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rougepancake · 4 months ago

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The Summoning (ch. 5)

FT. Leon x Gym Leader!Reader

series m.list

SUMMARY: Guys I wrote this while listening to Sexy Bitch by David Guetta and Akon. Did the song inspire any parts of this chapter? Uh… not even close 😭.

Also slightly ooc Bede because I wasn’t really sure how to write him. I did my best but DAMN. Writing is hard I can’t lie.

Wyndon looked incredibly devoid of life at night. The only people that wandered the sidewalks then were drunkards that didn’t know where to go. However, you didn’t see any on your walk. It was cold, so maybe they were all inside getting warm and cozy. Maybe they were with their families, or maybe they weren’t. You looked up at the sky with a frown. It was gloomy, of course.

You sat on a bench outside of Wyndon Station. Going to Ballonlea seemed tempting, but you knew it wasn’t worth the travel. You missed your town. Even if you were returning tomorrow, you felt like you hadn’t been there in ages. You wondered how Allister was fairing since you had left him alone. He hadn’t called you yet, so that was good.

Sudden movement in your peripheral caught your attention. A child no older than fourteen had left the station, his hands shoved in his pockets as he tried to fight the cold. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes were puffy. The poor kid looked rough. He didn’t move, however. He simply stood there.

After watching him for a minute, you decided to speak up. “Are you lost?” You spoke with a gentle tone, rising from your seat on the bench to look at him. The boy jumped upon hearing your voice, and his eyes got wide when he looked at you. It seemed he recognized you. He said nothing. He just stared at you with his puffy purple eyes. “Let’s get you to some place warm…” you approached him slowly, placing a soft hand onto his shoulder before leading him in the direction of the police station. However, he moved away from you when he realized where you were taking him.

“Don’t make me go back…” he mumbled angrily, turning away from you with a shaky sigh. You couldn’t help but be confused. What did he mean by that?

“Where else am I supposed to take you? I’m sure your parents are looking for you—“

He shot you a glare over his shoulder. “I don’t have parents.” Oh. So he was orphaned.

“Can I at least take you back to the orphanage then? The headmistress there must be worried sick—“ he interrupted you once again.

“I’m cold,” he hung his head, his voice wavering. You felt your heart break a little as you watched him.

“Alright alright, follow after me, okay? I’m gonna get you to a nice warm place,” you ushered him to the flying taxi that sat by the Station. He clearly didn’t want to be in Wyndon, despite taking the train there, so you figured you’d take him out to Ballonlea. You needed to be there anyways for your exhibition matches, which meant that you were doing no harm by simply being early. Plus— you knew Allister would be happy to see you.

The cab took off as soon as you sat down, leaving you little to no time to prepare yourself. The boy looked out the window, giving you the impression that he wasn’t very chatty.

“My name is y/n,” you broke the silence, “what’s yours?”

“Bede.”

“Bede? I quite like that name. It suits you,” you looked at him, noticing his Pokéballs. “Are you a gym challenger?”

“I was.”

“I see… how far did you get into the challenge?” You were honestly enjoying the conversation. However, his name seemed slightly familiar to you. In fact, you had felt like you had seen him before.

He hesitated to speak, his head resting on the glass as he watched the region fly by. “… I made it to Stow-on-Side before I was ultimately disqualified… the… person who endorsed me didn’t see me fit enough to continue in the challenge.”

“Oh… that’s… unfortunate…” you frowned, turning to look out your own window. The two of you were almost there. Just a few more minutes. “We’re nearly there.”

Bede had an aura about him that reminded you of someone you’ve met before. You figured you’d ask him more questions when you got to your place. For whatever reason, you had a feeling that you weren’t going to be getting rid of him any time soon.

The cab landed right in front of the fencing that surrounded your house. Bede stepped out of the cab and ignored the cabbie, taking in the sights of Ballonlea with slightly wide eyes. You graciously tipped the cabbie and followed after the child. His expression made you smile. It was true that the sights of the glowing greenery and fungi were mesmerizing at first. You remembered being the same way when you came here for the gym challenge when you were young.

