#they are my fuel and my lifeblood | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cynicalrosebud · 1 month

Note

Hello!! I saw your requests are open! So can I ask shy! civilian! reader x Soap (my fav), Ghost, Gaz and Price that reader is gun! nerd? Like reader knows weapons, very well since they play shooting games (only in single player), do research (especially in her novel because she wants to write gun fights.)

Tactical Observer

The rest of dear nonny's request was a separate ask so I'll add it below:

"Oh! I forgot to say by shy! civilian! gun nerd reader that they like to analyse and touch weapons, even if it's fake. But they prefer not shoot, they prefer to watch it."

Oh nonny, you are fueling my lifeblood. Wrote this shit in a coffee and frybread daze over the span of an hour.

Summary: Y/n, a quiet and reclusive civilian with an uncanny knowledge of firearms, is brought on as a consultant for Task Force 141. Her expertise, gained through research for her novel and a deep obsession with the mechanics of weapons, quickly captivates the team. Though she prefers to study and observe rather than engage in combat, her presence draws the attention of Soap, Ghost, Gaz, and Price. Beneath the surface of their professional interactions, a deeper, more complex connection begins to form—one that transcends the battlefield. Unbeknownst to Y/n, the team isn't just fascinated by her skills—they’re enthralled by her. As the tension grows between them, Y/n finds herself pulled into an intricate, mysterious bond that leaves her both protected and adored by all four men.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Y/n had been minding her own business, walking through the quieter outskirts of the city, notebook in hand, jotting down ideas for her latest chapter. Her novel—an action thriller that involved military operations—required a lot of research, particularly about guns. Y/n spent hours reading up on weapon mechanics, loadouts, and modifications. It fascinated her, though she had never been one to actually shoot. She just liked knowing how it all worked.

But her peaceful research day turned into chaos when gunfire erupted nearby, throwing her into a situation she never expected. Ducking into an alley, her heart raced. She knew enough about firearms to recognize the sharp crack of an M4, followed by the deeper, heavier shots of AKs. This wasn’t just a random street brawl; it was organized and lethal.

Before she could react further, a strong hand grabbed her and pulled her behind cover. She yelped but quickly realized her rescuer was a soldier—decked out in gear, with a Scottish accent thick enough to cut through the noise.

“Gaz! Price! We’ve got a civilian!” Soap shouted into his comms as he shielded Y/n from the spray of bullets.

Y/n stared at him, wide-eyed and shaken, clutching her notebook to her chest. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. She had written about these kinds of scenes, but experiencing it firsthand was a different story entirely.

Another soldier appeared, this one towering over her, his face obscured by a skull mask. Ghost. She recognized him from stories she’d read online, from the games she’d played, but seeing him in person was a different kind of intimidating.

“Who the hell are you?” Ghost’s voice was rough, filled with irritation but also concern. “And what the bloody hell are you doin’ here?”

“I-I was just… I’m just a writer,” Y/n stammered, clutching her notebook tighter. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stay low and don’t get in the way,” Ghost growled, helping her crouch down further. “We’ll get you out of here.”

Hours later, after a whirlwind of gunfire and chaos, Y/n found herself holed up in a safe house with the team of soldiers who had inadvertently rescued her. She was still processing everything that had happened, but her mind kept drifting to the weapons they carried. They were all so finely tuned, customized in ways that made her writer's brain buzz with excitement.

Soap, sitting nearby, noticed her staring at his rifle. He had seen that look before—usually in people who loved guns. He leaned back casually and grinned. “Yer eyes haven’t left that M4 since we got in here. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, eh?”

Y/n blushed, shifting awkwardly. “Oh, um… It’s just… It’s a really nice setup. You’ve got a Geissele MK8 rail and a Trijicon MRO optic, right? Solid choice.”

Soap blinked, a little taken aback. He hadn’t expected her to know her stuff. “You know your weapons, lass.”

She ducked her head shyly. “I’ve done a lot of research. For my book. I’m a writer,” she explained. “I do all this research on military operations and firearms because I want my novel to be as accurate as possible… but I don’t actually shoot. I just like knowing how it all works.”

Gaz, who had been cleaning his own weapon nearby, raised an eyebrow. “So, you know all this stuff, but you’ve never fired a gun?”

Y/n shrugged, feeling embarrassed. “I prefer the research. Watching someone else handle a weapon is more interesting to me than pulling the trigger.”

Price, who had been listening from his spot by the window, chuckled. “That’s a first. Most people who know this much can’t wait to get their hands on the trigger.”

Y/n smiled nervously. “I just… like the mechanics, how everything fits together. It’s fascinating.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, the tension easing. Soap watched her with a thoughtful grin, noting how her eyes sparkled when she spoke about weapons. He leaned in a little closer. “Yer somethin’ special, Y/n. No shame in that.”

Her cheeks flushed at his words, her heart skipping a beat. Soap’s playful charm was almost as dangerous as his gun skills.

Ghost, who had been standing silently nearby, finally spoke up. “Knowing is just as important as shooting. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Y/n looked up, surprised at his words. For a man who rarely spoke, his approval felt oddly reassuring.

Over the next few days, Y/n became an unexpected asset to the team. While she stayed far away from the firefights, her knowledge of weapons proved invaluable. When Gaz needed help adjusting his L85, Y/n suggested modifications that improved its handling. Even Price asked her for input on some of their loadouts.

“You ever think about joining the service?” Gaz asked one evening, adjusting his optic according to Y/n’s recommendations.

Y/n shook her head, laughing nervously. “No, definitely not. I’m just a writer. I like researching and imagining how things play out in stories.”

Gaz smiled. “Well, you’ve got a good eye, at least. Could’ve fooled me into thinking you were a professional.”

Y/n flushed with embarrassment, but a part of her felt proud. Being recognized for her knowledge was a new experience, and it felt… nice.

Soap had been watching them from across the room, his gaze lingering on Y/n a bit longer than usual. There was something endearing about her shy, awkward manner, and the way she came alive when talking about guns. He’d never met anyone quite like her.

“Oi, lass,” Soap called, walking over and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we grab some food after this? We’ve got time to kill.”

Y/n blinked up at him, surprised by the invitation. “Um… sure?”

His grin widened. “Good. I’ll even let you pick my brain about my rifle mods. Bet you’ve got some ideas.”

Y/n’s stomach fluttered. Was this Soap’s way of… flirting? She wasn’t sure, but the prospect of spending more time with him made her nerves buzz with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

As the team prepared for their next mission, Soap handed Y/n his rifle again, grinning as she took it into her hands.

“Take care of her for me while we’re gone,” he said softly, his tone more serious than usual.

Y/n nodded. “I will. Be careful, Soap.”

“Careful is my middle name, lass,” he replied, his smile softening as he glanced down at her. “And don’t miss me too much, aye?”

Y/n bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. “No promises.”

Price gave Soap a knowing look as they geared up. “Keep your head on straight, Sergeant.”

“Always do, sir,” Soap replied with a wink, though he couldn’t help the quick glance he shot Y/n’s way.

Ghost, watching the exchange in silence, pulled Y/n aside before they left. “You’ve got their attention,” he said quietly, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine. “But just so you know… we’re all watching out for you, too.”

Y/n looked up at Ghost, her heart fluttering. “Thank you, Ghost. I… appreciate it.”

Ghost gave her a small nod before rejoining the team. There was something almost protective in the way he spoke to her, and it left Y/n feeling a little less alone. Maybe it was more than just professional concern… she wasn’t sure.

When they returned, the 141 arrived to find their little civilian surrounded by sketches and pages on Soap's weapon of choice, crumpled ideas filling a small trash bin off to the side.

Soap raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You weren’t kiddin’, were ya? What’ve you got for me?”

Y/n hesitated for a moment before handing over the notebook. “Just some ideas… I thought the balance might be improved with a different stock. And maybe try swapping the optic for one with better peripheral vision…”

Soap whistled low. “You’ve got a sharp eye. I might just try these out.”

Price nodded approvingly as he glanced at the notes. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little armorer here.”

Y/n’s heart swelled at the compliment. “I’m just… happy to help.”

Y/n sat across from Soap, her fingers tracing the outlines of the modifications on his M4. She was shy, but Soap had a way of coaxing her out of her shell. As she explained her thoughts on the mechanics, Soap leaned in a bit closer, his gaze softening as he watched her talk. He wasn’t just listening to her words anymore—he was captivated by her passion.

“Y’know, lass,” Soap said quietly, his Scottish lilt more pronounced as he leaned even closer, “you’re somethin’ else. Never met anyone who could talk about guns like this and make it sound… beautiful.”

Y/n’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and her voice faltered for a moment. Soap wasn’t shy about his interest—there was a hint of playfulness in his smile, but something more genuine in his eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat as she caught his gaze. There was something in his eyes—something soft, affectionate even. And for a moment, Y/n wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was more to this connection than just professional respect.

Gaz noticed the exchange, nudging Soap with a knowing grin. “Careful, mate. Looks like someone’s got their sights set on you.”

Soap chuckled, his eyes still on Y/n. “Wouldn’t mind if she did.”

Y/n found herself spending more time with Gaz as he tinkered with his weapons. He appreciated her insights and enjoyed the quiet moments they shared as she worked beside him.

Gaz would often lean in just a little too close, their shoulders brushing, or he’d offer her a smile that lingered just a bit too long. One evening, as they worked on his rifle together, Gaz’s hand accidentally brushed against hers. Instead of pulling away, he let his fingers linger, his warm touch sending a tingle through her skin.

“You’re really somethin’, Y/n,” he murmured softly. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Y/n looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat. There was a warmth in his gaze that made her feel safe… and something more.

Soap had been openly playful with Y/n, but Ghost had always been more guarded. Still, Y/n couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes followed her when he thought no one was looking, or how he’d linger near her after missions, checking in on her quietly. One evening, when the team returned from a particularly rough mission, Ghost approached Y/n while the others celebrated. He didn’t say much, but his presence alone was enough to make her heart race.

“You did good today,” Ghost said in that deep, gravelly voice of his. “You’ve been lookin’ after us. Makes me want to do the same for you.”

Y/n looked up at him, surprised by the gentleness in his tone. For a man who rarely showed emotion, Ghost’s words felt like a confession of sorts.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I… I feel the same.”

Ghost’s hand brushed her arm—just a brief touch, but enough to send a shiver through her. There was something protective in the way he hovered nearby, as though he was guarding more than just the team’s safety.

As the team geared up for their next mission, Y/n found herself spending time with Price. The captain had always been a calming presence, his steady demeanor keeping her grounded when things got overwhelming. He’d started inviting her to have tea with him during quiet moments between missions, and Y/n found comfort in those simple, peaceful interactions.

One evening, after a particularly stressful day, Price handed her a cup of tea, his fingers brushing against hers as she took it. His touch lingered, and Y/n looked up, catching the warmth in his eyes.

“Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like you, Y/n,” Price said softly. “You’ve got a sharp mind, a good heart… and I reckon there’s not a man in this team who doesn’t see it.”

Y/n blushed, her heart fluttering as Price’s words settled over her. He was always so composed, so calm, but there was a hint of something more in his gaze tonight.

“I… I’ve never met anyone like you either, Captain,” Y/n whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Price’s hand found hers, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a tender gesture. “John,” he corrected gently. “Call me John.”

The bonds between Y/n and the members of Task Force 141 had been growing stronger every day, but as time passed, the affection each man held for her became undeniable. They had all noticed the way they each gravitated toward her—the protective glances, the subtle touches, the playful teasing that always ended with Y/n blushing. None of them felt jealousy; instead, they shared a sense of understanding that their love for her wasn’t something that needed to be exclusive.

One evening, after another long day of planning and preparation, the team sat around a campfire, Y/n nestled comfortably between them. Ghost sat beside her, his large hand resting gently on her thigh, while Soap leaned against her shoulder, his arm draped around her waist. Gaz sat across from them, his gaze warm as he watched her, and Price, always calm and collected, looked at her with a fondness that had grown over time.

Y/n felt the tension in the air, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was as if they were all waiting for something to be said, some unspoken truth to be acknowledged. Finally, Soap was the one to break the silence.

“Lass,” he began, his voice unusually soft, “we’ve all been dancin’ around this for a while now. It’s clear we all care about you—more than just mates, if you know what I mean.”

Y/n’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked around the fire, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. They were all watching her, waiting for her response, but there was no pressure in their eyes. Only love and patience.

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly. “I… I care about all of you too,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “But how… I mean, is this even possible?”

Price smiled, the kind of smile that always put her at ease. “It’s possible if we make it so,” he said gently. “We’ve all had a talk, and none of us want to hold you back or keep you from anyone else. If this is what you want, we’ll figure it out together.”

Ghost’s hand tightened slightly on her thigh, his gaze dark and protective. “We’ll take care of you, Y/n,” he murmured. “All of us.”

Gaz nodded, his usual playful demeanor softened by the seriousness of the moment. “You don’t have to choose between us. We’re in this together, yeah?”

Tears welled up in Y/n’s eyes, but they weren’t from sadness or confusion—they were from relief. She had never imagined that the people she had grown so close to could share their love so openly, without jealousy or resentment. It was a kind of love she had never known, but one she had always craved.

“I… I want this,” she said finally, her voice stronger now. “I want all of you.”

As time went on, the team found their rhythm. They took turns spending time with Y/n—sometimes individually, sometimes together. There was no need for jealousy or competition, because they all knew that Y/n loved them equally, and they loved both her and each other in return. The dynamic was based on mutual respect, love, and understanding.

When they were on missions, they worked seamlessly together, their bond only strengthening their performance in the field. Back at base, they shared moments of intimacy and laughter, knowing that their love for Y/n—and for each other—was something rare and beautiful.

Y/n had never felt so loved or accepted. Each of them brought something different to her life, and together, they completed her in ways she had never imagined possible. And in return, she gave them her heart, her trust, and her love—knowing that, together, they were unstoppable.

#call of duty #x reader #fanfic #request #reqs open #poly 141 x reader #poly 141 #gaz x reader #captain john price x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #unedited #not beta read

152 notes · View notes

writtenfangirl · 1 year

Text

Dancing

A short one this time! I just wanted to write a really fluffy piece without drama although, yes there is a very small conflict if you squint hard enough. I wanted to write another fic that made me feel good just cause life's been extra hard lately.

Although I have a ton of ideas for this one so a sequel if people really enjoy this. I briefly wondered making Y/N be Lady Whistledown and pairing her up with my favorite Bridgerton brother to see what would happen.

TW: People being mean. Gossiping mamas. Cressida Cowper mention.

The ball, as most balls tended to be as the night waned, had grown stale and boring. The dancing had ceased despite the wonderful string quartet that played their music and people had broken off to their own parties. As the guests become accustomed to the taste of alcohol, words began to flow with reckless abandon.

“Did you hear? Viscount Dotsfield has a bastard with a scullery maid!”

“The Earl of Blackfield is said to engage in… relationships with Sir Lockling.”

“There are rumors going around that one of the Colton daughters has a French paramour whose name is Ravilli. An ambassador of sorts…”

Gossip is what fueled the ton, the very lifeblood that had men and women of varying ages coming to these balls in the first place. No one in the ton wanted to be caught unaware and one could never be too careful of the rumors that could be fabricated about you. According to Y/N’s mama, the only people who didn’t come to balls and to the gatherings hosted by members of the ton were those of them whose reputations were in ruins. You were either gossiping or you were the one being gossiped about.

So she came and endured even if she was bored out of her mind.

It wasn’t anything she wasn’t use to anyway. She was a woman and women were seen and not heard. Not only that, but she was a wallflower. Wallflowers were hardly seen at all.

“Lady Y/L/N.”

