playing fetch, and Price joins them.

Ghost turns to face you. He asks if you’re okay, how’s your ankle, and if you’re enjoying the “rabbit food.” You tell him that everything is fine and smile at him. He drapes a towel over his shoulder and gets a fork and knife. He cuts a piece of sausage and hands it to you, whispering not to tell the others. You take the sausage off the fork, thank him, and pop it into your mouth. He looks at you with curiosity and concern as if trying to judge his creation based on your facial expressions.

“It’s delicious, Ghost.” You compliment him, and he puts his hand in his apron pocket, standing taller than before. When you ask him how he made it, he begins reciting every detail of the recipe as if it were a poem he wrote by heart.

He wipes his brow with a towel and whistles with his fingers for the three self-proclaimed MVPs to end their match because the food is ready. The sergeants bolt, and the captain pants in exhaustion. “It’s that fucking cigar,” Gaz says, and Price reminds him that he beat “the living shite” out of both of them in that match.

The four of you sit down and invite Ghost to join. But he refuses, claiming that the grime from the meat is still fresh and now’s the perfect time to clean it off the grill. He encourages you to begin without him.

You start eating, complimenting Ghost’s cooking as you go. He tries to be humble, but he looks so proud of himself. Proud of being able to provide in ways other than giving orders, shouting, pulling triggers, and hurling knives. He enjoys feeding others, even if it means cleaning up afterwards. He might not be full of food, but he’s full of joy, and that faint smile on his face is a dead giveaway, as he cleans the barbecue grill.

———————————————————————

[spurbleu]

cw. pregnancy pains. angst if you squint.

soap is unsure how to help you these days.

bull in a china shop, where precious saucers and cups lay broken at his boots. callouses scrub off hand painted cherry branches. blossoms wilt.

he’s become an awkward observer of sorts. rendered silent when hot compounds of mercury foam behind the pearls of your teeth. yellower, than they had been a couple months ago. he thinks its endearing- a smaller indication that you’re changing, and it’s beautiful.

you cried when he mentioned it. not his brightest moment.

but he’s smart enough to know the anger isn’t meant for him, although he wouldn’t blame you. no, its a rankling hot in your belly- gnawing where ever its young teeth fit. does so like a glove on the shore of his neck, where the uneven growth of his buzz curls.

after all, he did put the thing in you.

little bugger. inherited his attitude, a rearing buck with alters that prod at the sensitive parts of you. bullies a home into your womb, throwing fits against the softer skin of your stomach. shapes secret flesh and makes a home- that was originally reserved for Johnny alone.

he’d be more mad, if he wasn’t the teacher.

today, he’s sat on the dining table. winter’s nail drags under the threshold, floe mannerless and bitter. your back is turned to him, hands busy with dinner. your belly is hidden, and for several breaths he is taken back seven years.

made the mistake of being nice. one he thanks God for every day. he prays, clutches on to the crucifix his Ma gave him, that the Lord forgives your one sin.

two, if he counts the thing that gives you a second heart.

remembers how just seven months ago, he hissed and rutted over you- thick gaelic pools at the gums of his bottom teeth- baby rattle. as if the countless times before this was just a way to stretch you wide for a second mouth. his mother calls that fate, but he terrified it might’ve been a curse.

an act of violence to the person who taught him how to leave it at the door.

because, how could it not be? you’re carrying half- possibly more so- of him now. your body is no longer just yours. its his and theirs and nothing stops the irreversible guilt that festers when he lays next to you.

it was absent when he promised you then- how you’d look so perfectly round with his children. how he couldn’t wait. how he wanted this- and you must’ve too.

words bit him in the fucking arse, didn’t they?

he’s unsure what propels him forward, the sound of you subconscious humming or this guilt. but suddenly he’s behind you, pressing his lips to your jaw. you flinch, but don’t push him away.

he silently thanks you for allowing him to be gentle.

recalls a tip price gave him. said something about “lifting the weight” from the belly.

his hands find the warmest part of your stomach, just below the pouch, and lifts.

an unforgiving focus renders a body shudder, a lean into his chest, an sigh that curves below his jaw much like your fingers before you kiss him. he colors every shade of relief, of love in your posture, because he can’t stand the idea of missing it. wants to brand this into his head forever, so when he inevitably leaves for another month, he’ll still be able to picture you, waiting.

it takes him a second to realize your glowing.

light peaking behind the thin layer of skin, lamp on his canvas. warmth pulses in the thicket of your veins, and it’s almost too much. hot like a stove that burns, and despite every instinct to pull away, he’s tugged closer.

never told you that during the vows, but he’s shit with his words anyway. this is better, and he thinks you know it.

relishing that once you taught him gentle, it’s all he ever tries to be for you.

for the both of you.

[yyh4ever]

Yu Yu Hakusho POP UP SHOP at MEDICOS

Theme: "Good night with Cats" (Neko to Oyasumi) 🐈💤

🐈Official Site: medicos-e.net

🐈Event Period: February 22 to March 10 , 2024

🐈Venue: MEDICOS SHOP Shinjuku (Shinjuku Marui Annex 6F)

It seems those sleeping illustrations are getting popular. GraffArt released the "Sweet Dreams" merch in September 2023, then Animebako released the "Good Night Series" in November 2023. Now, Medicos is having this new POP UP in Shinjuku with the boys in pajamas and holding Kuwabara's cats!

As someone brilliantly pointed on X, besides Eikichi we already know, all the other cats also appear at Kuwabara's house in the manga.

Source: @YYH_No1

🐈Goods:

Products sold at the POP UP SHOP will also be available for purchase on the MEDICOS ONLINE SHOP. Life-size panels will also be displayed at the venue.