“If this your first time in Ballonlea?” You asked and he huffed in response.

He crossed his arms and turned his head away from you. “Of course not. I’ve been here several times!” It was a blatant lie, but you could tell he was committed to the act.

“Right… I think I’ve heard the gym leader talk about you before,” you smirked, leading him to your house. You opened the door for him, the light from the inside illuminating your face. Bede was now able to get a decent look at your features. He felt his heart drop slightly upon recognizing you, but kept a straight face.

“You’re the Ghost Type gym leader…?” The question left his lips slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he sounded slightly afraid. Had the sight of your face frightened him so? A chuckle left your lips and Bede hung his head. Reluctantly, he took a step inside, shivering at the sudden warmth that washed over his body. He struggled to adjust to it as he walked further into the entryway.

“Follow me, child,” you shrugged off your coat and hung it, leading him to the kitchen and getting him seated at the table. He folded his hands awkwardly on the furniture, his eyes focused on the seat in front of him. As he adjusted to the new setting, you began preparing him a simple meal. Nothing better than Scorebunny shaped macaroni and cheese. You placed a bowl in front of him and then began to take care of the dishes you used. “So tell me the truth, Bede. What brought you to Wyndon in the middle of the night?”

“…” he frowned, staring down at the bowl in front of him. This was all so foreign to him. Someone he had just met had taken him simply because he didn’t want to go home… not to mention how kind you were being to him. Making him something to eat at one in the morning? Not even the people who would wait on him would do such a thing. “I… I ran away… and I was going to go back…”

“So why didn’t you?” Your tone was gentle, yet serious. The sound of dishes clinking echoed in the room for a brief moment, amplified by the silence that filled the air. You knew there was more to it than that. There’s no way there wasn’t. “Bede?” You turned to look at him. Hearing your voice made him jump, seemingly pulling him away from his thoughts and back to the situation at hand.

“Um…” he swallowed, setting down his fork and staring at the food once again. “The person that endorsed me so I could enter the gym challenge was my adoptive father… he pulled his endorsement yesterday and I was to return back home in Wyndon…”

“But you didn’t,” you murmured, your eyes focused on his body language. He seemed timid, almost, which seemed odd given how cocky he came across earlier. Slowly, you walked over to the table and pulled out a seat. You looked at him closely. His eyes were red and puffy, and his cheeks were still quite rosy.

“I didn’t,” he affirmed, refusing to lift his head and meet your stare. “I… I don’t want to go back…” he mumbled.

You sighed softly, pinching the bridge of your nose in thought. “Unfortunately, I have to know the name of your father so I can get in contact with him and let him know you’re alright.” Bede tensed, looking up at you with betrayal in his eyes. “If I don’t at least let him know, then that’s going to fall back on me. I’m too young to be charged with kidnapping,” you said semi seriously, leaning back in your chair to give him some space.

“But he won’t even care,” Bede argued, his eyes searching yours desperately. “Oleana probably already told him anyways. He won’t come looking for me.” The name he mentioned rung a bell within your head, and you perked up at the mention of it.

“Oleana…” your brows furrowed. “Bede you mean to tell me that the man that adopted you is the Chairman?” You let out a scoff of disbelief. “I knew I had seen you before!” You rose from your seat, but the child grabbed your arm, clinging to you.

“Please don’t tell him,” he begged. The look he gave you broke your heart, but you had to at least let someone know where he was.

“Listen…” you crouched down to his level, looking him right in the eyes. “In terms of Galar’s laws, you’re free to travel and do as you please once you set out on your journey to become a trainer.” You didn’t have it in you to actually follow through with telling Rose. “If you want to stay with me until you find somewhere else to go, then that’s your choice. But, as long as you’re under my roof, you’ll be training at my Gym. Is that a deal?”