She knew that familiar voice, smooth and deep yet somehow still bright. If sunsets could speak, Y/N imagined they would have his voice.

“Mister Bridgerton,” Y/N said as she spun around, hiding her smile behind her bejeweled fan. “I half expected you to have taken your leave by now.”

“Under usual circumstances, I might have. But I have yet to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room.” Benedict said with a crooked smile. “And my mother has always told me that dancing is one of men’s greatest assets to encourage affection.”

“There’s hardly anyone dancing,” Y/N said bashfully.

“All the better reason to do so.”

Y/N wasn’t naive. She knew Benedict was only speaking to her because his mother asked him too. She’d always rather liked Lady Bridgerton and she had a penchant for forcing her sons to dance with the wallflowers. At every ball Y/N attends, her dance card, though usually empty, always had three names: Anthony Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton. Colin Bridgerton.

And there was no man who made he heart beat faster than Benedict Bridgerton himself. Because it was Benedict who offered to fill up all of the other spaces in her dance cards even though he didn’t have to.

All the Bridgerton brothers were kind to her but Benedict was more than that. Anthony and Colin were polite but Benedict laughed with her and conversation flowed between them like water from a fountain. And though she knew Benedict was unlikely to return her feelings, she occasionally let her delusions run wild. She often spent her days imagining what their future would look like. Would their children have his eyes or hers? Their hair would probably be different too. And their noses—

“Y/N?”

Blast! What a bloody idiot! She shouldn’t have let her mind wander like that! And now Benedict was looking at her expectantly with those luminous blue eyes and she couldn’t focus her mind to remember what it is he’d asked of her.

“Yes?” She asked, fighting to stop herself from sounding so breathy.

“Excellent,” Benedict grinned with an outstretched hand.

The dance. She’d forgotten about the dance!

She briefly wondered if she could find a way out of it. Getting on that dance floor would shift everyone’s focus on to them and she already knew what people would say.

“The Bridgerton charity case.”

“Of all of the young ladies, he chose her?”

“He deserves better.”

She glanced around nervously. Everyone else was too engrossed in their own conversations to pay them any heed but those conversations would instantly stop the moment she and Benedict stepped on the dance floor alone.

And she knew that if she were to reject Benedict’s advances, her mother would kill her. Though Anthony was but a Viscount, his fortune was considerable large. His father before him had managed their estate well and Anthony was known to make cunning investments that grew their already large fortune, a fortune that would also provide cushy lives for the rest of his brothers. Perhaps not the large estate of a Duke but certainly nothing to scoff at. And Y/N didn’t doubt for one second that the rest of the Bridgerton brothers weren’t as smart as Anthony was when it came to their finances.

It’s why Y/N had constantly heard her mother’s say, “you will marry a Duke or a Bridgerton. Anything less is unacceptable.”

Luckily for Y/N, her mother wasn’t around to see her reject Benedict.

Still, with the way Benedict looked at her, it was hard to say no.

“Just one dance,” Y/N ceded with a sigh, slipping her gloved hand onto his.

His smile widened considerably. “You mustn’t be nervous.”

“Easy for you to say,” Y/N huffed. “You look perfect everywhere you go.”

“Oh?”

Damn. Damn damn damn. Damn the world. Damn herself. And damn Benedict Bridgerton.

“You think I look perfect?” He asked, cocking a brow in question.

“U-uh, I m-mean, that is to say, I don’t—“

“You truly must calm your nerves, my lady,” Benedict said with a chuckle as he pulled her to her feet and led her to the dance floor. “I am only teasing.”

Y/N could hear the stream of gossip stop as members of the ton watched them. There was a pregnant pause and then the chatter began once again. She couldn’t hear the full conversations but she heard enough.

“…fat…”

“…ugly…undeserving…”

“…he is too kind…”

It made Y/N want to curl up into a ball so that the earth may open up and swallow her whole.

“Pay them no heed,” Benedict muttered as he pulled her close, his hand resting on the small of her back as his other hand found hers. “Focus only on us. And tonight, you look beautiful.”

“Only tonight?” Y/N joked in a bid to ease the coil of tension tightening around her core.

“Every night.” Benedict’s tone was too serious to be called teasing.

Soon the new music started, washing away the ton’s horrible words. She could still feel their watchful eyes on her skin, felt the way they judged her.

“Focus on me,” Benedict muttered before he began their dance by swaying them back and fort.

She let the music fill her, weaving through the muscles in her body. Their dance was a complicated one and though she wasn’t an accomplished dancer by any sense of the word, with Benedict leading it was hard to fail.

In and out, push and pull, with complicated lifts and turns yet somehow always finding their way back to each other. It was as if their bodies were magnetized, attracted only to the other. As the music swelled, she forgot all about the gossiping ton and their prying eyes. Instead she only felt Benedict’s body heat, the hard chords of muscles hidden beneath his jacket, his hands steady around her waist.

His gaze on her felt soft, like staring at the afterglow of of dusk. She was never much of a drinker but Benedict always had the ability to make her feel drunk, as though each of her inhibitions left her the moment his luminous blue eyes landed on her.

When the last notes of the song echoed between them and Y/N and Benedict detached from each other to curtsy and bow at one another, the entire ballroom erupted into applause.

A soft gasp left Y/N’s lips. She’d completely forgotten about the ton watching them with Benedict commanding all of her attention.

She raised her head, meeting Benedict’s eyes once more.

“You were marvelous,” Benedict muttered with a grin as he took her hand and placed a chaste kiss against it before leading her out of dance floor. The ton’s eyes had grown less hostile and more appreciative on and, for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt exhilarated.

“I would like to call on you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N.” Benedict said, letting his voice be carried throughout the ballroom. His words brought on another wave of whispers. “If you would let me?”

Y/N was absolutely sure she would be the center of gossip tomorrow. Perhaps until the end of the season if Benedict’s intentions are what she thought them to be.

To call on her would mean Benedict would like to get to know her better, to suss out if she would make a good wife or not. And with him a Bridgerton and her a lowly Y/L/N, they would make waves with the ton. She could practically feel Cressida Cowper glaring daggers at her back.

But she didn’t care about that right now. She was still riding the high of their beautiful dance. She was no great beauty, that much was true. But with Benedict, she felt beautiful. And his opinion mattered to her more than the Queen’s and the whole ton’s combined.

“Of course you may call on me, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said graciously, ignoring her fast beating heart. “I’ll have the cook prepare that raspberry marmalade you enjoy so much.”

Benedict grinned. “I am much obliged. I shall see you tomorrow. I hope you have a good evening.” He took her hand again, placing another gentle kiss on her knuckles before he straightened and walked away.

1K notes · View notes

deliciousangelfestival · 7 months

Text

Lovers Say Goodbye | 3 - B.Barnes

Character: soft!dark Bucky x ex-girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bucky finds solace and love in an unexpected place, only to have his world shattered by a shocking revelation about the person he cared about.

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3, Chap 4, Chap 5 , -

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Please let me know what your thoughts are. I'd love to read all your comments. Thank you once again.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

A few Months Later

"I just realized," Bucky murmured, his voice a low rumble transmitted through the earpiece.

"What is it?" Steve responded, concern lacing his words.

Bucky kept his eye focused on the target through the rifle scope. "She never spoke much about her family when we were together," he explained, his voice devoid of emotion. "Only brief mentions."

It was true. You'd never delved deep into your family life, only mentioning their retirement and love for world travel aboard cruise ships. Back then, Bucky had harbored anxieties about being accepted by your parents, worried they would disapprove of their relationship.

However, the truth's unveiling didn't erase the raw pain in his eyes. Instead, it sparked a chilling realization: you were equals. Both of you are masters of the deceptive game.

"Well, something must have smitten you good," Steve chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood.

Bucky's response was devoid of humor. "Sex. Good sex."

"Hey!" Steve exclaimed through the earpiece. "No need to get graphic with me."

A phantom sensation washed over Bucky, a memory of your touch. He recalled the caress of your fingers on his skin, the warmth of your breath against his neck, the intimacy of your body pressed against his. His mind fixated on a specific detail - the strength evident in your legs wrapped around his hips.

Bucky wondered, was the pleasure mutual? Did the experience hold the same significance for you, or was it just another masterful performance?

"Such a shame," he muttered, the bittersweet memory turning to ash in his mouth. "Good memories turned to ashes."

His words were cut short by the sharp crack of the rifle firing. Steve, observing the scene through a remote monitor, cheered. "Bullseye!" he exclaimed, the celebratory tone at odds with the gravity of the situation.

Taking lives was Bucky's expertise. His agency issued the order, and he executed it with unwavering precision, regardless of the complexity of the mission. Most targets were simply names and faces, strangers with no personal connection.

This time, however, the target was significant. He had become a pawn in Bucky's desperate game, a calculated move orchestrated solely to attract your attention. He had murdered an informant.

This time, the target was a high-ranking CIA informant, sacrificed solely to get your attention.

Steve warned, "This is a double-edged sword, Buck. They'll know your hand is in this, and they'll know it's personal."

Bucky's voice was cold and resolute. "That's the point. They'll know this is my work. They'll know it's personal."

He held firm to his belief that his reckless act, taking out the CIA informant, would draw you back. He envisioned them sending you to him, a twisted reunion of sorts.

However, reality unfolded differently. His agency commended him on a job well done, their client's debt to the agency now settled. This outcome was the polar opposite of his intended result.

Meanwhile, you remained oblivious to the chaos he'd unleashed across the miles.

You were deep within the isolated European country, laser-focused on rescuing the hostages. The news of the assassinated informant and the potential storm brewing back home hadn't reached you yet.

The adrenaline coursed through your veins, a familiar yet intoxicating sensation. Your mind buzzed with activity, fueled by the thrill of the unknown and the ever-present danger. This was the lifeblood you craved, the constant stimulation that had been absent during the past two years.

Flashback Start

Two years spent undercover in a war-torn country, posing as a florist. A stark contrast to the thrilling, high-octane missions you had always thrived on. But it had been necessary. The previous agents sent to infiltrate Bucky's life had all returned in body bags. You were the agency's last resort, their ace in the hole.

They had given you a mere 24 hours to transform yourself from seasoned operative to unassuming florist. The moment you saw Bucky step into your shop, everything you'd built, every practiced smile and fabricated story, teetered on the edge of collapse.

Your hand hovered near the concealed gun nestled beneath the counter, yet it remained unmoving. Something was different. The usual cacophony of the city seemed muted, replaced by an intense silence that amplified the sound of your own ragged breaths and the frantic thump of your heart. Bucky's eyes locked with yours, his gaze a stormy sea of conflicting emotions.

For a moment, the world held its breath. Time seemed to slow, stretching into an eternity where only the two of you existed. The air crackled with unspoken words and unresolved feelings, a potent mix of danger and something else, something you couldn't quite define.

Your mind whirred as Bucky approached the counter, requesting flowers for a funeral. You meticulously combed through your inventory, carefully selecting blooms that held the weight of grief and remembrance. The familiar scent of lilies and carnations filled the air, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

As Bucky wordlessly left the shop, the heavy bouquet cradled in his arms, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over you. You watched his broad, fearless shoulders slump as he headed towards the funeral, a lone figure burdened by sorrow. It was no ordinary funeral; you knew it was for his former handler, the man whose death had orchestrated everything – the death of Bucky's handler, Operation Pandora, and ultimately, your own undercover operation.

Initially, the CIA's instructions were simple: observe Bucky. They were aware of his safe houses near your flower shop, anticipating his return and potential request for employment. However, the agency and you, along with them, had never expected this turn of events.

Your new mission: to distract Bucky, to prevent him from digging into the death of his former handler. While you played your part, Director Brandon and a team of agents worked tirelessly to eliminate any trace of Operation Pandora. It was a meticulous process, ensuring absolute secrecy, hence the two-year duration.

When Brandon called and said, "It's finished," you left. Leaving behind the lingering whispers of a life that had become a carefully constructed facade, you didn't hesitate.

You lied when he asked if you regretted anything. Those two years with Bucky were a break, a rest from the usual danger. But it wasn't real because you were lying while he genuinely cared.

Flashback Ended

You wanted to forget everything, so you took a mission where you couldn't contact anyone. Your only job was to save hostages, which took time, planning, and working together. It was hard, and you got hurt, but finally, your team succeeded in saving all the hostages.

Months later, when you finally boarded the private jet for your return, you were surprised to find Director Brandon onboard. Usually, he remained at headquarters, awaiting reports of successful missions. His presence sent a tremor of apprehension through you.

Brandon gestured towards the seat across from him. "Sit down."

You complied, fastening your seatbelt as you settled in. "Why'd you come all the way here?" you inquired, a cold compress pressed against your right eye, the throbbing evidence of a recent punch.

The plane taxied down the runway and lifted into the air before Brandon spoke, handing you a file. "You need to see this."

Your eyebrows shot up as you set down the ice pack. "Another mission?"

Brandon shook his head. "No. It's about the aftermath of... what we did."

Curiosity piqued, you flipped open the file. Your breath hitched as a photograph greeted you: Bucky, his face obscured by a mask, gun clutched in one hand, a hostage held captive in the other. You'd never witnessed such raw fury in him before, but a deep-seated certainty gnawed at you - you were the spark that ignited this inferno.

With a defeated sigh, you closed the file. "Can't you handle this?"

Brandon's voice held a hint of regret. "If I could, I wouldn't have come to get you."

Another sigh, heavier this time, escaped your lips. "He wants to talk to me."

Brandon nodded silently. You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes. "Just tell me when we land."

Each passing moment was fraught with tension, the image of Bucky burning into your mind. The weight of your choice, the lie you'd woven, pressed down on you like a physical burden. As the plane soared through the clouds, you braced yourself for the inevitable confrontation, the consequence of a past drenched in deception.

*************

The car sped through the bustling city streets, a tense silence hanging heavy in the air between you and Brandon. The file containing Bucky's photo as a ruthless hostage-taker lay discarded on your lap, the image seared into your memory.

"We have to prepare for the worst," Brandon said, his voice grim. "We don't know what that bastard will do to you."

You remained quiet, your gaze fixed on the cityscape blurring past the window. A kaleidoscope of emotions swirled within you: regret, guilt, and a flicker of fear.

Brandon continued, "You can't do this alone, Y/N."

"I know," you finally responded, your voice barely audible.

Brandon offered a heavy sigh. "Good. I've gathered some agents who..."

His sentence was abruptly cut short by a deafening explosion that rocked the car. The rear driver-side tire gave way, sending the vehicle swerving wildly across the street.

"What the hell?!" Brandon exclaimed, his voice laced with shock.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, the years of undercover training kicking in. "It's him," you stated, your voice steady despite the chaos unfolding around you.

"Damn it! Where is he? We wiped our tracks clean," Brandon cursed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he fought to regain control of the car.

You craned your neck to look through the rear window, spotting a lone figure standing on the overpass ahead of them. Bucky. He held a sniper rifle aimed directly at your car, his masked face unreadable.

"There," you said, pointing towards him.

Panic flickered in Brandon's eyes before he slammed on the gas pedal, shouting to the driver, "Faster!"

The chase was on, a desperate attempt to outmaneuver a vengeful Bucky and reach the safety of the agency headquarters. The once quiet car ride had morphed into a heart-pounding race against time, the line between hunter and hunted blurring with each passing moment.

The car lurched and swayed, tires screeching in protest as Brandon fought to regain control. Explosions echoed behind them, a deadly symphony composed of shattered glass and mangled metal. Each boom sent tremors through the car, a chilling reminder of Bucky's deadly precision.

You watched, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, as one by one, the cars accompanying them were systematically eliminated. Bucky, a relentless specter on the overpass above, picked them off with chilling ease. Each shot rang out like a death knell, extinguishing the hopes of their backup and leaving you and Brandon increasingly isolated.