Big Acrylic Stand (6 types)

Price: 1,925 yen each

Size: H162 x W123 (mm) / Pedestal: H63 x W94 (mm)

Can Badge Collection (6 types)

Price: 495 yen each (blind) / BOX: 2,970 yen

Diameter: 56mm

Acrylic Keychain Collection (6 types)

Price: 660 yen each (blind) / BOX: 3,960 yen

Size: H65 x W60 (mm)

Acrylic Diorama (2 types)

Price: 4,070 yen each

Acrylic Multi-stand (2 types)

Price: 1,650 yen each

Size: H114 x W127 (mm)

Illustration Card Set (6 types)

Price: 660 yen (set)

Size: H148 x W100 (mm)

Clear Poster

Price: 1,650 yen

Size: A3

Satin Pouch Bag

Price: 1,815 yen

Size: H185x W140 (mm)

Acrylic Charm Collection (6 types)

Those charms contain the names of the characters written in a squarish hiragana font, and their motifs.

Price: 660 yen each (blind) / BOX: 3,960

Size: H44x W50 (mm)

Sticker Collection (6 types)

Price: 880 yen each (blind) / BOX: 5,280

Size: H80x W60 (mm)

Acrylic Block Collection (6 types)

Price: 990 yen each (blind) / BOX: 5,940

Size: H55x W10 (mm)

Mini Shikishi Collection

Price: 550 yen each (blind) / BOX: 3,300

Size: H135x W120 (mm)

🐈Benefits:

During the period, for every purchase of 1,000 yen, you will receive a random bonus clear card (6 types).

[pekoehoneyncream]

Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley Headcanons

Part One!

Words: 650~

TW: None (sfw)

Part Two

Ghosts Headcanons are the least numerous, but they are the wordiest, so there's that.

Enjoy!

Ghost has like a six step morning skin routine and a fourteen step nightly skin routine. When he first started wearing the mask he wasn't in the right headspace to be taking care of himself. He didn't wash it or himself nearly as much as he should have and his skin SUFFERED for it. He hadn't had that many skin issues when he was in puberty. | The skin routines started with just an acne cleanser he remembered an old ex-girlfriend used to swear by, then a moisturizer because he has naturally dry skin and it was starting to get irritated rubbing against his mask all day, then he sorta just fell down the rabbit-hole when he tried to research good products to use and wound up with his long-ass skin routine.  | He honestly likes getting to have time to wake up in the mornings and wind-down in the evenings as he does his routine. If his thoughts aren't being friendly he'll pop on some music, or an audiobook.

Ghost is one of those freaks that will be working his way through up to five books at a time. This is because he uses books locationally. He has his audiobook, and the book next to his bed, and the book in the breakroom, and the book he keeps in his duffle, and the book he brings on transports, the book he keeps in Price's office, and etc. He just picks up the book that's in the same location he is, flips back a few pages to remember what's going on, then just keeps on reading. He's been asked how he keeps all the plots straight and he vagues his way through answering, but the truth is he doesn't. | How this happened is that he kept getting caught in situations where he'd have a few spare moments and he'd want to read, but he didn't have a book. He tried bringing a book with him, but he was constantly putting it down and forgetting where he'd left it. Wearing a bookbag isn't tactical. So having locational books is his solution. 

Price gets him those cheap mass produced paperbacks that are about the third of the size of a normal book and Ghost loves them. They fit into his pockets or into pouches on his plate carrier, and he can bring them around with him no problem. 

His nose was broken and wasn't set, later it was rebroken to heal properly, but the damage was done. He now snores and sputters in his sleep like an old hand-crank car. Unless he sleeps in the perfect position or he uses nasal strips.  | If he has to sleep on a mission he uses nasal strips. It's a bit embarrassing, but he's reassured by the fact his mask covers it, so no-one can actually see how dumb it looks. Snoring so loud you alert the enemy isn't keeping it tactical. 

He is the friend that carries extra snacks and water-bottles with him because he knows somebody is gonna forget theirs. He’s also memorized everyone’s schedules and how they all overlap. He uses this knowledge for both good and evil.

He insists that everyone messages when they're leaving and when they're headed back and when they're home safe.  | Price is the worst at remembering to message, the Captain has awoken many times to a disapproving Ghost standing over his bed, “You didn't text”. Gaz almost lost his life when Ghost found out that he just guesses how long it'll take and schedules his messages to auto-send. Soap always remembers. He's texting Ghost in his every free moment anyway, so it'd be harder for him to forget than to not to.

Thank You For Reading!

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PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[pearlahearts]

neuvillette ⋆⁺₊⋆ ❄ ⁺₊⋆ ❄ ₊⁺ ⋆

pairing | neuvillette/fem!reader

warnings | fluff, pregnancy, labor (non-descriptive), a baby 🥹, boy dad!! neuvilette, lowercase intended

words | 878

notes | pretty sure my heart and uterus exploded while writing this. i now have baby fever 😔

synopsis | neuvillette has his first son and fontaine has its first snow of the winter season

if someone told you five years ago that you would be married to a man like neuvillette and pregnant with his son, you’d laugh at them and call them crazy. but here you are, walking around fontaine, gift shopping for the upcoming winter holiday and unable to find anything for your perfect husband.

you had already gotten plenty of gifts for other members of your family and even your unborn son, but nothing had caught your eye for neuvillette yet. you wanted your gift for him to be perfect. something memorable. something charming, just like him. but you were ready to give up your search for the day.

you’d been shopping since the morning, and now it's almost the evening, and you really just want to go home, so you can put your swollen feet up. so, you trudged home, disappointed that you could find nothing for your husband.

but, an unfamiliar antique shop catches your eye, and that's when you see it. a beautiful gold pocket watch resting on a stand in the window of the store.