Bede nodded slowly. He was so incredibly thankful that you had changed your mind. At this point he was willing to do anything just to make it up to you.

“There’s a guest room upstairs to the left. Go ahead and get some rest,” you took his bowl and headed back over to the sink. “Make sure to be quiet. I’ve got an adopted son of my own who sleeps in the room at the end of the hallway.” Bede nodded and left the kitchen. Once you heard the door to the guest room close, you quickly pulled out your phone, calling the first person you could think of.

Leon? No.

Piers.

Now you weren’t one hundred percent sure he’d pick up the phone, especially since he had upcoming exhibition matches later in the day. Then again, you didn’t really know that much about Piers. He might be a night owl. That would make a lot of sense actually, especially since he always seemed to have incredibly dark circles around his eyes.

“Hullo?” The sound of his tired voice met your ears and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Uh… hey..! I didn’t wake you, did I?” You stammered. You wanted to kick yourself for being anxious.

“Nah, I jus’ got done with a show.” Oh yeah. You had totally forgotten about his musical career. “Is everythin’ alright?”

You paused, thinking about how to phrase your next sentence. “Has Marnie told you about the kid that’s been endorsed by the Chairman?

Piers grunted, recalling what his sister had told him about the kid. “Yeah, she told me he was a little jerk. She said he got disqualified from tha gym challenge for destroyin’ somethin’ in Stow-on-Side for Rose’s name.” You frowned upon hearing that, looking down at the floor as you leaned against the counter.

“Well… I’ve been staying in Wyndon the past few days, and while on a walk I stumbled across a kid who had just gotten off the train. Listen— the whole reason I’m bringing this up is because the kid I found is Marnie’s age and happens to be the kid endorsed by Rose,” you began to pace as you spoke, anxiously thrumming your fingers against the backside of your phone. “According to Galarian laws, I can take him in so long as I’m training him, right?”

“Yeah that’s the law,” he paused. You heard him take a deep breath, exhaling in a slow whistle. “Are ya still in Wyndon?”

“No, I’m not. I took him back to Ballonlea so he could get proper rest in a warm bed. Listen Piers, he really doesn’t want to go back. I’m torn. This is the Rose’s son, after all. I—“ you were cut off by the sound of rustling clothes. “What are you doing? Are you going back out?” You spoke fast, something that you didn’t usually do. Though, to be fair, this whole situation had you a little on edge.

“Piers doesn’t do encores.” You looked over and checked the time. Two thirty in the morning. “Ballonlea, right? I’m headin’ out. Meet me by th’ Pokécenter.” He hung up abruptly, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Hastily, you rushed to freshen yourself up, to look somewhat decent for a man that couldn’t care less about appearances. You ran a comb through your hair and threw on your coat.

That was when the rain started. Pouring, unrelenting rain. Hail followed shortly after, giant chunks of ice falling from the sky. Of course. Umbrella in hand, you pushed through the harsh weather. You wound up reaching the Pokécenter right as Piers’ cab was landing. The cabbie gave you both a nod and left. You now stood in front of Piers, a man you were considering to be dating material no less than five hours ago. In short, you felt very awkward standing there with him. Maybe you should’ve just woken Leon up.

After standing there for a minute, Piers spoke up, looking out at the horrid weather. “So how are we gonna make it to your place?” You felt your heart jump, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. With a sigh, you followed his gaze. The hail seemed to get bigger with each passing second.

“I suppose we’ll just have to run,” you mused, your grip on your umbrella tightening. Looking at Piers, you noticed that you had a hood and he didn’t. So, naturally, you passed off your umbrella to him and threw on your hood. He gave you a confused look, but upon seeing your determination, he kept the umbrella. You grabbed ahold of his wrist and dragged him out into the harsh weather. Wind immediately began to whip against your face, nearly pushing your hood off of your head.