"Damn him!" Brandon roared, frustration and fear coloring his voice. "He's like a goddamn ghost!"

With a final, bone-jarring explosion, the last remaining car sputtered and screeched to a halt, flames licking at its mangled frame. You and Brandon exchanged a grim look, the weight of their predicament settling like a leaden weight in your gut.

Just as despair threatened to consume you, a figure materialized on the edge of the overpass, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

Bucky, his mask a stark contrast to the golden light, dropped down onto the hood of the flaming car with an agility that defied physics. He landed in a crouch, the glint of his rifle barrel reflecting the dying sun as he turned his gaze towards you.

A tremor ran through you, a primal mix of shock and awe. You'd known of his skills, witnessed glimpses of his prowess during your time together, but this... this was something else entirely. He moved with a lethal grace, a predator stalking its prey, and the cold certainty in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine.

"Shit," you muttered, the single word encompassing the maelstrom of emotions churning within you. With a chilling certainty, you knew this was no longer just a mission gone wrong. This was personal.

You fumbled for your gun, the familiar weight a cold comfort in your trembling hand. But your movements were sluggish, weighed down by the shock and the adrenaline wearing off. Before you could even raise the weapon, a click echoed in the air, the sound of a safety being disengaged. It was too late.

Bucky lowered his mask, revealing a face etched with a mixture of pain and fury. His eyes, once full of warmth and affection, now held the hollow glint of a man consumed by vengeance.

"Welcome back, Alex," he said, his voice a low growl. "Or should I say, Y/N?"

The familiar name, once a term of endearment, now sounded foreign, laced with a bitter edge. You remained silent, the weight of his words and the betrayal they carried settling heavily in your chest.

He waited, his gaze lingering on your face, searching for something, perhaps a flicker of recognition, a spark of remorse. But there was only a void, a reflection of the shattered trust that lay between you.

"I've been waiting for a long time," he finally spoke, his voice devoid of its usual gruffness, replaced by a chilling emptiness.

You found your voice then, a mere whisper escaping your lips. "Why are you doing this?"

Bucky remained silent for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the burning car nearby. He took a slow step forward, his eyes never leaving yours.

He reached out, his calloused fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, a conflicting mix of familiarity and fear.

"Don't you know?" he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I'm doing this to get your attention."

Join the taglist? 🩷💙🩷

@bagoffeelings

@darkofimagination

@starsofcloud

@cherrybubblebullet

@winterslove1917

@thezombieprostitute

@xcaptain-winterx

@namoreno

@sagebarness

@tenaciousathleteoperatorgarden

@unaxv

@missvelvetsstuff

@kjah97

@freshlemontea

@kandis-mom

@scott-loki-barnes

@differenttyphoonwerewolf

@ordelixx

@blackwood-bodecker-housewife

@mostlymarvelgirl

@musicandbooksaremyhappyplace

@charmedbysarge

@rebeccapineapple

@almosttoopizza

@cakesandtom

@njavezan

@thealyrs

@emerald-writes

@fantasyfootballchampion

@sjsmith56

@bellabarnes1378

@valhalla-kristin

@learisa

@choppedgalaxynerd

@terrormonster55

@haciendoquemeamas

Author Note:

My dear readers and followers,

Could you please share your opinions about this series with me?

If you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear why it appealed to you.

If not, I would greatly appreciate your feedback and advice on improving the series.

Thank you!

168 notes · View notes

tenyardstowitchyard · 2 months

Text

So, just my thoughts and doodles on vessel anatomy in my human au ( i still don't have any name for it, cuz i bad at naming)

- Vessels are skeletons with void that act like some kind of flesh. They don't have any muscles and organs, so they don't need to eat, breath and etce. ( But they consume void, lifeblood and souls as same kind of fuel? idk)

-Void is very dark, like really, but because Ghost use soul to heal , void been mixed with a little bit soul so they a lighter. The Hollow were trained and raised with much bigger amount of souls,so they are much lighter then any vessels.

-theirs skin is cold and solid, but under its like half liquid half jelly. Ghost have a lot of small cracks across theirs body, from travels across the caves, thought this cracks void leads outside. ( Void is very sticky btw, so when they touch some kind of surfaces they leave some kind of sticky fingerprints)

( sorry if i done some mistakes, english is my second language)

#art yard #fanart #hollow knight #thought #human au #some kind of lore?#hk gijinka

84 notes · View notes

fishwithtitz · 10 months

Text

A Simple Existence (a Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader one shot)

A/N: This one was written specifically for my sweet cheese, my main babe Jen (@copias-juicebox). Her birthday was on Wednesday and this is a very belated present created with her in mind. Girl, you wanted subby sweet Copia, you got him! Love you so much and I'm so happy I met you. Alles Gute zum nachträglichen Geburtstag!

Also, special shout out to @anamelessfool, @eyeslikelilith, and @portaltothevoid for beta'ing and feedback <3

If you'd like to be on my tag list, please comment!

⛧⛧⛧

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Papa Emeritus IV x f!reader / 5.1k words

Warnings: dom/sub relationship, hints at dub-con (if you squint?), oral sex, piv, language, cock worshipping

ao3 link

Over the past few weeks, it had become more commonplace for Papa Emeritus IV to be sitting at his cherry wood desk, pen in hand as he rifled through various Ministry tasks late into the night.

To many, Papa was a figurehead of the church — both through his leadership in the spiritual sector of the Ministry and as frontman of the Ghost project. But so many didn’t realize the influence he had within the planning and implementation of the church and its projects as a whole.

It was almost as if he breathed much-needed oxygen into the lungs of the abbey and transfused his own lifeblood into the theatrics of the band. The Ministry was, to put it simply, his everything. It was something you had come to love and loathe about the man.

Tonight was no different than any other night the past few weeks. Copia sat perched in his worn office chair (the one he’d taken with him from his stay at the abbey in Venice during his time as a bishop), papal paint smeared somewhat from the occasional swipe of his palm against his cheeks as he thought through a complex task. A banker’s lamp and the starlight were the only sources of illumination in the office space — a tell of how late into the evening it had become.

You’d sat up night after night waiting for your Papa to come back to his chambers at a reasonable hour. Most nights ended with you falling asleep as you sat against the headboard in your shared bed or lounged on the loveseat in the sitting room. Tonight, however, you’d had enough. You were worried that the ministry was taking advantage of the Satanic pope’s hardworking and passionate spirit and the last thing you wanted was for him to spiral into burn out. Tonight, you would put your foot down.

It was a short walk from the Papal chambers to Copia’s office. You’d made the trek what felt like hundreds of times and this specific time, it was as if the route had been cut in half. Perhaps that was the speed at which your bare feet carried you, or perhaps it was the simmering frustration you had bubbling in your chest. Nevertheless, you didn’t bother to knock before you pushed on the oaken double doors to Papa’s workspace.

As soon as you shut the heavy door behind you, Papa’s head sprung up in alarm as if he had been shaken out of a trance. You walked into the spacious office, nightgown flowing behind you like an estuary, and stopped a couple of meters away from where he sat.

“Il amore mio, what are you doing h-”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” You found yourself cutting off his tired greeting.

Copia pressed his thumb and forefinger against his temples, gently rubbing them as he closed his eyes in defeated frustration. “I haven’t looked at the clock in a while.”

“It’s nearly one in the morning,” you answered for him, taking a step towards the cherrywood desk. “Come to bed. It’s not doing you any good burning the midnight oil.”

Copia’s hand dropped from his temples and on any other occasion, you would smirk at the sight of the smudged paint on his fingertips. “I assure you that I have plenty of fuel left for this candle’s flame, amore mio,” he said.

“But you’re burning it at both ends!” you retorted, voice raising in a mix of sympathy and frustration. “Copia, it’s not a matter of if you’ll drive yourself into the ground but when.” You moved to round the large wooden desk, and as you approached him, your expression softened. “All of this can wait until tomorrow,” you said, voice slightly calmer now.

You shifted behind him and snaked your arms around his shoulders, resting them on his strong chest. Your lips pressed to the hair atop his head. The salt-and-pepper streaked strands that once were combed back on his head but had since begun to fall into his eyes and around his temples. “Just, come to sleep. I miss you. I miss my Papa.”

And you realized that this man, this hopelessly devoted man beneath the cloak of your arms was the picture of leadership. A perfect blend of authority and quiet strength. Measured. Loving. Dedicated. And when necessary, absolutely ruthless.

Papa sighed at your admission and reached up to place his non-dominant hand over one of yours, his pen still gripped tight in the other. “Il mio amore,” he began, voice apologetic and oddly tinged with dampened annoyance, “you must understand that I am everyone’s Papa. The work I do is necessary to maintain and grow the ministry — our outreach, our education, charity — the very diffusion of our beliefs lies within my leadership.”

At his dismissal, you felt your grip around him loosen, your hands sliding from around his shoulders as you stepped away from him. “You think I don’t know that? You are one man, Copia. You can’t do it all,” you began as you ran your hand through your hair in frustration. You stepped to the side to better face him, hoping to see him — even just a glance at the mismatched eyes you were growing to love. “I’m tired of watching you run yourself ragged trying. And quite frankly, I’m tired of being left behind while you choose your work over everything else in your life.”

Copia’s eyes finally rose to meet yours. His voice changed from his more understanding and apologetic (possibly even patronizing) tone to one of seriousness. “My work is my duty…my oath to the lightbringer, to his infernal majesty.”

The earlier simmering of frustration in your chest came to a roaring boil at his retort and you moved to face him, arms crossed over your chest as you leaned just slightly over his desk. “Well, I suppose it’s good to know where your duties lie.”

With that, you left the office, leaving Copia to ruminate in the reverberating slam of the heavy oak door and the ringing of your words repeating in his head.

Copia tried his best to finish up the task he’d been in the middle of when you’d stopped by his office at the end of the clergy wing, but no matter how much he attempted to focus, he couldn’t drag his mind away from the argument you’d just shared. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he had been neglectful in other areas of his life. After a light yawn escaped from his lips, he decided to pack up his work and return back to your shared room. Afterall, he probably owes you an apology.

He didn’t even remember walking back to the papal chambers, the weight of his exhaustion being so heavy that it dulled his sense of time. Despite this, when he entered your shared room, he still had the wherewithal to show slight shock that you were still awake and waiting for him on the sitting room chaise.

“Tesoro,” he started, walking around the loveseat to approach you, “I am sorry for the way that I spoke earlier—”

His apology was cut off, however, when you held up a hand as if to nonverbally signal for him to stop. His eyebrows creased just slightly in confusion.

“Go to our bedroom and get undressed,” you said, voice devoid of any emotion yet strangely demanding given your usual countenance. As he opened his mouth to protest, you raised an eyebrow, holding your hand up again to silence him once more. With this, Copia’s eyes adopted a slight glimmer and his lips fought the desire to curve into a smirk. He knew what this meant.

He took a step closer to you and his voice lowered as he spoke. “You want to play Papa tonight, dolcezza?” As he approached you, you fought the desire to conform to him, to allow him to take hold of the reins that he so often gripped.

You steadied your countenance and gave him a simple nod in retort.

This time, his lips made the final curve into the smirk he had tried to withhold. As he made his way into the bedroom, his gloveless hand reached towards his neck to loosen his blue cravat (a favorite of yours, he remembered), and unfasten the buttons lining the center of his shirt. He shrugged both of them off and set them on the bench at the foot of the bed before working to remove his pants, belt, shoes, and socks. Soon enough, he was left only in his boxers, and he began to move towards the bed, assuming your insistence that he get some rest.

Instead, you nonchalantly walked by him as you rounded the four-poster bed. “I said undressed, Papa,” you remarked coolly.

He turned to look at you, eyebrows raised once more, before his expression crinkled slightly. “As you wish, amore mio,” he said. Your face remained stoic.

The truth was, as you waited for him to return from his office after your discussion, you realized that you had two choices. You could be angry with him for the neglect he’d shown to your relationship. It would definitely be well-founded, and you had every right to give him a prolonged cold shoulder in retaliation.

Or, you could approach the situation with the empathy you had craved from him. You could help him realize that his ascension to papacy did not require him to work himself to the bone. On the contrary, it should allow him to revel in the devotion that others craved to provide to him.

You’d decided on the latter.

Papa slid the silken fabric of his boxers down his toned legs (oh, how you’d love to worship those legs) and let them pool on the floor below as he stepped out of them. You motioned to the bed with nothing more than a flick of your gaze, and he sat against the edge.

“Back against the headboard, Papa.” Your voice felt weirdly not your own. Not that you were complaining, by any means. You felt a surge of confidence and power prickling through your body and you couldn’t help but wonder if this is what he felt like when he presided over Mass.

Copia scooted his body back to the headboard, back flush against the aged wood, and set his palms down against the pillows. After reaching down to grab his discarded cravat (to which you internally smiled as you noticed the blue hue), your feet carried you towards him, padding softly against the carpet in the papal suite, and you pulled up the sheer organza of your nightgown to reveal the thigh-high stockings you’d adorned while waiting for him to finish in his office. His pupils widened.

Slipping them off with deliberate purpose, you gathered them both in your hands by their length and reached to grab his right wrist. Without hesitation, you looped the black nylon fabric around him and began securing him to the headboard. “You better than anyone know the values of our church,” -the nylon tightens- “the importance of self indulgence” -pull- “practicing the sin of lust” -loop- “showing our devotion to the one below through celebration of carnal desire.” He watched as you tightened the knot, testing its strength, his eyes deeply curious as he allowed this scenario to play out. You then brought forth his cravat and secured his left hand to the other side in symmetry.

You backed away and admired your prize. There he sat — the leader of the Ministry of Satan, Papa Emeritus IV, his Unholy Eminence, looking back at you while restrained against the bed with his infernal eye burning. With what? You wondered. Curiosity? Anger? Lust? Annoyance? Intrigue? He opened his mouth to speak, and you reached forward to press a single finger to his lips.

“You’ve spent so much time speaking on behalf of the church that I think you’ve forgotten how to listen.”

And it was true. All of his duties hung heavy on his shoulders. His ascension to papacy only seemed to increase the workload, and in recognizing his competence, the other senior clergy members dumped task after task upon him that he knew were not required of his predecessors. But, he’d wanted this. He’d yearned for it for so long. How could he stand up against the very ministry that he vowed to serve eternally?

Once more, you lifted up the flowy nightgown to reveal a pair of white satin lace panties. A symbol of purity, innocence — a stark contrast to your actions and the wicked man in front of you. Your thumbs hooked under the waistband and you slid them off, before neatly balling them up in your fist. “Open,” you directed. Surprisingly, Copia obeyed. You smirked and pushed the fabric past his lips and into his mouth, effectively silencing him.

Your attention turned to his legs splayed out before you. His strong thighs sat parallel to one another as they rested against the pillow-top mattress. Stretching forward, you began to run your hands along each thigh, enjoying the feel of the muscles beneath your palms as they lightly flexed under your touch. “I love these thighs,” you murmured, almost to yourself. You moved to straddle him, climbing just above his knees with your legs on either side of his. Lifting your arms slightly, you loosened the front tie to the bodice of your nightgown, then pulled both breasts out of the scoop neck. They sat directly in front of his painted face, and your eyes watched his as they traveled across the expanse of your chest, his kohl-colored lips barely parted. You swore you heard a noise escape from them.

You leaned in, breasts brushing against his bare skin as you hovered your mouth by his ear. “Patience,” you breathed, a smirk evident in your tone. As you pulled away, you licked your lips and continued. “You’ve proven that you’re very good at doling out orders. Now,” you trailed your finger down his chest, pausing at the bottom of his sternum, “let’s see if you know how to follow them.”