your face was almost pressed to the glass as you tried to get a better look. you could see an intricate swirling design with beautiful blue crystals dancing around the edge of the watch, but what caught your attention the most was the fact that the pocket watch could hold a photo in the case. it was absolutely perfect. without even thinking about the price, you opened up your purse to grab your pouch of mora and began to walk to the entrance of the shop.

but before you reach the door, an unfamiliar sharp pain strikes your lower abdomen causing you to drop your pouch onto the ground. the sound and mess of mora cause people to look at you with concern as you grip your belly. 

you knew that you were due soon, but you had thought your little boy would not be born for at least another week or so. but you knew you were wrong when you felt the tell-tale trickle of liquid run down your leg from there the rest was a blur.

you had been rushed to your home with neuvillette waiting for you and the doctor had been called. you had felt so unprepared for the early arrival of your son, but as neuvillette firmly held your hand while you lay in the birthing bed, you knew that everything was going to be fine

after almost 9 hours of labor, you finally hear your son’s cries as he enters the world. your eyes well up with tears as you revel in the sound of your baby boy's strong cries. you can feel neuvillette’s hand tighten around yours as he watches the midwife and nurses clean your baby up.

in a matter of minutes, he was placed in your arms and the room was cleared out, giving your small family privacy. neuvillette is now sitting on the bed, his arm wrapped around your shoulder as you two look at your curious baby boy. his big blue eyes looking at his parents as you both gaze back at him in awe.

“i can’t believe he’s here now. here for me to hold and love him,” you say quietly as a lone tear rolls down your cheek. you look at neuvillette and reach a hand to his face, cupping his cheek to draw him in for a sweet kiss. though the kiss was short and sweet, it was full of passion, full of unconditional love.

“thank you for making me a father, my love,” he whispers against your lips before he rises from the bed. “may i hold him?” he asks just as quietly. you smile at him before you hand him your son.

as soon as neuvillette has him in his arms, the two quietly stare at each other, taking the other in. you can only smile as you watch your two loves familiarize themselves with each other. yet something in the window behind neuvillette catches your eye.

the sight brings more tears to your eyes as you see the glittering flurries of snow dance outside the window. your eyes travel back to neuvillette holding your son. you can see the trails of tears run down his cheek as his son holds onto his finger with his tiny, pudgy hand. 

you watch on as you think to yourself that you have never witnessed such a beautiful scene. your husband falling in love with his new son as the beauty of the season’s first snow paints the background. 

your son is almost a month old when the holiday finally arrives.

you're anxious as you sit on the couch with your son in your arms, watching as neuvillette opens his gift from you. your shoulders sag in relief as you watch a small smile form on neuvillette's face as he finally sees the golden pocket watch you've given him.

“it’s perfect love,” he compliments, his eyes now focused on you.

“look inside,” you urge him.

he follows your instruction and clicks it open, his smile growing wider as he sees the photograph of you and your son placed in the, there for him to see when he checks the time. now his beautiful wife and son will be with him wherever he may be.

copyright © pearlahearts

do not copy or repost my work

[flowerbetweenfangs]

Love Bite

6.2k words.

CW: Dead lover (although not seen dead), general zombie/undead activities. While the ghouls are sapient/pass the harkness test, they are made up of an amalgamation of human bodies. If that disturbs you, I would skip this one.

Disclaimer: I haven't seen/played or consumed any Fallout media, these ghouls aren't like those (at least not intentionally). They're more like Frankenstein's monsters,/the ghouls from Tokyo Ghoul with a more spiritual connection.

Summary: A woman goes to the undead base on feeding night to get some answers... And maybe more from their leader.

This was originally written as a script, and I've repurposed it as a short story. I hope the switch works.

The radio had been blaring for hours, warning that it was feeding night. While most of the undead would be confined to hallowed ground, a few stragglers had been spotted roaming the streets. It wasn’t unheard of for a living human to be on the receiving end of a life changing, or ending, bite. The only people out were the Cleaners, driving slowly in armored vehicles, coming out in special suits that, supposedly, a ghoul couldn’t bite through.

You had managed to avoid being seen by both, ducking around corners and sprinting past streetlights. The belt around your waist was heavy, but filled with the items needed to fend off an undead that ventured too close. They had formed a shaky peace with the humans who occupied the town, offering their services as both mediums and mercenaries. Tougher than the average human, with a connection to the veil between life and death. Their prices were never cheap, of course, but it seemed to be something people would pay for.

In return, they were allowed free run once a night to feast. Although if the rumors were true, then the ghouls would also pay for access to fresh meat outside of the allotted date. The same thing that brought them to life wouldn’t last forever, and there were whispers of the undead showing up with fresher body parts than they had previously.

Nothing official, of course. But rumors, like hordes, spread fast and couldn’t be contained for long.

You weren’t sure if them eating the living or using their bodies for… Bodies was worse.

As you passed another armored truck, two Suits scraped up a mishmash of ghoul and its victim. Both had lost the fight.

Pushing it out of your mind, you swallowed and steeled yourself for what was to come.

The moon had reached its high point when you arrived at the cathedral. Iron gates surrounded it on all sides. You could see Roamers out front, moaning in their own language with an occasional bit of the local tongue slipped in. Judging by how human their bodies still looked, they must have been recently turned.

Walking around, you found a hole in the fence and wriggled under it. Your belt caught, stopping you against where sidewalk met grass. Pulling a baton free, you clutched it one hand, and unclipped the belt with the other.

As fast as you could, you crawled under the pickets, wincing as your shirt snagged on one and ripped. With the moaning and groaning in the background, you hoped the sound was masked. Sucking in your stomach, you wriggled under and quickly yanked the belt after you, quickly putting it back on before standing.

A paper fell out of your unbuttoned pouch, and you snatched it up, trying to shove the contents back inside while keeping your head on a swivel.

Keeping the baton out, you stared at the stained glass windows. Once upon a time, they had shown images of doves, holy books, and saints. Now, they showed the undead, brought to life by a mixture of science and a bit of magic. Some said they were the second coming, but you didn’t believe it.

Gritting your teeth, you made a beeline for the side door. The front was filled with the roamers. A few were passed out on the ground, chests rising and falling with the memory of breathing.

It took all your self-control not to turn around and go through the hole you came through.

It was all going well, until you felt a wet spot on the back of your shirt. Pausing, you put a hand to the spot, and pulled away your fingers, heart leaping in your throat when you saw they came away red.

Blood.

A warm summer breeze hit you, and the creaking of ancient bones filled the air as the roamers turned in your direction. Cloudy eyes squinted as nostrils flared. Clutching the baton, you ran to the side door.

The handle felt slick in your grasp as you fumbled with it. As you tugged, the sound of metal scraping on metal seemed so loud, no doubt alerting the hoard of your presence if your blood already hadn’t.

Some shuffled toward you, heads tilted to the side as they seemed to take you in, But before you could get a better look, you yanked the door open and ran inside, slamming it behind you.

A few candles lit up the hallway as florescent lights flickered above enough to give you pause. Panting, you clutched the weapon tighter as you waited for something to burst from the darkness.

Something instead hit the door behind you, spurring you forward. Casting a glance over your shoulder, you saw a few staring at you through the glass. Sweaty palm prints pressed against the pane as they leaned against it. Black fluid seeped from lips as they sniffed.

Backing away, you had barely turned around when you nearly slammed into a figure in the dark. You took a swing, feeling it connect. A grunt told you it made an impact. The scent of posies and peppermint filled your nose, making your hair stand on end.

Then, a large hand wrapped around your arm, twisting it to make you drop the weapon, Your body turned with it, dumping a few of your belt’s contents onto the floor. Before your arm snapped, you saw the amber eyes, a signature of the resurrected dead.

He sniffed, the ichor seeping from his lips. Unlike the Roamers outside, it was less viscous and more of a dark grey as opposed to pure black.

You brought your hand back to strike him, but he let go, sending you to the floor in a heap. Before you could get your bearings, he reached down and picked up the paper.

“You’re here to see Romero?” His teeth looked like they had been filed to a point. His grey tongue stewed in more drool.

The raspy voice sent another chill up your spine. Sure, ghouls could speak, but it was one thing to hear it over a radio or television, another thing to hear it in person.

“Y-yeah.” You managed to say, eyeing your weapon. As you inched toward it, you felt your stomach drop as the creature’s hand grabbed your shoulder, then slid down to your bicep.

Unceremoniously hauled to your feet, you winced and waited for the bite….

But it never came. 

“Very well….” He started to walk, all but pulling down the hallway. To keep yourself from being dragged, you regained your footing and did your best to match the much larger man’s pace.

When you both came to double doors leading the auditorium, you saw the name plate.

Romero.

The ghoul knocked on the door, his meaty fist making it echo in the empty hall. You squinted, half expecting more undead to come scrambling out of the dark and to devour you.

“Enter.” A voice called from on the other side of the door. It was muffled, but your heart still skipped a beat at how… Familiar it sounded.

Your escort opened the door. The creaking drug out, and your heart skipped a beat to see…

A man you’d never seen before. The scarred, mismatched skin of a ghoul covered his body, along with the split coloring of black and white on his scalp, one half straight, the other curly. His attire was a suit, pressed, with a bright red tie.

He was sat at a desk next to the pulpit, flipping through a file. Classical music softly played on a record player, not audible beyond the room.

“Leave us, please.” He didn’t look up from his file.   

The escort’s grip on your arm loosened. Hot breath stirred at your neck, and you turned at the last second, seeing his opened mouth mere inches from your shoulder.

“Get your mouth away from her.” The file hit the desk, scattering a few loose pieces of paper. Romero finally looked up, eyes shimmering in the candlelight.

Your escort stepped away, wiping his mouth and slurping down the drool.

“How would you like it if someone gave you a plate of food they’d taken a bite out of?” Romero’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped his fingers, pointing to the door.

“Sorry boss, won’t happen again.”

 “Make sure of it.” Romero followed him to the door. The creaking of his joints made you grit your teeth. His movements were just slow enough to look strange. How long had it been since you fed? Your eyes flicked to the desk again, where you saw a plate, only juices remaining of what he’d been eating.

Swallowing, you stood up straight, trying to not show fear.

Romero closed the door, turning the lock and hanging the key on a nail next to it.

“So.” He deeply sighed, closing his eyes. Veins protruded from his skin, slithering across his brow and cheeks. “You’ve come to the cathedral during feeding night.”

He opened his eyes, the veins stopped squirming, and he began to walk toward you, hands clasped behind his back. When he stopped, the scent of peppermint rolled over you. Sweat beaded on your upper lip as you swallowed, trying to not spit as the scent burrowed its way into your mouth and tongue.

“I’m amazed the horde didn’t take you at the gate.” He towered over you, eyes tracking back and forth as he sized you up.

Your breath caught in your throat as memories flooded back. Those eyes… So long ago.

They looked at you with love.  

“Relax.” He turned to the side and waved a dismissive hand through the air, as if trying to rid himself of a bad smell. “I’m not fond of eating someone whose mind would be a detriment to my intellect.”   

“A detriment?” You raised a brow, shaking the thoughts from your mind. Right. The creature in front of you was a thief!

“That’s how I would describe your actions. Too stupid to live.” He unfolded the piece of paper, staring at the flyer and rolling his eyes.  