You knew at this moment that your attention, your affection, was what he craved. However, you also knew that for him to learn to let go, you couldn’t give him what he wanted so easily. Not just yet. So, you leaned back slightly and hovered your bare crotch against his own. You could feel the heat of the both of you and you smiled, pushing down just barely to push your mons against his length. It involuntarily twitched against you and you used this moment to pull back further, earning you a near whine from him (which you purposefully ignored).

As you sat back against his legs, you looked back down at them, biting your lip. “Fuck, touring has done so much for you. I can’t get enough of these,” you spoke, running your hands along the skin of his quads. “You never have time to let me feel them against me. How sculpted the muscles are, how strong they feel…”

With that, you shuffled your body so that you were straddling his left thigh, your own heat ghosting against the skin of it. You began to press your core down against him, putting pressure against your clit. Looking up, you locked eyes with him. “Do you feel what they do to me?” you asked, beginning to move your hips just slightly, just so, so that he could feel your wetness slipping against him. “How wet it makes me just thinking about touching you?”

Copia groaned against the fabric of the panties in his mouth. It was muffled but audible, which made you realize just how loud it would be without the gag.

“And yet…you deny me? All for your work?” Your voice took on a tone of inquisitive mock innocence and hurt, and you creased your eyebrows for effect. Forgetting about the restraints, Copia moved his arms to grab onto you, but groaned again as he realized he was secured into place.

“What was the saying? ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?’” At this, you reached down and grabbed onto his erection, trapping it between your leg and his as you ground down on the top of his thigh, pussy pushing down much more forcefully. You let out a moan and tilted your head back at the feeling. He was nearly shaking beneath you.

Your hips found a slow yet strong rhythm as you gyrated against him. With every forward movement, your leg squeezed against his cock and he let out a series of noises — muffled whimpers and moans — and eventually, his eyelids tightly pressed shut.

“Is…is pastoral care one of your duties, Papa?” You breathed out, your own voice becoming more lust-dipped as you moved against him. “When you’re taking care of your flock…all of your flock…does that include their desires?” You reached up and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you. “Aren’t I not part of your flock, Papa?”

He nodded in your hand, eyes nearly ablaze as he all but came undone beneath you. He was so hard it was almost painful, and as you moved above him, riding his thigh like a fucking mechanical bull, your own visage was morphed into one of powerful pleasure. Your tempo increased and you let out a shaky moan at the pressure building low in your abdomen. You were close to feeling the release you’d craved from him for god knows how long. This, along with his own impending orgasm, caused him to spit out the panties from his mouth.

“Dolcezza, please, do not tease me like this,” he whined, words dripping with need. His papal paints were smeared around the mouth and chin from your touch and you bit your lip at the sight. He pulled on the wrist restraints. “Need you,” he choked out. You smirked and immediately ceased your motions against him. His face fell.

“Let’s see if you can use your mouth for something more useful.”

You moved from his thigh, leaving his cock unattended as it dripped for you, hungry and red, nearly pulsating. Suddenly, you stood up and straddled him, bringing your core directly to his face. His increased breath danced across the slick of your pussy and you held back a groan of your own. “If your duties lie only to the church, then maybe you should prove your devotion to honoring the one below.”

Without warning, you slid your hand into his hair and brought his mouth to your wet heat. A strangled groan erupted from him and he immediately dove in, nose against your mound as he fervently moved his tongue between your impossibly slick folds. You reached out with the hand not currently lost within his hair and gripped onto the top of the headboard to steady yourself.

Copia flattened out his tongue and you began to buck your hips against his face, riding him as he broadly licked up and down your clit and to your entrance. You were certain you were making some sort of pleasurable sound, but at the moment, it was as if the world and all of its stimulation paused. The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of his skillful mouth against you, his eyes shut as he ate you out like a starved man.

His tongue moved to flick against your sensitive bud and he wrapped his lips around it before sucking harshly. It was a move that he knew drove you crazy, and the burning in your thighs as you tried to stabilize yourself heightened the pressure. You could feel your own legs shaking, but you continued to grind against him, and for the first time, you wished his hands weren’t restrained so that he could fuck you with his fingers, too.

“You are so good at this,” you hummed out, looking down to watch him as you rode his face. The previous tension from your near orgasm on his thigh was back, and your own reserve was faltering. He flickered his eyes open and growled against your cunt at the sight of you above him, trembling and absolutely wrecked from arousal, and the combination of the vibration of his noises and intensity of his stare sent you reeling over the edge.

You cried out his name, head snapped back as your hand gripping onto the headboard turned white-knuckled. He continued to move his tongue up and down your folds, occasionally flicking his tongue against your oversensitive clit as he helped you through your orgasm.

Eventually, you pulled away sea-legged and released your grasp from his now messed coif, sinking down onto your knees. Your own breath was ragged and you gripped onto his shoulders as you tried to steady yourself. He looked directly ahead at you with a prurient expression, the paint of his cheeks and nose and chin smeared and saturated with your arousal. In a normal situation, he’d make a racy or teasing remark, but he remained silent. It was as if he had finally learned his place.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you placed a solitary kiss to his sternum, relishing in the feeling of his chest hair against your lips and chin. You then moved south, mouth lightly kissing and sucking on the skin of his abdomen, the angular hip bones that framed his cock, and the trail of hair right below his belly button.

His neglected length twitched as your face brushed against it and you smirked, sitting up just barely to look at it. Reaching out, you grasped onto him, grip firm, and began to languidly stroke.

“How could I forget about you?” you cooed, thumb pad pressing against his frenulum before you continued your pace. “You deserve to feel good.” He groaned at the contact and his head jerked back against the solid headboard. You chuckled darkly and licked your lips at the sight of him below you. “The lightbringer would be disappointed if their chosen figurehead didn’t properly spoil in self-indulgent sins of the flesh? Wouldn’t he?”

Copia whined beneath you, but you paid no mind, continuing your slow movements. You lowered your head, breath tickling against the end of him, and began to rub his shaft and tip against your cheeks and lips. “I love your dick,” you said, voice barely above a sultry whisper. You began to press kisses to every inch of his cock, savoring him, worshiping him.

He squirmed beneath you, and unable to restrain himself, he groaned out, “Cazzo, please.”

You stopped and peered up at him. His eyes were shining with tears of frustration and you were sure that the mix of submission and denial was pushing him to his limits. But despite the look of exasperation on his face, you knew him well enough to know what he truly desired in this moment. And he trusted you completely, fully, to deliver him to reverie.

“Let me take care of you,” you said, pressing a kiss to the very tip of him before laving your tongue over him slowly. Copia moaned loudly and his hips twitched up into your mouth, requiring you to hold him down with your other hand. “You don’t need to control everything,” you responded, mouth still pressed against his length.

Had you been looking up, you’d have seen him nod in response, but you were too focused on what was throbbing in front of you to pay him any mind. Lips parted, you descended down his length, taking him as far into your mouth as you possibly could. Copia hissed in response and you smirked around him. You knew that the sudden sensation of warmth would be nearly unbearable, too much, and you delighted in being the one controlling his fire.

You hollowed out your cheeks and slowly popped off of him. With a swift readjustment of your frame, you straddled his thighs (marveling at the drying slick on the left one), and took his chin in hand. “Look at me,” you murmured, and he obliged. Your non-dominant hand traced the contour of his jaw, fingertips now glazed in white and grey paint, and you dipped your index finger between his lips as you positioned yourself over his cock and sunk down.

The Satanic Pope’s mouth dipped open and a low groan slipped past your finger still perched on his lip. Your own center was still sensitive from your recent orgasm and the sensation of fullness was almost overwhelming, so you stilled your movement to allow for the both of you to adjust to the feeling. For the first time, you dipped your head forward and rested your forehead against his own, your hand cupping his jaw. You could feel the sweat slicked between the both of you and you closed your eyes as a soft, shaky breath escaped you.

After a moment of blissful stillness, you opened your eyes to look at the man you currently had caged in by your arms and thighs, and you carded your fingers through his hair. His gaze held a knowing fire that you recognized as one of silent permission, of need, desire, of his own restrained dominance. With that, you gripped at his hair near the scalp and tipped his head back as you lifted yourself almost completely off of his length.

“Out there, you might be the leader of our congregation. You might proselytize to millions of siblings and fans. But right here,” your grip tightened, and you leaned in to whisper against the shell of his ear, “right now, you answer to me. How badly do you want it?”

“Merda, badly, so badly,” he growled. You pulled away and your telltale smirk returned to your features. He looked positively sinister. His face flushed beneath his skull paint and sweat was beading across his brow. Both of his eyes nearly black from lust-blown pupils. A manifestation of evil incarnate.

“Then take it. Take everything you need.”

And take he did. His hips canted up into you and he slid in to the hilt, flesh pressed against flesh, and you fell forward into his shoulder with a near-howl of your own at the fullness. Your hands found purchase against his pecs and you matched his movements as he pumped into you frantically. Every movement stretched you further, licked flames against the sore muscles of your legs, but you ignored the pain and moved with purpose. Your lips found his and you kissed him for the first time this evening, pouring out your loyalty into the action as his tongue pushed greedily into your mouth.

As you shifted your position atop him just slightly, his cock brushed against your g-spot and you cried out in euphoria. The corners of his lips curled against yours as he panted through his movements, knowingly hitting that spot with every single upward thrust.

You swallowed back another moan as you tried to speak. “Fill me so good,” you nearly slurred as you pulled from the kiss. “Look at me,” you said, voice less commanding and more sweet. You knew your release was imminent and you wanted him to visualize the effect he had on you. How he made your body implode as he dragged you down to hell himself.

Your own words were rushed, nearly babbled as you continued. “Look at how good you make me feel.” His eyes locked with yours and you rested one hand on his chest, the other snaking to grasp onto the nape of his neck, while moonbeams erupted in your skin as your climax took hold. Your jaw dropped just slightly and although your mouth threatened a moan, no sound came out as he fervently bucked up into you.

Your shared motions sped up and you could feel how close he was by the sloppiness of his thrusts as he helped you ride out your release. “Take what you need,” you repeated in a pant. “Take everything you need from me.”

You pushed through the overstimulation and watched as his hands balled into fists in the restraints and he planted his feet firmly onto the bed, fucking up into you like he never had before. His eyes shone with unsprung tears and he was spitting out a slew of curses in Italian, with affirmations of love peppered in throughout.

“Cazzo, dolcezza, I-” And just as hard as he had climbed, he crashed down violently. He came roughly with a sound that sounded like a mix between a groan and a sob, hips jerking as he pumped his spend into you with wild abandon. He filled you so deeply that you could feel him beginning to leak down your inner thigh as he pistoned through his orgasm.

“So good for me,” you purred, pressing a kiss to the place where his hairline began at the top of his forehead, ignoring the sweat-soaked strands that fell into his tear-filled eyes. As you pulled away, you saw one of those tears fall and you quickly swiped it with your thumb. And with that, it was as if the dam had been broken, and both eyes began spilling rushed streams down his cheeks.

You moved to quickly untie his wrists from the headboard and as soon as he was set free, his arms wrapped around your middle and his head fell to your chest. “So good for me,” you repeated, more of a coo this time, and you pressed another kiss to the top of his head as your hands lovingly traced up and down his back.

You sat like that for a while, holding him as he softened inside of you, his tears and quiet sobs the backdrop of your denouement. He almost surprised you when he lifted his head to properly look at you.

“Mi dispiace, tesoro. I don’t know…I’m not sure where this is coming from,” he admitted, thumbs rubbing against the curve of your spine.

You smiled softly, reassuringly, and brought one of his wrists to your mouth. A red mark had formed from the friction of the cravat, and you kissed at it soothingly. “You have needs too, Papa,” you said as you continued to kiss at the sensitive skin. He hummed in response and you smiled again, this time a little wider.

“Thank you for letting me love you.”

And in his eyes, you saw a dawning realization, a comfort of sorts that came to flood his mind. He had known this had been an exercise of shared power, of course, of allowing you to express your needs in a way that the both of you enjoyed, even though you hadn’t previously explored the swap in control. However, as you took the reins, you’d gifted him with something he hadn’t anticipated — you’d guided him to liberation, encouraging him to release his expectations (the ones he’d built up of himself and the ministry) and just be.

Your permission for simple existence was the best thing he hadn’t known to ask for.

image/gif credit: imgur

#ghost band #ghost bc #copia #papa emeritus iv #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #copia x reader #popia x reader #papa iv x reader #sub copia #dom/sub relationship #ghost fanfic

307 notes · View notes

bitchiswild · 10 months

Text

Sweet Confessions Confections

Nakamura Kazuha x F! Reader

Warnings: None, Fluff

Word Count: 4k

A/n: enemies to lovers>>>>>>>(but like barely)

╔═════ -ˋˏ *.·:·.♡.·:·.* ˎˊ- ═════╗

Opening Sugar & Spice had been a dream come true. Customers adored the freshly baked goods crafted with love, and the bakery was a buzzing hub of delight. But then, like a sudden storm on a sunny day, Kazuha's Sweet Serenade appeared right next door, stealing the spotlight and, worse, my customers. Her treats were undeniably good, and people were flocking to her bakery, leaving mine emptier by the day.

At first, I tried to brush it off, believing that competition was just a part of the game. But as days turned into weeks, and the bustling traffic around Sweet Serenade remained constant while mine dwindled, frustration bubbled within me. I felt like my hard work was being overshadowed by her sudden presence. My passion for baking was my lifeblood, and seeing customers flock elsewhere was disheartening.

I began considering drastic measures. Thoughts of retaliating in ways that weren’t exactly above board crossed my mind. Perhaps I’d spread rumors about Sweet Serenade’s ingredients or start a smear campaign. But as much as I was seething with anger, I knew that wasn’t the way to handle things. Resorting to underhanded tactics would only tarnish the integrity I’d built with Sugar & Spice.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The morning sun painted the street in warm hues as I approached my bakery, ready to start the day's preparations. Kazuha’s playful banter always added an extra layer of challenge to the morning routine.

“Good morning, Y/n!” Kazuha chirped as we both reached our respective doors.

“Ready for another bustling day?” Her playful tone carried an undercurrent of competitive spirit, which, truth be told, both frustrated and intrigued me.

“As prepared as ever,” I retorted, unlocking the door with a determined twist.

“I bet I’ll be seeing more customers than you today,” Kazuha teased with a mischievous grin.

Her comment got under my skin, not just because of the dwindling foot traffic but because there was a silent war of pride between us. I kept my cool, not letting her see the effect her words had on me.

“We’ll see about that,” I replied, masking any irritation in my voice, even as a spark of determination ignited within me.

Stepping into my store, the familiar scent of freshly baked goods enveloped me, providing a sense of comfort amidst the brewing rivalry. Kazuha's teasing lingered in my mind, mingling with a renewed sense of determination to reclaim my customers' attention.

Throughout the day, I threw myself into the tasks at hand, focusing on every detail of each treat. Yet, a part of my attention kept drifting towards Sweet Serenade next door. It wasn't just about the business competition anymore; it was about proving my commitment and passion for Sugar & Spice.

As I interacted with customers, I couldn’t help but sneak occasional glances at Kazuha's bustling bakery. The competition was fierce, but there was an unspoken understanding between us—a mutual respect for our craft.

While the rivalry fueled my determination, it also sparked a desire to innovate, to find new ways to draw customers back to Sugar & Spice. This wasn’t just a battle of bakeries; it was a test of resilience and creativity.

It was a bustling afternoon, with both Sweet Serenade and Sugar & Spice drawing in a steady stream of customers. The holiday cheer was palpable, and despite the equal turnout at both stores, I chose to focus on serving with a smile, letting the atmosphere speak for itself.

As the door chimed, signaling a new arrival, a friendly man greeted me, setting a pleasant tone for the encounter.

“Good afternoon!” he exclaimed.

“Good afternoon to you too, sir! What can I get for you today?” I responded warmly, eager to assist.

The man chuckled, a light-heartedness coloring his words, “Oh, goodness! I shouldn’t, my doctor would kill me. But I’m here to hand you this flyer for the town's annual holiday festival! And I think you should have a pop-up there!”

Receiving the flyer, I studied it with curiosity. “Sure, that sounds like a fantastic idea! It could be a great way to connect with the community and give a festive boost to business,” I replied, genuinely intrigued by the opportunity.

“Exactly! Who wouldn’t want their business booming, right?” The man chuckled as he headed towards the door. “Anyways, I have to go hand out some more flyers. Have a wonderful day!” he called out before stepping out of the store.

The idea of having a pop-up at the town's holiday festival was exhilarating. It seemed like a perfect chance to showcase Sugar & Spice to a broader audience, to spread the joy of our treats beyond the confines of the bakery. It also felt like a positive step, a glimmer of hope amid the recent challenges.

I couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. This festival could be the opportunity Sugar & Spice needed to reignite the spark with our customers, to remind them of the warmth and delight our treats brought, especially during the festive season. With renewed enthusiasm, I started brainstorming ways to make our pop-up a memorable experience for everyone who'd attend.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

It was the day of the festival. I had all my treats ready and all the preparations set. I was ready to make my business boom again. But what I didnt know was that Kazuha was here too with her own pop-up… right across form me. I sigh in frustration and annoyance. Why does she have to be here. I questioned to myself.

“Hi Y/n!” Kazuha yelled across from her end to mines.

I had a blank stare and waved slightly.

“Ready to see whos business is buzzing today?” She said teasingly.

“Yeah its going to be me since my treats are better than yours.” I retored.

“Oh? Is that so? We’ll see about that.”

The festive atmosphere at the holiday festival was in full swing, both Sugar & Spice and Sweet Serenade drawing in crowds eager to sample our treats. The day was going splendidly, customers flocking to our pop-up, indulging in the holiday delights we had to offer.

But then, chaos struck. The heater meant to keep us warm malfunctioned, overheating and igniting a sudden blaze. Panic ensued as screams filled the air, my team and I desperately trying to contain the fire, our efforts futile against the spreading flames.

Amidst the pandemonium, I was so consumed by the urgency to douse the fire that I hadn’t noticed Kazuha darting across from her own pop-up with a fire extinguisher in hand. Her quick action was a blur amidst the chaos until I caught a glimpse of white smoke billowing from the extinguisher, suffocating the flames.

Her presence beside me, combating the fire, startled me, breaking through the panic. The initial shock was swiftly replaced by a deep sense of gratitude and relief. There she was, not just a competitor but someone willing to leap into action in a time of crisis.

As the chaos of the fire subsided, a surreal calm settled over the scene, the crackling flames replaced by wisps of smoke drifting into the winter air. Amidst the fading urgency, I turned towards Kazuha, our eyes meeting in a moment that transcended the rivalry between our bakeries.

There was a shared breath, a silent acknowledgment of the unexpected unity in a time of crisis. Her presence beside me, fighting the flames with determination, spoke volumes—a testament to her quick reflexes and willingness to leap into action.

In that fleeting moment, something shifted, a subtle undercurrent of admiration mixing with the relief. It was more than just a rival offering aid; it was a glimpse of the person beyond the competition, someone whose courage and readiness to act resonated deeply.

As we stood there, our gazes locked amidst the fading smoke, I couldn’t help but sense a connection, an unspoken understanding that extended beyond the confines of our competing businesses. It was a moment that felt strangely intimate, a shared experience that brought us closer in an unexpected way.

There was an undeniable tension in the air, a complex interplay of emotions swirling amidst the aftermath of the extinguished fire. Despite my outward frustration and dislike for Kazuha due to the competitive situation, buried deep within me was an unexpected truth—I harbored a secret crush on her.

Beneath the surface of my annoyance at the rivalry she sparked, there existed a tangled web of conflicting feelings. The playful banter, the teasing exchanges, and even our disputes seemed to conceal a hidden attraction that I hadn't fully acknowledged until that moment.

It was an odd sensation, this realization. Amidst the chaos and the competitive edge, there was a peculiar warmth in my heart whenever Kazuha was around. I found myself drawn to her infectious enthusiasm for baking, her determination, and the spirited energy she brought to our shared neighborhood.

Despite the competitive facade and the outward attempts to outdo each other, there lingered a subtle magnetism—an unspoken connection that went beyond mere rivalry. It was as if there was an invisible thread linking us, hinting at unexplored possibilities that contrasted sharply with the outward friction between our bakeries.

As much as I resented the way her bakery seemed to steal my customers, there was a part of me that couldn't deny the admiration I held for her passion and dedication. It was a conflicting mix of emotions—dislike tinged with a hint of admiration and, somewhere beneath it all, an unexpected crush that I hadn't fully acknowledged until that moment of chaos and unexpected unity during the fire.

Though the festival continued around us, the air felt charged with a newfound energy, an unspoken promise of something more. Whether it was the beginning of a different kind of connection or simply a fleeting moment in the chaos, only time would tell. But in that moment, amidst the aftermath of the fire, it was clear that something had shifted between us, something that hinted at a deeper bond waiting to be explored.

In that moment of vulnerability, as tears threatened to spill, Kazuha's reassuring presence was a comforting balm. Her embrace was unexpected yet comforting, a silent reassurance amidst the chaos.

"Thank you, Kazuha. I don't even know what would have happened if you weren't here to help extinguish it," I confessed, my voice trembling with emotion.

"Hey, it's okay," Kazuha's calm tone offered solace as she hugged me, her gesture soothing the rawness of the situation.

As the reality of my ruined tent sank in, a tear escaped, and I couldn’t help but express my distress. "My tent is ruined," I gasped, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on me.

"Y/n, it's okay. You can move to my tent. I'll make room for you, don't worry," she said, her gentle smile offering a glimmer of hope amid the devastation.

"Are you sure? I mean, we're competitors, and I wouldn't want to impose," I hesitated, my mind clouded with embarrassment and uncertainty.

Kazuha's unexpected proposal to cease our competition and collaborate left me momentarily speechless. It felt like a sudden shift from the rivalry that had defined our interactions for months.

"Even after all the banter that's been going on for months?" I questioned, taken aback by the sudden change in tone.

Her laughter, soft and reassuring, floated in the air. "I started those banters to get closer to you, because I like you," Kazuha confessed, her eyes revealing a vulnerability beneath the surface. "I have a hard time trying to talk to you and get very nervous around you, so the only way I can talk to you is through our banter, which is why I always initiate it."

Her admission caught me off guard, a mixture of surprise and understanding washing over me. The playful banter, the teasing exchanges—those were her attempts to bridge the gap, to break through the barriers between us.

The realization softened my stance. Beneath the competitive facade lay something more profound—an attempt to reach out, to connect in her own way. It was a revelation that shifted my perspective, unveiling a vulnerability I hadn't expected from Kazuha.

Her confession carried a sense of earnestness, of someone trying to navigate their feelings amidst the challenges of communication. And in that moment, the rivalry seemed trivial compared to the unexpected confession and the desire for a genuine connection.

Perhaps, amid the banter and competition, there was a mutual longing for understanding and connection that had eluded us both. Her words echoed in my mind, inviting the possibility of a different, more harmonious dynamic between us.

In that moment, amidst the chaos and the unexpected turn of events, a weight lifted from my shoulders. The competitive facade melted away, revealing a genuine connection that had been shrouded by misconceptions and playful banter. It was a revelation that left me feeling both relieved and oddly elated, realizing that perhaps there was something more meaningful waiting to blossom between us.

Kazuha's confession caught me off guard, her words weaving a surprising narrative behind her actions. Her admission of having a crush on me since the inception of her store left me feeling a mix of astonishment and a strange warmth in my chest.

"You like me?" I repeated, my voice tinged with disbelief and a hint of flattery.

She nodded, a sheepish smile playing on her lips. "Yeah, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. But I couldn't figure out how to get your attention. So, I kind of resorted to bantering, which, I know, was not the best approach, but it did lead us to talk, and my crush for you just deepened," she explained, her words tumbling out in a rush, her nervousness evident in her fidgeting.

Her confession unveiled a new layer to our dynamic, one that was both unexpected and oddly endearing. It was a revelation that brought clarity to the playful rivalry and teasing banter between us.

"I had no idea," I admitted, feeling a mix of surprise and a flicker of something more. "I guess I misinterpreted your actions completely. I thought it was all about the competition."

Kazuha let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head gently. "I should have been more direct. I'm sorry if I made things complicated. But I couldn't help myself; you were just... captivating."

The air felt charged with newfound understanding and a tinge of excitement. The tension that once hung between us now seemed to dissipate, replaced by a more genuine connection—one that had been there all along, buried beneath the facade of rivalry.

As we stood amidst the aftermath of the fire, our conversation took on a different tone, one laced with vulnerability and a growing sense of mutual attraction. It was a moment where barriers crumbled, allowing us to see each other beyond the roles of competing business owners, unveiling the potential for something deeper between us.

The transition to Kazuha's tent with our treats felt like a significant step, a merging of our efforts that surprisingly resonated with the customers. The day took a turn for the better as people flocked to our joint setup, eager to sample the array of pastries and treats we offered.

As the hustle and bustle of the festival continued, an older couple approached us, their smiles warm and their eyes filled with nostalgia for sweet delights.

"Oh, aren't you two such a cute couple, baking and working together," the lady cooed, her words laced with a hint of admiration.

Kazuha and I exchanged glances, our cheeks tinted with a simultaneous blush. "Sorry, ma'am, but we aren't dating. We haven't even been on a date," I explained, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

"Yet," Kazuha interjected with a teasing glint in her eyes, her gaze lingering on me, a playful grin tugging at her lips.

The older couple chuckled knowingly, sharing a knowing look between themselves. "Well, you two make quite the team, whether in business or," the gentleman paused, giving us a conspiratorial wink, "potentially something more."

Their playful comment left us both blushing and laughing, a shared moment of embarrassment and a hint of something unspoken hanging between us. It was as if the universe was nudging us, gently teasing at the possibility of a connection beyond the bakery rivalry.

As the day continued, the festival buzzed with excitement, our joint efforts proving to be a success as customers continued to flock to our tent. Amidst the laughter, the joy, and the shared tasks, there was an unspoken acknowledgment that perhaps, beyond the delightful treats, something sweet and unexpected was blossoming between us.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The anticipation for the date with Kazuha had me both nervous and excited. As I got ready, the doorbell's ring signaled her arrival, prompting an excited flutter in my chest. I greeted her with a smile, my nerves tingling with anticipation.

When Kazuha revealed the bouquet of daffodils hidden behind her back, a gasp of delight escaped my lips. "Oh my gosh, they're beautiful!" I exclaimed, taking the flowers from her hand, their vibrant colors adding to the excitement bubbling inside me.

“The flowers mean new beginnings” Kazuha's soft words carried a weight of sincerity as we embarked on our date. The significance of the daffodils she had given me lingered in the air, their symbolism echoing in my mind.

"New beginnings between me and you," she murmured softly, her words laden with a sense of hope and possibility.

"Thank you," I uttered, moved by her heartfelt gesture. Embracing her in a hug, I couldn't contain the rush of warmth and appreciation that flooded through me. The simple act of presenting the flowers transformed the moment into something truly extraordinary.

With flushed cheeks betraying a mix of surprise and delight, I cherished the memory of that heartfelt exchange. After that sweet moment, we decided it was time to venture out, letting the excitement of our time together linger in the air.

As Kazuha drove us to our bakery, confusion flickered across my face. "What are we doing here?" I questioned, unable to fathom the reason behind our sudden visit.

Her gaze turned shy, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I thought for our first date, we could do something we both love doing, which is baking," she explained softly, her eyes filled with anticipation.

Her words instantly warmed my heart, a surge of happiness flooding through me. The thoughtful gesture caught me off guard, and I couldn't help but feel a rush of affection for her. "Kazuha, that's incredibly sweet and such a fantastic idea," I expressed, my voice brimming with gratitude and excitement.

Her consideration and willingness to share our mutual passion in such a meaningful way made the moment feel special. It was a subtle yet profound start to our first date, one that hinted at the potential for a beautiful connection rooted in our shared love for baking.

As we dived into baking together, the atmosphere brimmed with shared laughter and a sense of closeness. Mixing ingredients, shaping dough, and decorating pastries became a lively adventure.

In the midst of our baking frenzy, Kazuha's eyes glimmered mischievously. With a playful smile, she grabbed a handful of flour, aiming it in my direction. "Incoming!" she exclaimed, sending a cloud of flour flying towards me.

Caught off guard by her playful gesture, I burst into laughter, quickly retaliating by grabbing some flour of my own and tossing it back in her direction.

Before long, our light-hearted exchange evolved into a spirited flour fight. Flour billowed in the air as we laughed and dodged, both of us gradually becoming covered in the powdery substance. The once-pristine bakery now resembled a flour-covered playground, but the joy and mirth that filled the space made it all worthwhile.

Amidst the flurry of flour, our laughter rang out, creating an orchestra of delightful moments. The carefree ambiance allowed us to let loose, embracing the playful chaos as we continued our floury escapade.

With each toss and shared giggle, a sense of connection deepened between us. The shared experience of the flour fight became a testament to our budding relationship, forming memories that would forever hold a special place in our hear.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The night air carried a gentle breeze as Kazuha walked me to my door, a quiet sense of contentment settling between us. Her voice broke the silence, soft and tentative.

"Y/n," she called out, her tone carrying a hint of vulnerability. "I know we started off on the wrong foot, but I had a wonderful time with you today."

A warmth blossomed in my chest at her words. "I had a great time with you too, Kazuha. I've never felt this way about anyone before," I confessed, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Kazuha's breath hitched slightly as she stepped closer, her eyes searching mine. "May I kiss you?" she asked, her voice tinged with anticipation.

In that moment, I felt a surge of boldness. Without hesitation, I gently pulled her closer by the nape of her neck and leaned in, capturing her lips with mine. Kazuha responded immediately, her arms encircling my waist as our kiss deepened, filled with a mix of longing and passion.

The connection between us felt electric, a surge of emotions flowing between our intertwined bodies. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the warmth of our embrace and the tender fervor of our kiss.

As we finally pulled away, a softness lingered in the air, our breaths mingling as we held each other close. It was a moment filled with unspoken promises, a silent affirmation of the budding romance between us, signaling the beginning of something beautiful and exciting.

As Kazuha whispered her parting words, a soft smile graced my lips. "I'll see you in the morning," I confirmed, the warmth of the moment lingering between us.

With a gentle peck, our lips met one more time before she turned to walk away. I stood there, watching her leave, feeling a comforting warmth spread through my heart.

As I gazed at her retreating figure, a sense of anticipation and excitement filled me. The night felt like a prelude to something wonderful, a promise of shared mornings and the possibility of a beautiful future together.

With a contented sigh, I closed the door behind me, the echoes of our evening together lingering in my thoughts. The warm feeling in my heart reassured me that whatever the future held for both of us, it would be a journey filled with love, joy, and the blossoming of a beautiful connection that had only just begun.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Years have flown by, and now Kazuha and I stand united in marriage. Our shared love for baking and each other led us to embark on a new chapter together. We made the decision to open a bakery, a dream we both held close to our hearts. Sweet Confections became our joint venture, a manifestation of our love for creating delightful treats and sharing them with the world.

As partners in life and in business, Kazuha and I poured our hearts into Sweet Confections. Our bakery became more than just a place to showcase our culinary skills; it became a reflection of our shared journey, a testament to our commitment to each other and our passion for crafting sweet delights.