“If more people like you were in power, the undead would have overtaken the city in months when we first started to walk.”

“Are you going to insult me this whole time?” You clenched your fists. “If this is how you treat everyone, I’m amazed the undead weren’t mowed down when you first started to walk.”

“Have a seat.” He gestured to the pew in front of the desk, before pulling open a drawer. “Clementine? Cranberries?” 

“What?” You expected to see a few cans or fruit cups, but your mouth watered when he pulled out the fresh produce, along with a bottle of water.  

“You think we only eat the flesh of the dead?” He tossed you the bottle of water, which you caught. Checking to make sure that it hadn’t been opened or had holes in the cap, you slowly opened it. “You’ve got a lot to learn.” 

Finishing the water bottle, you set it next to you on the pew. You heart skipped a beat as his eyes fell on you again, now glittering with curiosity.

“You’re too old for your actions to be a dare or some childish foolhardiness.” Romero didn’t sit, but leaned on his desk. It creaked under his weight. “Did a spurned lover put you out? Angry boss threw you here because you fell behind on your performance?”   

You shook your head. Why was he asking so many questions?

Sweat trickled down your neck as you pushed down the memories starting to rear their heads again. Grabbing the water bottle, you made a show of crushing it down until only a small ring of plastic was under the cap.

“Are you in debt? Terminally ill?” His voice was softer, light returning to his eyes. His cheeks and hands started to look less clammy. “Because if it’s the latter, you’ll find no reprieve here. A vampire might be more to your liking.” 

“If I had those problems, then I would have let the hordes in the street take me. Maybe I would have been someone dragging terrified living through the halls.” You put a hand to your bicep, knowing it was likely going to bruise. At least a handprint was better than a bite mark.

“You’ve seen my kind.” The kindness was gone as he all but bit off each word. He held up an arm, showing where his wrist met the rest of his arm. The skin tones were slightly different. “Mismatched and sewn together from the best parts the dead—” He paused, rolling his eyes in a reluctant admittance. “—And occasional living, offer. We pay for the bodies, they pay us for the minds.”

“Yes.” You nodded to the paper in his hand. “I’ve seen it. Flyers around town, teasing them with promises of being able to talk to loved ones who passed on, or helping the police find criminals.”

“Is that why you’ve come?” He smiled, crumpling the paper in his fist and tossing it over his shoulder.

Inhaling sharply, you gripped your pant legs, nails digging into the fabric.   

“Did I hit a nerve?” The smile grew larger, but didn’t reach his eyes. A small part of you was relieved.  

“I take it you didn’t come prepared with money?”

“The flyer didn’t—”    

“I never take clients on feeding nights.” He held up a hand to cut you off, then stepped down the stairs to close the distance between you. “Too grisly. Lots of people upset that I’m eating in front of them.” 

You couldn’t hide your disgust as your lip drew backward and your face scrunched up. Leaning back in the pew, you crossed your arms. So, you’d come all this way for nothing?

“I’ve consumed lots of minds over the years.”  He put two fingers to his temples. “So many memories jumbled together. It’s hard to tell who they originally belonged to. The process to get… Specific can be taxing.  Of course, these things don’t come cheap, but there are many who are willing to pay if it means getting some closure from a loved one.”  

The eyes… They stared at you, trying to gauge your reaction. When your face relaxed, you were rewarded with a clementine. Peeling back the skin, you stared down at the fruit.

“Usually something is needed to trigger recollection. A trinket. A song.”  His voice was a lot closer. Closing your eyes, you didn’t dare look up to see how near he was to your face. Surprisingly, you could smell mint mixed in with his warm breath.   

“A smell…” 

A breeze stirred. And the memories lanced their way through your mind. Even when your squeezed your eyes shut, they remained.

“I can see it now, actually.” Romero’s voice was faint, fading into the ambience of downtown. A train whistled, and you sat on a bench, a suitcase at your side.  

 “You were supposed to meet him at the train station.” Romero’s voice was gone. The cadence… The tone… the speech pattern. You didn’t dare turn around to face him, for fear that everything would fade away. His voice. The one that matched the eyes.

“Both of you wanted to escape to a new city, leave this life behind. A place without the undead. Where you wouldn’t have to worry about the pressures of your families. Somewhere no one knew either of you. A clean slate. Thrive, not just survive.”   

“But his family had debts.” The scene began to fade away as a clock above the train tracks spun, people and other occupants of the station moved by in a blur.

“Ones that buried them worse than the corpses that make up the graveyard. They gave up everything to make it. Gambling on someone that they hoped would be the light at the end of their miserable tunnel.”  

The cathedral returned, and you saw Romero’s mismatched hand out of the corner of your eye.

“He was far from the only one.” The ghoul dropped his hand and shook his head. The pew creaked as he stood back in front of you.    

“His body was the base for my current form.” He ran his hands over his suit, fingers tracing over the buttons. For a moment, you thought he would undo them and show you the patchwork beneath it.

“But, like many, it needed better pieces. Parts had to be replaced. So many minds were absorbed in creating this.” His hands went back to his temples, pointer fingers resting on them.  

 “Of… Me?” He sounded unsure, brow furrowing as his straight hair fell over his eyes. “Us?”

His fingers went from his temples to his eyelids.   

“The eyes stayed, though. His were lovely. Although I suppose you knew that the moment ours met.” 

 You sucked in air through your teeth.

“What…” He shook his head and dropped his hands, placing a hand on his chest. His voice lacked bravado. For a moment, it looked like a tear was shimmering on his cheek. “Who he was doesn’t exist anymore. He’s… sorry. That he left you waiting. But he’s glad to see you’re doing well.”

Your heart fell into your stomach. If you hadn’t been sitting, then your legs would have given out. Panting, you placed a hand on your chest in a mirror of his own pose.  