Every morning, we'd step into the bakery, greeted by the aroma of freshly baked goods and the excitement of another day together. Side by side, we'd create an array of delectable pastries, cakes, and confections, infusing each treat with the love and care that defined our relationship.

Together, we welcomed customers, sharing not only our sweet treats but also the warmth and happiness that radiated from our partnership. Sweet Confections wasn't just a business; it was an embodiment of our shared dreams, a testament to our enduring love story.

With each passing day, our bond grew stronger, our partnership flourishing both in life and in our beloved bakery. Sweet Confections became a place where people didn't just come for delicious treats; they came for the love and dedication we put into every creation.

And as we continue our journey together, hand in hand, our love for each other and for the art of baking remains the sweet foundation upon which Sweet Confections thrives, a legacy we're proud to build and share, now and onward.

╚═════ -ˋˏ *.·:·.♡.·:·.* ˎˊ- ═════╝

#nakamura kazuha #kazuha x reader #lesserafim x reader #lesserafim fluff #kazuha x female reader #BIW.WRITES #lesserafim kazuha #kazuha #le sserafim #lesserafim imagines

141 notes · View notes

lenaperseveranceoxton · 11 months

Text

Listen, I know I said in this post from June 15th that Emily is perfect as a civilian, and I was vindicated when the Invasion story missions dropped and showed that Emily is holed up in some bunker in King's Row with omnics and bigots alike.

but Blizzard, PLEASE, I need more Emily content. I am starving. She deserves to be given a canon voice like Iggy in the Underworld mission. She deserves to have a canon last name. She deserves the world.

It's so infuriating that the Lena and Emily spray even gets censored in Play of the Games and highlights. I mean, I get why (and you can ask the winners of the 2023 Overwatch World Cup if you don't) but damn it!

I am SO sick and tired of seeing people ship Lena with men, whether it be self-ships, generic nude models in Blender, or male playable characters. (If you fall into one of those categories, please let me know so I can block your disgusting ass.)

I need the cishets to know- to have it absolutely drilled into their skulls- that Lena is dating Emily Overwatch. Give me a voice line about her in the Hero Gallery. Give me a weapon charm version of the Lena and Emily spray, or at least a weapon charm of an orange heart that says "Emily" in the center. Give me a victory pose where Lena is bridal-carrying Emily. Anything.

Also, this is going to sound very weird, but the "Caught you staring!" voice line still makes me uncomfortable every time I hear it in game. I get that Lena is a playful person, but did we learn nothing from the Over the Shoulder controversy in 2016? (Even the current Over the Shoulder victory pose makes me uncomfortable. It's one of the few victory poses I don't have favorited in the Hero Gallery. Why would Lena be striking a pose from a WW2 pinup poster?) I remember hearing complaints that it's unfair that Lifeweaver, Baptiste, and Mauga get to flirt with each other while our lesbian characters don't get to flirt with women, but Lena is in a loving relationship. I think she should be able to express an aesthetic attraction towards female characters (like Sombra saying "You're cuter up close" to any gender like the bisexual icon she is when getting a melee kill), but she should not be alluding to her butt whenever you use all three Blinks. The internet is so quick to objectify Overwatch characters, and it's disappointing to see Blizzard fueling those flames.

Rant aside, I also want to point out that Lena tells Emily to let the omnics in the bunker know about Null Sector.

I remember joking in a Discord server with friends who don't go here but know Lena "Tracer" Oxton is my lifeblood about the idea of Lena having paparazzi that write articles such as "The Rumour Come Out: Does Tracer from Overwatch is Gay?" after seeing them casually plan to meet Emily at the pub in London Calling Issue 1. Does everyone in the bunker just know Emily is Lena's girlfriend? Either way, I love to imagine the conversation that would ensue.

"So, omnics, I've gathered you here today to discuss some important matters. As you may or may not know, Tracer from Overwatch is my girlfriend, and uh... A majority of the omnic population in Toronto has been abducted and possibly even had their minds wiped. Overwatch was late, so they couldn't do anything about it. Sure, Null Sector could very well be breaking into this bunker in no time at all, but Overwatch is prepared now! We're going to be okay... I think."

I'll finish this off by saying that, if she can't come to Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Emily should at least be added to the Miscellaneous section of the Intel Database.

Thank you for listening to my TEDTalk.

#overwatch #tracer #lena oxton #emily #lemon tea #lifeweaver #niran pruksamanee #jean-baptiste augustin #maugaloa malosi #sombra #olivia colomar

94 notes · View notes

everyones-fangirl · 3 months

Text

Delectable Little Pet

Warnings: 18+ This will be about after ascension Astarion so expect some extreme dark romance and future triggers.

Word Count: 4,233

Chapter 13

Astarion

A deep sigh left my lips as my right hand rose once more to rub at my temples, as if that action alone would fix the mounting issues piling up around me. The council chamber, usually a place of authority and control, felt like a cage. The absence of Lucian, that treacherous snake, was a constant reminder of my own precarious position. He had vanished without a trace, evading every attempt to track him down. Even the council was left in the dark—his cowardice knew no bounds. I stared at the empty chair where he once sat, my mind awash with a thousand unformed plans. Each one began and ended with the satisfying image of his blood pooling at my feet. It was a visceral need, a primal urge to make him pay for his betrayal. But the how and when of it eluded me. My thoughts raced, a chaotic swirl of strategies and fantasies of vengeance, none of them concrete enough to act upon. The chamber itself seemed to mock my frustration. Elaborate tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of ancient battles and glorious victories—symbols of a time when control was absolute and dissent was met with swift, merciless justice. The long, polished table in the center, around which the council would convene, was empty save for a few scattered parchments and quills. I rose from my chair, pacing the length of the chamber. The floor beneath me, a mosaic of dark and light stones, echoed with each determined step. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden beams overhead. I could almost hear Lucian’s laughter, feel his smug satisfaction at having eluded me once again.

My mind drifted to Cassara, to the turmoil I had thrust upon her in my desperate bid to save her. Her transformation weighed heavily on my conscience, a constant reminder of my failure. And yet, it also fueled my resolve. I couldn't afford to be distracted by Lucian's games. I had to protect her, to ensure that the darkness I had pulled her into would not consume her entirely. Lucian's betrayal was a festering wound, one that demanded retribution. But Cassara was my priority. She needed me now more than ever, and I couldn’t let my quest for vengeance blind me to that fact. As much as I yearned to see Lucian's lifeblood spill, I knew that my focus had to remain clear. I stopped pacing, letting my gaze settle on the flickering candle that stood on the table's edge. Its flame danced and wavered, much like my own resolve. But I steeled myself, drawing a deep breath. There would be time for vengeance, time to settle scores. For now, I needed to be the pillar of strength for Cassara, to guide her through the darkness I had so recklessly thrust her into. With renewed determination, I left the council chamber, the echo of my footsteps a promise of the bloodshed to come. Lucian would not escape my wrath forever. But first, I had to ensure that the woman I loved was safe, even if that meant confronting my own demons in the process.

Once I got back home, my steps carried me automatically to my personal office. The weight of the day bore down on me, making each step feel heavier than the last. The office was a sanctuary of sorts. The room itself was vast, with high ceilings that seemed to stretch into eternity, adorned with intricate moldings and carvings that hinted at a bygone era of opulence. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves, each shelf packed tightly with ancient tomes, scrolls, and grimoires that chronicled the knowledge and histories of countless civilizations. The scent of old parchment and leather permeated the air, a comforting aroma that was as familiar as it was suffocating in moments like these. The centerpiece of the room was the massive, imposing desk that dominated the space. Carved from dark, rich wood, its surface was scarred with the marks of countless plans and decisions made over the years. The desk was always kept meticulously organized, with maps, documents, and writing implements arranged in perfect order, a stark contrast to the chaos that often surrounded my life. On the opposite side of the room, a small seating area provided a space for more intimate discussions. A pair of high-backed armchairs, upholstered in deep crimson velvet, flanked a low, intricately carved table. Here, I often met with my most trusted advisors, the setting lending itself to confidential conversations and secretive plotting. A side table held a crystal decanter filled with a rich, amber liquid—an indulgence for moments of reflection.

I blindly collapsed into the large, leather chair. The weight of the desk’s history seemed to anchor me, grounding me in moments of uncertainty. I leaned my arms against it, feeling the cool, worn wood beneath my palms as if its solidity could ground me in this sea of turmoil. Thorne appeared in the doorway almost immediately, his presence a silent, steadfast reminder of my own capabilities and resources. His dark silhouette was framed by the dim light of the hallway, his face unreadable as always. The anticipation in the room was palpable, a coiled tension waiting to snap.

"Anything?" I asked, my voice betraying the desperation I felt. I had sent out my own to hunt Lucian down, not fully trusting the council to do so. Their loyalties were too easily swayed, their motives too murky. Thorne was my blade in the shadows, my assurance that Lucian would not slip through our grasp unscathed. Thorne only responded with a shake of his head, his expression grim. The sight of it made my blood boil. A string of curses erupted from my lips, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the room with a violence that matched my internal fury. The failure to locate Lucian was an open wound, and each moment he remained at large was salt ground into it. "Dammit, Thorne," I hissed, my hands clenching into fists on the desk. "He can't have vanished without a trace. He has to be hiding somewhere. We need to be smarter, more ruthless."

Thorne nodded, stepping into the room with the grace of a predator. He closed the door behind him, the soft click a prelude to our next move. "We'll find him, Astarion," he said, his voice a low rumble of certainty. "He's not as clever as he thinks. Desperation makes men careless."

I nodded, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Thorne was right. Lucian's disappearance, though infuriating, was a desperate move. And desperation was a weakness we could exploit. "Double the efforts," I commanded. "I want eyes everywhere—every alley, every shadow. If he so much as breathes, I want to know about it."

Thorne inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment of my orders. He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway, his gaze meeting mine. "We'll get him," he reiterated, his tone a promise. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the relentless thrum of my anger.

I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. The ornate moldings and intricate carvings seemed to mock me with their permanence, a stark contrast to the chaos roiling within. Lucian's betrayal was a personal affront, an insult that demanded retribution. But it was more than that—it was a threat to everything I had built, everything I stood for. As I sat there, the weight of the day's failures pressing down on me, my thoughts drifted to Cassara. She was my anchor, my reason for fighting through this storm of treachery and bloodlust. Her transformation, her suffering—it all stemmed from my actions. I couldn't afford to fail her again. I had to find Lucian, had to make him pay for every ounce of pain he had caused. For her, and for me. Lucian would not escape. I would see to that personally. And when I did, the world would know that betraying Astarion was a mistake that cost more than just a life. It would cost a legacy.

Speak of the minx, as if she could sense me thinking about her, the door opened and she walked into the quiet room. Her eyes were vibrant in the dim light, a striking contrast to the shadows that played across her face.They were a brilliant emerald green, more vivid than I had ever seen before, and they seemed to glow with a brighter inner light. It was as if the life she had regained was now radiating outward, drawing everyone who looked into those eyes into her orbit. She moved with a sort of poised shyness that made me want to get down on my knees and give her whatever she was about to ask for. She stepped closer into the flickering light of the candles on my desk, casting an ethereal glow that made her look almost otherworldly. I cocked a brow at her expectantly, my heart rate inexplicably quickening. She was a vision, her once frail frame had filled out, her curves returning with a graceful yet undeniable presence. Eating more had not only restored her physical vitality but had also brought a renewed sense of life to her demeanor. Her skin, once pale and almost translucent, now held a warm, healthy glow. The blood she had consumed had worked its magic, infusing her with a vitality that was impossible to ignore. Her cheeks had a faint blush to them, a sign of the renewed life coursing through her veins. The dark circles that had marred her eyes had faded, replaced by a vibrant sparkle that drew me in every time I looked at her. Her hair, which had appeared dull and lifeless, now shone with a lustrous sheen. The rich waves framed her face beautifully, cascading over her shoulders in a way that begged to be touched. Each strand seemed to catch the candlelight, creating a halo effect that made her look almost ethereal. The deep chestnut color was interwoven with strands of gold and auburn, adding depth and richness to her appearance.Her lips, full and soft, were often tinged with a hint of color, making them even more enticing. When she smiled, it was as if the room brightened, her entire face lighting up with a warmth that was impossible to resist. Her teeth, sharp and slightly elongated now due to her vampiric nature, only added to her allure, giving her an edge that was both dangerous and captivating.

The dress she wore tonight accentuated every inch of her revitalized form. The tight corset made mostly of dark blue lace hugged her chest perfectly, emphasizing the gentle swell of her breasts. It flared out into a simple skirt that brushed against her thighs, hinting at the strength and grace that lay beneath. The intricate patterns of the lace highlighted the curves of her body, drawing the eye to the delicate yet powerful figure she now possessed. As she moved, the dress shifted with her, the fabric clinging to her in a way that was both elegant and seductive. The dark blue lace contrasted beautifully with her glowing skin, creating a striking visual that was impossible to ignore. Every movement she made was a testament to her regained vitality, her steps confident and sure, her presence commanding and undeniable. As she approached, the soft scent of her perfume—a blend of jasmine and something darker, more mysterious—wafted towards me, enveloping my senses and making it difficult to think clearly. I watched her intently, every step she took drawing her closer, increasing the tension in the room. There was an elegance to her movements, a grace that was impossible to ignore. Her presence filled the room, making it feel both smaller and infinitely more significant. She finally stopped just before my desk, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

“What brings you here, my dear?” I asked, my voice a low murmur that barely broke the silence. I couldn't help but lean forward slightly, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. “Is there something you need?”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking to the side before returning to mine. “I... I just wanted to see you,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of vulnerability that tugged at my heart. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Her concern, genuine and unguarded, was a stark contrast to the hardened world we both inhabited. It was a reminder of the humanity we still clung to, despite everything. I stood, closing the distance between us in a few swift steps, and gently took her hand in mine. "I'm here," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

Her fingers tightened around mine as I pulled her back toward the chair I had been sitting in. I helped her perch on my lap, her feet barely grazing the floor in the tall chair. The warmth of her body against mine was grounding, a comfort I hadn't realized I needed until that moment. "I met someone in the library," she started, her voice soft and hesitant. I looked at her in confusion. "She said her name was Zariel."

I knew every single one of my spawn—personally. I knew their names, what they looked like, and where they were at all times. There was no Zariel on my team and I think I would remember turning one of the rulers of Avernus. My mind raced, trying to place the name and the potential threat it could represent. "What did they look like, my pet?" I asked, keeping my voice steady to avoid alarming her. As I waited for her response, I found myself absently winding her hair around my fingers, the silky strands providing a small distraction from my growing unease.

Cassara took a deep breath, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. "She had greenish skin, almost like a faint tint. Her hair was black and curly, cut short around her face. She had sharp black horns and a round pair of glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were red, and she seemed...familiar somehow." She paused, searching my face for any sign of recognition. “She said my friend Caty had caught her eye.”

My mind continued to work at a frantic pace. A green-skinned tiefling with black horns and red eyes. Realization flooded my features, and I shook my head in familiar disappointment but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “Her name is Sanna.”

Confusion passed over Cassara, and I could see her body tighten in anger. “Why would she lie to me?”

I forgot how sheltered the poor girl had been, briefly remembering how she told me about growing up in a Druid village. She had no idea who Zariel even was, let alone why Sanna had used that name to mess with her. “Darling,” I began, gently taking her chin in my hand to make her look at me. “It is a prank she pulls on everyone that walks through these halls. You are new and close to me, and I swear she’s a kind of trickster.”

Cassara's eyes searched mine, the initial anger giving way to a mix of confusion and hurt. “But why would she want to trick me? I don’t understand.” Her voice trembled slightly, the vulnerability in her tone tugging at my heart.