 “Interesting…” His hand went to cover his mouth, but you would still hear his words. “Memories of the dead… Creating feelings.”   

He made a fist and cleared his throat, body becoming stiff.

“Is that all you needed to hear? I think we’re pushing things as we are.”   

“How did you do all that? Make me see that night?” Your words came out barely above a whisper. Your voice shook with each word. “Is this some trick?”

Your heart fluttered, and you reached out to touch the ghoul, as if that would bring them all back again.

“Forgive me, it was a mistake to refer to him in the present tense.” He started to back away from you, waving his hand in that dismissive way. “I don’t mean to make you angry.” 

 “I’m…” You felt tears slipping down your cheeks, large and hot. They fell down onto your collar and chest. “Not angry…” It surprised you, but you realized it was the truth. You certainly weren’t happy… But far from… The fury you expected.

“Such an expression doesn’t do you justice.” His expression softened, and his hand cupped your soaked cheek.  

“You’re still radiant despite it.” 

“Is this… Normal?”

 “Your presence is pulling him to the forefront. Quieting the others.” He put a finger to his lips with his freehand, closing his eyes. Inhaling deeply, he exhaled the minty breath over your face, covering you with goosebumps.

You didn’t dare say anything. Didn’t breathe. Worried that any noise you made would send him back to the hive mind. Losing him forever. A second death after seeing him for only a short amount of time.

How could people subject themselves to this?

“There are a lot of minds I’ve absorbed. Memories.” His hand went from your cheek to the curve of your neck. 

“But never emotions.” 

 “So does that mean he’s… Piloting you right now?” You felt silly for asking. Of course he wouldn’t be. Why would he refer himself to the third person?

“It would be impossible to bring him back, I apologize.” He dropped his hand. The icy cold of your cheek stung, like he’d slapped it.

“And yet…”

You finally sucked in a breath. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a battering ram that threatened to break them. Swallowing hard, you placed your palms on the back of the pew and forced yourself to stand.

“I appreciate all you’ve done. But I think we’re moving past a professional relationship.”

“Right. Yes.” He finally broke the gaze, and it was like a piece of you was torn free. “There is a cot that you can stay on until feeding night is over. Once the sun is out, then you can head home.”

You headed to the door, hand hovering above the key. It was the one thing that would give your freedom, but lock him away forever.

So many questions swirled around in your mind. It was a rare opportunity.

Turning back around, you nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw Romero standing between the pews. Far enough away to give him deniability of following you, but closer than he’d been when you’d arrived.  

“Perhaps it’s these eyes of his.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “But ever since you walked into this room, I haven’t been able to see you as food, but as a thing of beauty. And your smell… Appetizing, but it entranced me further.” 

He took another step closer, eyes flicking to the key. It was slow enough to give you enough time to leave. To tell him to stop.

But you didn’t move.

These eyes of his…

Memories… Feelings… Sorry… Glad to see you’re doing well…

“I don’t want you to get confused.” You blurted. “You aren’t him.”

“I know.” He admitted. “But these memories…” He stopped within arm’s length of you. “I will never be a replacement for him, but perhaps you can find some comfort in that a small part of him will continue to live on.”

You sniffed and wiped your eyes. The touch. The gaze. The way he talked… There was no way to convince yourself it was him…

But this was as close as you could get.

You closed the distance between you two and wrapped your arms around him. The way he felt was… Wrong, but at least the warmth was the same. You expected stiff and cold. But you let your head rest on his chest, expecting to hear and feel the familiar rhythm of his heart.

Only silence answered.   

His fingers went under your chin, and he tilted your head up toward his. Rough lips brushed against yours in a chaste kiss. You closed your eyes. All you could see was the ghoul in the darkness.

“Perhaps we can continue to learn from one another.” His lips scratched against your earlobe. “You’ll find more of your love’s memories, and I’ll explore these emotions and senses…” His fingers slid between yours, the touch sending a jolt of pleasure through you.  

You finally locked eyes with him, looping your arms around his neck. His hands went to your waist, and your bodies pressed up against one another.

Your lips met again, and he grabbed the back of your head and crushed you two together. He moaned softly, his rough mouth wet against yours. Remembering the ichor, you squeezed your own shut and prayed none would get into your mouth.

Then, a growl.

A sharp pain went up the curve of your neck. His hair brushed your skin and you tangled your hands in his hair.

Had it all been an act?

Was this how you died?

Then, he was off, licking his lips and shaking his head. 

“Sorry… Some natures are… Hard to ignore.” He stared at you, straightening his arms to look you over.  

 “Are you alright?”

“It hurts.” You admitted, putting a hand to the bite. It stung, but the skin didn’t seem to be broken. “Will I turn?”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s… Just a love bite.”

You swallowed. Your head spun as you leaned into him once again. The surprise wore off, and so did the pain.  

 “Then I’m fine.”

“If I had a pulse,” He cupped your cheek again, bending down to brush his lips against yours in a much more chaste kiss. Guiding your hand to his chest, he let it rest. “It would be racing right now.  “There’s so much of you I want to feel and taste…  When I thought about sinking my teeth into your flesh, I never wanted to break it. Only leave you bruised.”

He made a clicking noise with his tongue.

“I suppose… I’ve already done that.”  He tilted his head to the side and winced apologetically, fingers brushing against the bite mark. Each touch made you stand up straight and suck in a breath, crushing your bodies together again, to where only your clothes separated you.

“I wanted… Want to indulge all of my senses with you.” He pulled you in for an embrace again, planting a kiss on the top of your head. “The moans that escape you dancing on the razor’s edge of pleasure and pain.”

A kiss on your forehead.  

“Lips that call out my name toward the heavens rather than cursing me into the dirt.” 