“Sanna enjoys causing a bit of chaos,” I explained, my thumb gently stroking her cheek. “It's her way of testing newcomers, of seeing how they react. It’s nothing personal, my pet. Just her twisted sense of humor.”

Cassara’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though the hurt lingered in her eyes. “I don’t like being made a fool of,” she admitted softly.

I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her in a comforting embrace. “You are no fool, Cassara. You are strong and smart. Sanna's tricks mean nothing compared to your strength. She will learn that in time.”

Her body melted into mine, the tension slowly easing away. “I just want to fit in here, Astarion. It’s all so new and overwhelming.”

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, letting my lips linger there for a moment. “You will find your place here, I promise. And I will be here with you every step of the way.”

She nodded against my chest, her breathing evening out as she took comfort in my words. “Thank you,” she whispered, the gratitude in her voice making my heart swell.

She shifted her position so she faced me, straddling my lap, and I felt myself freeze underneath her. What was she— My thoughts were cut off as she blinked up at me through her long lashes with a look that could only equate to that of a small, innocent animal. A look that stirred many conflicted feelings and thoughts within me. When I saw her teeth begin to nibble at her bottom lip, I couldn’t hold back any longer. My hands found her waist almost immediately. “Pet, you are treading dangerous waters.”

“I just have a question,” she began, blatantly ignoring my warning. “Would it be possible for me to see Caty again? I’m sure she’s worried.”

My grip tightened around her at her question, and I took a deep breath to steady myself. “That is up to you, my sweet. I can arrange it if needed, but I need you to be prepared for what might happen.” I couldn’t help but think back to my own personal experience of trying to reconnect with old friends. They had told me they’d sooner drive a stake through my heart than converse with me anymore—not that Cazador would have let me anyway.

Cassara’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope mingled with apprehension. “What do you mean, what might happen?”

I sighed, my thumb tracing soothing circles on her waist. “When you see someone from your past, especially someone who hasn’t been through what you have, their reaction can be... unpredictable. They might not understand what you’ve become, or worse, they might fear you.”

Her expression grew troubled, and she lowered her gaze, her fingers absently playing with a loose thread on my shirt. “I just... I miss her. She was my best friend. She deserves to know I’m okay.”

I cupped her chin, lifting her face to meet mine. “And she will know, but you must be ready for whatever her reaction might be. You need to be strong, for both your sake and hers.”

She nodded slowly, determination flickering in her eyes. “I understand. I just want to see her, even if it’s just once. I need to know she’s okay too.”

I leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Very well, my sweet. I will make the arrangements.”

My gaze stayed on her as her hands found my chest, her palms resting lightly against the bare skin my open shirt displayed. I swallowed down the lump forming in my throat. In all of my sexual escapades, I was the one in control, relying on manipulation tactics to ensure my survival. To be in this position with someone who might actually care for me was an unfamiliar feeling. It left me feeling vulnerable but in a way I never thought possible. Her soft lips pressing against mine pulled me from my thoughts, and I held back a surprised moan. She shifted to pull herself flush against me, and in doing so, she brushed against my hardening cock. The noise her actions produced from me was something I couldn’t replicate if I tried—a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from the very core of my being.

Cassara's lips curved into a small, knowing smile as she felt my reaction. Her fingers traced delicate patterns across my chest, sending shivers down my spine. “Astarion,” she whispered, her voice a seductive purr that made my heart race. “I want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

Her words ignited a fire within me, a longing that went beyond mere physical desire. It was as if she could see through the layers of my carefully constructed facade, reaching the vulnerable man beneath. I couldn’t help but be drawn to her, my hands finding her waist and pulling her even closer. “Cassara,” I breathed, my voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She leaned in, her lips brushing against my ear. “Then show me,” she murmured, her breath hot against my skin. “Let me in, Astarion.”

Her invitation was both exhilarating and terrifying. I had spent so long guarding my heart, hiding my true self from everyone. But with Cassara, I wanted to take that risk, to let her see the man behind the mask. My hands moved to her hips, guiding her movements as she shifted in my lap. The friction between us was intoxicating, a heady mix of pleasure and anticipation. As our lips met again, the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. I felt her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as if she couldn’t bear to be apart from me. The intensity of our connection was overwhelming, and I found myself losing control, surrendering to the feelings she evoked in me.

When we finally pulled back, both of us were breathless, our foreheads resting against each other. “I’ve never felt like this before,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “You make me feel...alive.”

Cassara’s eyes softened, her expression filled with a tenderness that made my heart ache. “You are alive, Astarion,” she said softly. “And you deserve to feel loved.”

I froze. It was as if my brain short-circuited, and no response graced my mind. The room began to spin, the edges of my vision growing fuzzy. The only thing I could think about was getting away. I gently but firmly moved Cassara off my lap, my hands trembling. “I...I need some air,” I muttered, barely able to get the words out. The weight of her words, the sheer vulnerability they implied, was too much for me to process. I stumbled towards the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The walls seemed to close in on me, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Cassara called out to me, her voice tinged with concern. “Astarion, wait! Please, talk to me.”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her, couldn’t confront the whirlwind of emotions she had stirred within me. I needed space, needed to regain my composure. As I stepped into a back corridor, the cool air hit my face, providing a small measure of relief. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to steady my breathing. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, each beat reverberating in my ears like the echo of a death knell. The corridor around me seemed to shift and warp, the walls narrowing as if trying to suffocate me. I felt the crushing weight of countless years of manipulation, the ghostly presence of Cazador’s control tightening its grip around my throat. I clutched at my chest, gasping for breath, my vision blurring as panic overtook me. Memories I had long tried to bury surged to the surface, each one a sharp blade cutting through my mind. Cazador’s cruel voice echoed in my ears, reminding me that I was nothing more than a tool, a pawn in his twisted games. His face, twisted in a sadistic smile, loomed before me, the image so vivid it felt real. The idea of being loved, of being worthy of love, felt like a cruel joke, a dream too fragile to hold onto.

I sank to the floor, my back against the cold stone wall, my mind a tumultuous storm of doubt and longing. The thought of letting Cassara in, of allowing her to see the broken parts of me, was terrifying. My breaths came in shallow, erratic bursts, each one a struggle against the invisible chains that seemed to tighten around my chest. I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to force the memories away, but they only grew stronger, more insistent. The hallway felt like it was closing in on me, the darkness pressing against my vision. My fingers dug into the stone floor, searching for some anchor, something to hold onto. The past and present blurred together, and for a moment, I was back in Cazador’s lair, his voice taunting me, his touch a constant reminder of my powerlessness.

I stayed there, curled up on the cold floor, for what felt like an eternity. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a reminder of the chains I thought I had broken but still felt. Alone in the corridor, I was a prisoner of my own mind, grappling with a past that refused to let me go and a future that seemed uncertain and terrifying. Finally, I forced myself to stand, using the wall for support. The world was still spinning, but I had to move, had to get away from the suffocating confines of the castle. I stumbled through the halls, my thoughts a chaotic swirl, needing the solace of the night air to clear my mind. Cassara’s words echoed in my ears, a haunting reminder of what I had been given and what I was so afraid to lose.

22 notes · View notes

robynrocksforbrains · 1 year

Text

I'm about to ramble like I've never rambled before.

Season five is going to have the most well executed displays of affection and romantic moments not only because byler will be happening but also because this show has always been about LOVE. Love has been constant throughout the entire show. It's always been about love saving the day. Which is why we see what happens when love is unwavering. When it's hidden. When it's suppressed. We see the consequences of believing there is a "right way" to love. We see the consequences of performing love. And we see the rewards of just loving. No matter what other people say. No matter if people think you're crazy. If you love someone you fight for them even when everyone tells you it's wrong. Or that you shouldn't. Or that you should give up.

That is most prevalent in season one and two.

In season one the whole town thinks Joyce is crazy. But she says it herself "Maybe I'm crazy! Maybe I'm out of my mind! But god help me I will keep these lights up until the day I die if I think there's a chance that Will is still out there!" Jonathan and Nancy team up to kill the demogorgon because they love Will and Barb respectively. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin continue to search for Will even when it will get them in trouble. Even when it's dangerous. Even when everyone believes he's dead. They keep searching and they keep fighting because they love him.

In season two Joyce, Jonathan, and Mike do not stop trying to reach Will. Even when he appears to be gone, they keep reaching. And once they reach him they keep holding on. And even when Will tells them to close the gate, likely knowing it will kill him, they don't accept that. Joyce finds a way. Mike, Lucas, Dustin, Max, and Steve find a way to give El and Hopper a fighting chance. All of their actions are fueled by unwavering love and loyalty for each other.

This show has always been about love. It has been the lifeblood of the entire series. It has been a constant, so much so that you almost become blind to it. Because unwavering love is the baseline, you don't really notice it until something changes. That's what seasons three and four did. They made us notice that the baseline existed in the first place. We started to see fluctuations.

In season three, Mike and El are constantly off in their own little world, they aren't considerate of their friends. Will is feeling completely and totally isolated and like the group is falling apart. Dustin is separated from them for the entire season. Will says it best in the rain fight "where's Dustin? See you don't know and you don't even care! And obviously he doesn't either and I don't blame him!". The Party has their good moments in season three, but gone is the shameless love and unwavering support that they once offered each other. Lucas and Mike leave Will out and make fun of him. Which is so unlike them. None of them actually believe Suzie exists, and they humor Dustin in a condescending manner. Dustin isn't an idiot, he knew that they were being condescending. But he chose to give them the benefit of the doubt and tolerate them because it was so unusual for them to be so mean to each other. In conclusion, season three shows us the consequence of the loss of that unwavering and unselfish love.

(color code for this point on: genuine love / performance / something that is not loving)

In season four, there is even more fluctuating. The season starts off with El lying in her letter to Mike. Ending a letter of lies with "Love, El". Which is an interesting juxtaposition to the concept of "true love". Will's feelings are spotlighted by the mention of the painting and the "girl" he might like. Mike and Dustin are not supportive of Lucas, and they are not there to celebrate his accomplishments. Will is supportive of El and tries to comfort her in the face of her "failures". (Not that I think her class presentation was a failure, she did amazing. But she felt like she had failed.) Lucas continues to reach out to Max and pay attention to her even when she continuously pushes him away; even when she's mean. We see Mike and El putting on fake smiles, it's clear that they can't be themselves in this relationship. They're once again ignoring Will. Mike and Will fight again. Mike and El have their fight about Mike's inability to say "I love you" and about how he makes El feel like a monster. Joyce and Murray go to FUCKING RUSSIA to save Hopper. Mike and Will begin to patch up their relationship. Will gives Mike the painting and along with it his veiled love confession. And although it's hidden behind a flimsy lie, it is such a beautiful act of love. Because the lie is not selfish. He's lying because he believes it is what's best for Mike, not himself. He hands over his heart on a silver platter for Mike and tells him that it's someone else's because he believes that's what Mike needs. Although it is dishonest, it is closer to the concept of "true love" than El's letter from the beginning of the season. (Not a lot of consistency. Well, there's consistent inconsistency. This season is so far from the baseline)

And then we have Mike's monologue. Mike's monologue that brings the concept of "love saves the day" to front and center stage. And for the first time we see them completely and utterly lose.

(I'd like to say that I hate the way people say that the deaths in season 4 are Mike's fault because of the monologue. They are not his fault, he is 14 oh my god please stop putting that on him. But the loss is crucial to understanding why that baseline I was talking about is so important.)

In the first two seasons, when we were at this "baseline", the show never told us that love was going to save the day. It didn't have to tell us. It was obvious, but not in a dramatic and cheesy way. The monologue is dramatic and cheesy. It uses romance tropes that no one actually likes. It doesn't line up with any of Mike's behavior throughout the entire show. This is the first time that the show states over and over again "love is going to save the day". It's this big dramatic moment that falls flat on its face because we have never needed them to tell us this before. So why are they telling us now?

"Forced conforming. That's what's killing the kids."

For the first time, stranger things conforms to the usual dramatics of the "love saves the day" trope. And a kid literally dies.

In season one, when they find Will in the UD, we know what has led to this moment. We know that Joyce has fought her way to this moment fueled by nothing but unwavering love and an unyielding belief that her son was out there. That he was alive. Then they find him dead. But Joyce and Hopper fought for Will for that entire week, why would they stop fighting now. So Hopper starts cpr, and it's an intense moment. But it's not dramatic. It's just real, and raw. It's a mother desperately begging her son to come back to her. And Will lives.

Compare that to the dramatics of the monologue while Max is being murdered? It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened there.

El brings Max back in a quiet moment. She finds her resolve and she says "No. You're not going." And this moment feels similar to when Will was resuscitated. Lucas is sobbing and desperate for someone to help. And El helps. That moment is not a performance. No one is there to see what she does. That moment is an act of true love. It's not fueled by a dramatic monologue. It's just love. For this one moment, we come back to the baseline.

Season four was about the performance of love. And conforming to the "right way" to love. That is why they failed.

I believe that season five will see the return to this baseline that I talked about. For all the types of love we see in the show, but the one I'm focused on is romantic love. (This is not me saying that romantic love is more important, it's just the one I'm thinking about the most right now)

Because not only has the show always been about love, it's also always been about Will. It started with him; it started with the group's love for him. If love is the lifeblood of the show, Will is the heart and soul of the show. And now there has been so much attention drawn to Will's romantic love for Mike, and his desire to be loved in that same way. He is so so sad because he believes that this form of love just isn't for him. His love being requited is a satisfying ending to his arc, but is also the perfect opportunity to bring the show back to its "baseline". Will's arc concluding with his love being requited is the perfect way to drive home the message they've been sending this entire time. The heart of the show deserves to receive the love it has inspired.

Will has loved Mike. Mike has loved Will. They don't need a big dramatic confession. They just need to be honest with themselves and honest with each other. True love.

This was just a ramble so I don't really have a conclusion and I don't know if anyone will understand what I'm trying to say. But this is an aspect of the show that I absolutely adore and I am so passionate about it and I just had to talk about it.

#byler #stranger things #anti mileven #mike wheeler #will byers #will byers my beloved #mike wheeler is queer #will byers is gay #mike wheeler is in love with will byers #will byers is in love with mike wheeler #byler analysis #idk what else to tag #hope this makes sense #i just love this show so much

153 notes · View notes

idkyetxoxo · 4 months

Text

Eleven | Allure | The Last Kingdom

"I don't know what to say."

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

As I made my way back to our camp, the familiar faces of Finan, Sihtric, Uhtred, and Jackdaw greeted me in an unexpected gathering.

My eyes met Sihtric's, and for a fleeting moment, our gazes locked. He held my stare for a couple of seconds before diverting his eyes, feigning sudden interest in the arm rings adorning him. "Why are you here?" I inquired, my curiosity tinged with a subtle undertone of concern as I finally directed my attention to Jackdaw.

"It's Brida," Jackdaw began, his voice carrying a weight that instantly set my nerves on edge. "She sent me."

As his next words pierced the air, a knot tightened in my chest. "Aethelwold is the one who killed Ragnar," he revealed, each syllable heavy with the gravity of the news.

Shock rippled through me, and for a moment, the world seemed to blur. My heart raced, its frantic beats threatening to rupture from within. I glanced at Uhtred, our eyes locking in silent understanding. Aethelwold, that vile scum, was responsible for the deaths of our siblings and now he would pay for it.

"Osferth, fetch the blood," Uhtred's voice cut through the tension, his tone steely with determination. Without hesitation, Osferth handed him the pouch containing my blood.

Concealed within the dense foliage of the forest, I watched with bated breath as Brida, Cnut, Haesten, and Aethelwold led their army into the woodland depths. Anticipation crackled in the air like electricity, mingling with the scent of damp earth and impending conflict.