A kiss on your eyelid.

“Fingers that tangle in my clothing.” A kiss on your earlobe again, as his own digits twisted in the back of your shirt. “Pulling me closer instead of pushing away.” 

A kiss on your nose.

“Inhaling my scent rather than twisting away in disgust…”

A kiss on the lips.  

“A flavor that brings us mutual pleasure.”    

When he pulled away, you kissed him again. Your legs trembled, and he brought you to one of the pews and let you lean against it.

“We take parts of other bodies,” His hands roamed, going under your shirt. He found the wound from the fence, but his fingers danced around it with such dexterity that it didn’t hurt.

“I’d love to see one in its base state.”   

 You felt the all too familiar hardness between his legs. The touch almost made you cry out in shock. Sure, they took bodies, but they were… Anatomically correct?

“I’m undead, but I can still respond to stimuli.” He chuckled, then pulled back to give you room between him and the pew. “We may not reproduce like you do, but there’s still some pleasure that can be taken from it…”  

 “Ghouls have sex?”

“Maybe not nearly as often as humans do. But some memories stir… And if there’s a mood…” He titled his hand side to side with a noise of uncertainty.

“But I’ve never wanted to do it as much as I have with you right now.”

“Then surely… You remember how I like to be touched?” You felt your cheeks burn at your own forwardness. This was crazy.

But yet, you found yourself fumbling for your clothes, tossing them behind you on the pew. 

He stared, lips parted slightly as he took you in.

“Perfection…” 

The staring didn’t last long before he was kissing you again.

“I mean it. Truly.” He managed between kisses as his hands continued to explore, finding every sensitive spot and curve on you, his touch only becoming more eager as you let out soft sighs and moans.

“Just as lovely as it was… No… Better.”

Then, he broke the barrage of kisses to loosen his tie and start unbuttoning his suit. Unbuckling his belt, he gave you a sly look as his pants fell around his ankles. He stripped all fabric off him, revealing the patchwork skin beneath in the candlelight.  

“It’s only fair if I’m as naked as you.” 

 Shadows danced across his skin, making it harder to tell where some ended and others began. A strange stitching of flesh that he somehow made look whole.

 “As I said, we take all the best parts… Some for aesthetic. Some for health.”

You ran your hands over his skin, fingers more adept at finding the cracks in him than your eyes.  

 “I try to find a mixture of both.” He let out a soft gasp as your hands trailed lower over his hip bones. “Haphazard, yet coherent.” 

 Then you saw the cock rising and drooling. The fluid glistened in the light, and you sucked in a breath.

“His eyes weren’t the only thing I kept…” He softly moaned as your fingers brushed against it. Somehow, it managed to grow harder and leak more, leaving a glistening trail on your skin.

“It remembers your touch quite well. You appear to be a master of the flesh yourself.” 

 He brought you in for another kiss, moaning into your mouth as you pumped him. Your hands became slick with him, and it helped lube him up more. His hips bucked, hilting into your grip. You squeezed more, increasing your pace as you felt between your legs tingle with the memory of him…

You dropped to your knees, continuing to stroke, the head dampening with your pants.  

“It seems to fit in your hand…” He moaned as you took him into your mouth. “And mouth , perfectly!” 

He moaned, thrusting into your mouth. You opened wide for him, letting him go as deep as he could. It had been a while, but you moaned around him, grabbing his thighs to pull him back in when he tried to back out. When he did manage to get free, you sucked on his thighs and balls, tongue leaving a shimmering path behind you.

His panting and your sucking joined the classical music in the background.

“That’s certainly one way to draw out memories!” He moaned into you, resting his hands on the pew so he could thrust more into your mouth, but not hard enough to slam your head against the wood. You grabbed him harder, forcing him as deep as he could go while still sucking.   

“I imagine a lot more of my kind would be willing to work with the living using this method!” 

You pulled your mouth free, looking at his rock hard length, wet with your saliva. You pumped it a few more times, running your lips across the shaft and lapping at his balls. The taste… the smell.. the sight… You almost felt dizzy with delight at how familiar it all was.  

“I imagine kneeling on a stone floor isn’t terribly comfortable.” He offered his hand, and you took it. With a grunt, he hauled you to your feet. He brought his hands between your legs, the grin returning when he felt the wetness between them.  

“I feel it’s only fair to return the favor.”   

His lips were against your skin, sending more goosebumps over it as your nipples became erect.

 “Go ahead and lay back.”

You balanced on the edge of the pew. At least the sides were large enough to let you sit without it digging too much into your behind.  

 “Probably more comfortable.” He mumbled against your collarbone as he started to slide down, his lips and tongue mingling with your breasts, your stomach, hips…  

“I have a… different hunger that needs to be satisfied.” 

 He drew his tongue across your wetness, swirling around your clit, breath warm against your folds. He rolled his head, drawing out the motion, before drawing it back. His lips rested against your thigh, before he clamped down on it again.  

“Sorry.” His eyes went wide as his mouth continued to nibble across your thigh, before he pulled off with a suctioning sound. Grunting, he pulled off, about to apologize again, before you wrapped your legs around his head and yanked him closer.  

“I didn’t take you for the type to enjoy that.” His muffled voice rumbled through you, and your back arched.  

He continued to lick, parting your lips so he could plunge in deeper. His tongue moved with precision, teeth barely grazing your clit. Warm breath punctuated with moans vibrated through your entire body as he continued to devour you, not even coming up for air.    

Eager lips parted and lapped at your wetness, fingers prying you open and delving deeper as he moved his head side to side, face slick with your essence.

You braced yourself on the pews, panting and moaning as the licks continued to spark the desire in you, then fanned the small flame into an inferno. You cried out, back arching again as your legs locked around his head. Taking shallow breaths, you tried to not fall backward.

“You’re truly on that edge.” He said with another lick, pulling back and running his tongue up your thigh. “A precipice of danger and desire.” 

With no mercy, he licked and sucked more, focusing purely on your clit as his fingers slipped in and out of you, going deep and brushing against your most sensitive spots. Your moans grew louder, your body slick with sweat as the inferno raged out of control. You saw stars, your vision fracturing like the stained glass all around you.

“I want to fill that emptiness left.  Cure an ache I never knew I had.” He murmured against you.  

“I can’t replace him, but…”

You rocked forward, all but collapsing into his arms and sending you both to the floor in a heap. He caught the both of you, his suit forming a sort of cushion beneath the two of you. It still hurt, but you didn’t care, only kissing him more.  

“Maybe… Just for tonight. We can both feel alive, again.” 

You answered with a kiss.

“I can’t do much to make a stone floor comfortable, sorry.” He pointedly looked around at all the scattered clothing.  “I doubt the two of us could fit properly on a pew…”

He sat up with a grunt, still cradling you in one arm.

“The only really cushioned spot in here is my chair…” He nodded to the desk.  

“So. I guess you’ll have to sit on my lap.” He grunted and winced as his joints popped while standing.  

“Come on, up we go.”  

You started to stand, but your body felt like jelly and collapsed underneath you again.

“Having trouble getting your legs under you?” He grabbed your hand tighter and then pulled you into a bridal carry, taking you to the desk.

“You’re not?”

He sat you down against the desk. You leaned on it for support as he sat in his chair, patting his thigh.  

“Have a seat.” There was the glittering of mischief in his eyes. So warm. With a smile that actually reached the edges.  

You straddled his lap, clinging tight to his shoulders as you hovered over him. You could feel the wetness of your entrance and his tip as they brushed against one another. Letting out another gasp, you lined yourself up and finally took him inside.  

“A perfect fit.” His whispered into your ear.

Once you had gotten comfortable, he began to thrust up into you, hands on your hips.    

“ It’s like everything I remembered,” He said between moans. “Despite never having felt it before.” 

He started to speed up, reaching further than his fingers and tongue ever could. Your walls opened up, allowing him inside you. Your synchronized moans overtook the record player, but you didn’t care.  

“Creating new memories…” He crashed his lips onto yours, and you met his movements with your own.  He moaned into your mouth, his cock twitching as his grip on you only grew tighter.  

“The hair’s width of distance—” Another moan, and his breath caught. Sweat poured down his brow with exertion. “Between life and death growing thinner.”

  He slowed, drawing out the motion intentionally, all but dragging himself inside you.

 “And thinner.” His voice was breathy, shallow breaths warmed your skin and lips.  

He sped up again, hilting you each time and making you cry out. You stopped meeting his movements and clung onto him as he thrust in and out of you.  

“Every kiss—” He once again brought his lips to yours. “Moan…” His voice trailed off into a moan. “Drop of sweat….” His hands released your hips and let you fall onto him.

“Another way to make the barrier dissolve.  And when you lean against me…” He thrust again, the motion lazy and agonizingly slow.  

 “It’s like you’re pushing through…  I guess we’ll have to keep finding holes and make due.” He chuckled and thrust up into you again.  

Then, he clamped onto your neck again. Rather than pain, you only went over the edge in pleasure, nails digging into him as you cried out. You clamped down on him as he released inside you. Fluid and wet mixed on your thighs and his lap, dripping onto the floor.

He sucked, cradling you close and finally pulling off, kissing it apologetically.

“I guess there’s some parts of my nature I can’t ignore.” He whispered against your skin. “We have some medical supplies to treat that.”

You couldn’t help but shoot him a look at you clutched the fresh bite. Your heart fluttered as your legs and between them tingled. Despite the fear, you couldn’t push down the excitement flooding your body.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t turn. Takes a bit more… Finesse to become one of us.” 

 You resting your head against his chest, hand searching for his beating heart. You let out a sigh of disappointment when you remembered there wouldn’t be one.

“I appreciate you indulging me. I hope this brought you some closure.” He stroked between your shoulder blades and nuzzled up against you.   

“And if it didn’t… Perhaps we could try again?” You expected him to laugh or make a joke, but his face was… Hopeful.    

“I feel like I’ve been revived a second time. It’s a phenomenon I’d like to explore more.” He stared at his hands, which were shaking. “New methods to channel the dead and creating memories that can… Coexist with the old ones.” 

“Making breakthroughs?” You managed to say. “Discovering new methods on how things work with your kind?”  

“I think your teaching style differs from what I’m used to.” His hand slid into yours again. “And I’d love to learn more.  Maybe your mind can be of use to me after all.”

[momo-no-tane]

Bushiroad Creative has announced that a Shugo Chara! Pop Up Store will be held at Shinjuku Marui Annex 6F Calendarium 5 from August 30th, 2024 to September 8th, 2024. Customers who spend more than 2,200 yen on new Shugo Chara! products will receive a random illustration card. There are 5 types of illustration cards available.

The prices are as follows (tax included):

Kirarin Acrylic Stands (5 Types) - 1,760 yen

Trading Pin Buttons (8 Types) - 500 yen

Trading Stickers (9 Types) - 440 yen

Pouches (2 Types) - 2,200 yen

Trading Acrylic Keychains (10 Types) - 660 yen

Clear File (1 Types) - 550 Yen

Rosette (1 Type) - 1,650 yen

Trading Memorial Big Bromides (10 Types) - 440 yen

T-shirts (2 Types) - 3,850 yen

Mini Clear Cases (2 Types) - 1,320 yen

Folding Mirrors (2 Types) - 2,200 yen

Source: Bushiroad Creative, Nijimen, X