As the first volley of arrows darkened the sky, the cacophony of battle erupted around me. With each clash of steel, with every war cry that rent the air, I felt the weight of my purpose pressing upon me like a leaden mantle.

In the heat of the fray, our forces teetered on the brink of defeat until salvation arrived in the form of Aethelflaed and her Mercian cavalry. Their timely intervention breathed renewed vigour into our ranks, turning the tide of battle in our favour.

Then, like a tempest unleashed from the shadows, Sigebriht's army descended upon the Danes, striking from the rear with a ferocity that mirrored my own pent-up rage.

My blade cleaved through the sinewy flesh of a Dane, his weapon poised menacingly at my chest. A pat on my back prompted me to whirl around, greeted by the sight of Sihtric, his arms cradling the battered form of Dagfinn. Bruised and broken, he was the embodiment of my wrath made manifest.

"He's all yours," Sihtric declared, his voice a grim acknowledgement of the task that lay before me before he disappeared once more into the fray.

A twisted smile of anticipation curled my lips as I seized Dagfinn by his matted hair, wrenching him down to his knees before me. "One way or another, you will be mine," I hissed through clenched teeth, the promise of retribution echoing in the air like a curse, a curse of his own making, a malignant force born from the depths of his twisted desires.

With a fluid motion, I brandished my dagger, its gleaming edge dancing in the flickering light of the battlefield. Without hesitation, I drove across his crotch, his most tender flesh, slicing off his cock in a swift movement revelling in the anguished cry that tore from his lips. Each scream was a symphony of suffering, a cacophony of agony that fueled the fire burning within me.

Though my every instinct urged me to prolong his torment, the battle around us demanded swifter justice. With a cruel twist, I withdrew the blade, savouring the metallic tang of blood upon its surface.

Forcing his head upward, I locked eyes with him, a silent challenge smouldering in the depths of my gaze. "Fuck you," I spat and then, with a swift stroke, I severed the fragile thread of his existence slicing across his neck, the crimson tide of his lifeblood staining the earth beneath us.

With a contemptuous kick, I cast aside his lifeless form, the echo of his demise ringing in my ears like a hymn of vindication.

As I smeared his blood across my cheeks, I welcomed the darkness that resided within me. They called me the little devil, and with every trickle of his blood on my skin, I embraced that nickname with a passion fueled by justified rage.

As I cast my eyes back across the battlefield, I caught sight of Aethelwold, and his figure of cowardice atop a horse, desperately attempting to flee the scene. Determination surged within me like a tide, and I spied a lone horse in the distance, beckoning me with the promise of pursuit.

With agile grace, I mounted the steed, pulling sharply on the reins as we thundered after him. There was no sanctuary for him, no escape from the reckoning that awaited, I was going to make sure of it.

The chase pressed on, the pounding of hooves against earth a relentless drumbeat of pursuit. Then, during the frenetic pursuit, Aethelwold's flight faltered as he collided with a low-hanging branch, tumbling unceremoniously from his mount.

Spotting Uhtred in the distance, I signalled to him, our paths converging as we united in the hunt.

Cornered and desperate, Aethelwold found refuge behind a towering tree, his pleas for mercy echoing hollowly in the air. Yet, in the face of his cowardice, Uhtred's demand hung heavy in the air, a reckoning long overdue.

"Admit you killed Ragnar" Uhtred's voice brooked no dissent, and Aethelwold, trembling, confessed to the deed born of his own fear "I feared he would kill me so I had to kill him". The gravity of his actions hung heavy in the air, the stench of cowardness poisoning the very ground beneath us.

"I'll exile myself," Aethelwold bargained, his voice tainted with desperation, his offer met with a disbelieving scoff.

"You will go far away," Uhtred's voice sliced through the tense air. His words drew my attention, and a silent agreement passed between us as I acknowledged his unspoken directive with a determined nod.

In a swift motion, Uhtred continued, his voice steady as he outlined the terms of Aethelwold's exile. "You will need silver to pay for the voyage," he declared.

As Uhtred flung the pouch containing the blood, Aethelwold's trembling fingers closed around it, clutching it to his chest as if it were his only salvation. The air hung heavy with anticipation.

I met Uhtred's gaze and a silent exchange passed between us. With a reassuring nod from Uhtred, he tossed me his dagger, an invitation to claim the mantle of justice.

Without hesitation, I seized the weapon. Time seemed to stand still as I plunged the blade into Aethelwold's chest, the sac of blood bursting upon impact in a visceral cascade of retribution.

Scarlet stained the forest floor as Aethelwold fell. Uhtred bestowed upon me the honour of avenging Ragnar, of sending him to Valhalla.

With a sense of grim satisfaction, I knew that Ragnar's legacy had been upheld, his memory enshrined in the blood-soaked earth beneath us.

Collapsing to my knees, a primal scream tore from the depths of my being as I unleashed the full force of my fury upon Aethelwold. The dagger became an extension of my wrath, each stab into his lifeless body a symphony of pain and retribution. I surrendered to the tempest raging within me, the weight of every injustice driving me forward.

With each thrust of the dagger into his body I exorcised the demons that had long haunted me, the weight of every betrayal and injustice propelling me forward into the abyss of vengence.

As the frenzy of my assault upon Aethelwold reached its peak, a sudden, sharp pain pierced through the haze of my rage. With a gasp of realization, I felt the searing agony of my own hands gripping the sharp blade of the dagger, blood trickling down my fingers in crimson rivulets.

It was Uhtred's steady hand that broke the spell pulling me back from the brink of my self-inflicted torment. Gasping for air, I found refuge in his embrace, my ragged breaths a testament to the toll exacted by our quest, calling me back to myself.

Brida's arrival heralded a moment of respite. As sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting ethereal beams upon our weary forms, her words rang true.

"It is a bridge for Ragnar to cross over into Valhalla," she intoned and in that moment, laughter bubbled forth, a release of pent-up emotion as tears danced upon my cheeks.

"We did it," I murmured and Uhtred nodded in silent agreement, we stood together, a trio forged in blood and steel, honouring the memory of the fallen warrior, the brother who had held us together.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

Standing at a distance, I watched as Uhtred retrieved his necklace, a talisman of Thor's hammer, from Ragnar's final resting place.

As Uhtred stepped back, I felt compelled to draw nearer, with a soft exhale, I lowered myself to the ground, fingers tracing the rough contours of the stones that marked Ragnar's grave.

"Rest easy, brother, I love you," the words escaped in a whispered prayer, a final offering to a soul now beyond the reach of mortal pain.

Standing once more, I cast a lingering glance over the hallowed ground, a silent vow etched into the fabric of my being. With each step away from the grave, I felt a measure of peace settle over me, a balm to soothe the ache of loss that lingered in my heart.

As Uhtred and I left, the weight of my purpose hung heavy in the air. My mind churned with a frenzy of emotions, each thought a tempest swirling within the confines of my soul.

Lost in reverie, I found myself standing before him. With hesitant resolve, I closed the distance, Sihtric stood before me, his presence both comforting and unnerving in equal measure. How could I even begin to articulate the tangled mess of thoughts and feelings that had taken root in my heart?

"Sihtric," I started, my voice betraying the uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of my resolve. "I don't know what to say." The admission hung heavily in the air, an acknowledgement of my own confusion.

His expression softened, a silent reassurance that he understood, even if I did not.

"I mean," I continued, my words stumbling over themselves in their haste to find clarity, "I appreciate everything you've done for me, truly, I do." The sincerity in my voice was undeniable, tinged with the ache of impending regret.

"But..." I trailed off, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. How could I articulate the conflicting emotions that waged war within me? How could I tell him that I was torn between the safety of familiarity and the unknown depths of something more?

A heavy silence settled between us, with unspoken questions and unfinished thoughts and then, without warning, an impulse seized hold of me, guiding my hand to his cheek.

His hand enveloped mine, a strong and reassuring grip. His eyes swept across the fresh wound across my palm from the dagger earlier. As his fingers delicately traced the gash, a shiver ran down my spine, the sensation both painful and strangely comforting.

Our eyes met in silent understanding, I leaned forward, my lips brushing against his in a hesitant, tentative gesture of longing and uncertainty.

The kiss lingered, a fragile bridge between what was and what could be and then, just as quickly as it had begun, it was over, leaving in its wake a lingering sense of confusion and longing. I pulled away, my heart weighed down by the gravity of my indecision.

I knew that the path ahead remained uncertain, fraught with obstacles and unknown dangers but for now, in the quiet intimacy of that shared moment, I found comfort in the knowledge that I was in fact not alone, that whatever lay ahead, Sihtric would be there by my side, if I allowed it.

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

when he brings you the man you've wanted to torture >>>> also I know her 'confession' was not a confession but patience please this is only chapter 11 let her be confused 🤭

29 notes · View notes

elbiotipo · 6 months

Text

Like in most starships, and indeed like in any kind of ships through history, the mess hall was the heart of the Johann Sebastian Mastropiero. Of course, most of the rest of the ship was propellant tanks, engines, and cargo bays. But what truly mattered was this place, this sacred place with food and drink where the crew could relax after a long day sailing the aether. They were the ones who kept this old bird flying, they were the lifeblood of the Mastropiero, and the mess hall was its heart. At least according to the crew themselves. The cargo's insurance was probably higher than theirs after all.

“Mess hall” might also have been a grandiose name for it. It was basically a table, some especially uncomfortable chairs bolted to it so they didn't flew away in 0g, several handles to walk through while in freefall, an old booth that seemed -and probably was- taken from an abandoned fuel space station, an old fridge/hydroponics combo, some kitchen essentials like an electric kettle and oven, and a counter bearing the scars of poorly prepared food, because you get tired of instant guiso and mushroom chips after a while.

It was Human spacer tradition for the Captain to have a last dinner with the passengers before landing at the destination, so never mind the mess, in a way, the mess hall also needed to show the ship's history. And it did, with the pictures hanging on the paneling. A faded photograph of the crew during the Machine War, and then newer ones, an old captain giving a thumbs up at a newly repainted ship, a group of people wearing smokings doing a comedy sketch, Beto as a kid sitting on the commands with the hat on, an asado under three moons that legend has it bring good luck, and more. The latest picture was just next to the oldest one, with a lanky, angular-faced human male with a mate gourd on hand, a small shark-like girl wearing sunglasses and doing a peace sign, and a cactus-like man with his leaves in a sarcastic attitude, under that same sky as the three lucky moons.

Freefalling, and yet somehow looking busy while at it, Beto arrived at the mess hall to heat up water for the mate and start up his morning shift. As he rubbed his eyes he saw Ragua hanging by her squalene tail on a handle in the "ceiling", her headphones at a high enough volume to tell she was listening to Hermética. Siusini was sitting conspicuously in the center of the booth table -not that he needed to eat anyways-, while holding a bunch of crystals around him that reflected on his leaves in beams of focused light, like glittering rainbows. Beto wondered if Pink Floyd would perhaps be a better soundtrack in this case.

"Mornin', people." Beto yawned as he turned on the kettle, his weightless body hanging as he waited for the water to heat up -not boil, this was mate after all.

"MORNIN', BETO!" Ragua said from the ceiling, her voice more high-pitched than usual, perhaps because of her usual excitement, perhaps because of the metal screaming that seemed to envelop her. Siusini's chromoplasts shifted into a greeting hue.

"What are you listening to, Ragua?" Beto asked as the water began to heat.

"It's that music you told me about last night!" She answered, perhaps a bit offended that Beto didn't notice. "I love it, though some lyrics are hard to understand..." She noted. Beto nodded thoughtfully. He was amazed at how quickly she had picked up Rioplatense Spanish in any case.

"Yeah, I told you, they talk a bit about the things that happen in my history tapes..."

"Of course you like them because of that." She grinned while narrowing her eyes playfully. For various reasons, perhaps because she was part of it, history just didn't sit well with her. "But that's the fun part. The voices go... like all low and deep like yours..." Ragua did a frighteningly good rendition of Ricardo Iorio, "...and then it goes all like YEEEEEEAHHHH." Ragua did an even more frightening impression of Claudio O'Connor. Beto just smiled, amused.

"I don't sing like that."

"You don't sing. At all." Ragua teased back.

"Shut up." Beto said. It was true, he couldn't sing at all.

"But what I like the most is the controls." Ragua continued as the album rocked on, her fins shifting to the music.

"You mean instruments?" Beto corrected her word use, helpfully.

"Yeah! Those! It's just so AWESOME... Like, I love the sound, the noise, it feels like when prey moves on the ocean, when you're about to just bite on it? You know? So nice." She said, a bit too giddy, kicking her finned legs against the ceiling.

"That's cool man." Beto answered in a monotone as he poured water on the thermos.

Perhaps not wanting to awaken her predatory instincts, he turned to Siusini.

"What about you, you finally gave up engineering to become a table decoration?" Beto bantered in friendly confidence. Siusini didn't seem to listen through his sound translator. His leaf patterns shifted in ways that were difficult even for the experienced Beto to decipher.

"Sius'?" He asked again. The chromoplasts reacted.

"GOOD DAY BETO." The patterns of colors said. Beto knew how to read them, and he'd better, since Siusini was his engineer after all. Not a good relationship for miscommunications.

"Testing out the crystals you bought the other time?" Beto said while pouring himself a mate.

"RIGHT."

"Are they, uh, good?" Beto asked, not sure how to put it.

"VERY GOOD." the leaves answered, as Siusini shifted the crystals to what Beto assumed was a more pleasant light show for him.

Beto sipped his second -always the best one, after the yerba is settled- mate of the morning and watched the crystals dance in Siusini's tendrils. Being a heterotroph himself, Beto didn't quite get what was so interesting about the focusing crystals that many photosynthetic species enjoyed, but visually, they were very striking.

"You know." Beto said with his usual curiosity, "You never quite told me what does that light show feels, exactly." Siusini's color shifted to one of amusement, and Beto sighed, wondering what he was gonna say.

"EXPLAINING IS DIFFICULT. WE HAVE TALKED ABOUT THIS." the leaves said.

"Oh come on. You can explain how a dark-energy inductor works, but not that?" Beto bantered back, knowing he won the argument.

"WILL TRY THEN." Siusini said, his color still in an ironic hue.

The communication leaves of Siusini shifted a bit in some patterns Beto didn't recognize. "IT IS LIKE. GOOD FOOD. VERY GOOD FOOD. NARCOTICS[?]. [?]."

Beto blinked a couple times, trying to understand. The last two patterns looked familiar, but... Then he noticed Siusini's leaves and tendrils shifting in a rather strange way... and he groaned.

"You dirty motherflower, I shouldn't have asked..." Beto groaned again in the tone of someone defeated while Siusini's leaves shone brighter in their amused state. He just grabbed his thermos and mate and decided to go to the cockpit.

Ragua, always up for some good gossip but who wasn't keeping up with the conversation because of her headphones, followed Beto with a teasing smile. "Wait, wait, what did Sius’ say?" she asked.

"Never mind, you don't wanna know." Beto said as he made his way to the cockpit.

"Come on, tell me, what was it?!"

"Ragua, no."

"COME ON, TELL ME!" Ragua insisted as she hovered on 0g after him, grabbing his leg while he grumbled. "BETITO, COME ON, TELL ME, WAS IT FUNNY? I KNOW IT WAS FUNNY!" She was not gonna let it go and he knew it. But never mind, first it was time to do trajectory corrections and get to work.

And so, another day started in the good spaceship Mastropiero, 614 years after Gagarin.

#I wrote this quite fast but it was fun so I hope you like it too #yes Ragua is supposed to be a bit annoying #campoestela #cosas mias #by the way this is written in English but it's perfectly translatable to Argentine (Rioplatense) Spanish that is part of the fun

32 notes · View notes