Hail hit your body as you walked, the rain drenching you entirely. You could hardly see the ground in front of you, each step you took growing less and less confident. The outline of your house came into sight and you let out a relived sigh. You began to walk faster, dragging Piers behind you through the rain. As soon as the two of you were protected by your front porch you turned to look at him. Surprisingly enough, he wasn’t drenched. He so lucked out.

You opened the door for him, leaving your shoes outside before joining him. Arceus you were practically soaked.

“Just make yourself at home,” you said with a shiver. Piers nodded and found his way to the living room. Coincidentally enough, he went and he sat a seat away from Leon usually sat. “I’m going to go get changed real quick,” you explained before speed walking up the stairs. Your room was the one on the far right, but you chose to make a detour at the guest room to check in Bede.

Despite being sopping wet and cold, you felt a need to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, he was asleep, resting peacefully in his new bed. You smiled at the sight. It made you feel better to know that he felt comfortable here. You closed the door and went to Allister’s room. He and Mimikyu were out cold. His mask sat on the nightstand beside his bed, right next to a Pokéball. You tilted your head at the sight. So far Allister only had Mimikyu in his party. Had he caught another Pokémon while you were away?

You grinned. Bit by bit he was coming out of his shell. Oh you were so proud of him.

You closed the door and went to your room to change. Each piece of clothing you pealed off left you feeling much colder than before. When you were fully undressed, you snatched up a towel and dried yourself off. You threw on something simple and headed back downstairs to talk things out with Piers.

“Feelin’ warmer?” He looked up from his phone to see you. Tired eyes briefly met your own, causing you to stutter. You didn’t know why, but Piers just seemed to make you anxious. Not like bad anxious. But more like the type of anxiety that only a small crush can cause. A teeny tiny, itty bitty, totally not a big deal, crush.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you responded after clearing your throat. You sat down on the sofa across from him, leaning into the plushness with a sigh. “So why did you choose to come out here?” You asked after a minute or two. His decision to fly all the way out to Ballonlea from Spikemuth confused you.

“You sounded like you were freakin’ out on th’ phone,” he leaned forward to study you. “I thought it might help t’ have someone that isn’t a child here.” His words made your heart swell. How considerate of him. Would Leon have done the same thing? A shiver pulled you from your thoughts. Now was not the time to be asking those questions. “Oh, an’ before you freak out again, I’m not gonna rat you out.”

“I—“ you let out a relieved chuckle. A smile made its way to your face and you hung your head. “Thank you, Piers. I really owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me nothin’. You’ve given more to Spikemuth than I could ever dream of.” He was so sweet when he had no right to be. “It’s me that owes you, an’ I’m makin’ it up by helpin’ you out.” Slowly, you raised your head, meeting his gaze with hesitation. Just looking at him made you feel embarrassed. But why? He hadn’t done anything but be nice. Was that it? Was it his kindness that was throwing you off?

“Are you sure? This is a really big thing we’re talking about here,” you sighed. Piers gave you a look of reassurance before getting up and sitting next to you. Naturally, you tensed at his closeness. You watched him hesitate to place a hand on your shoulder. Was he just as nervous as you were..?

“It’ll be fine. You’re followin’ th’ rules. That should be enough.” You could feel the coldness of his glove through your shirt. Your head turned and you looked at him, taking in his features while you could. The rain continued to pour outside, which meant that Piers wouldn’t be going home any time soon.

“You have exhibition matches tomorrow…” you mumbled, unable to tear your eyes from his. A light shade of pink dusted his cheeks, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

“You’re right…” he trailed of as you had, finding himself to be lost in your eyes. He had always found you to be rather attractive, but seeing you as he was only made him more aware of your beauty. His heart throbbed in his chest as he removed his hand from your shoulder. “Um… it’s late…” he looked away awkwardly, now staring at the clock above the fireplace. You followed his gaze and frowned.

“Yeah…” you cringed at your response. Yeah? Who the hell says that? Your eye twitched and you frowned. “You’ll have to leave early to get to Spikemuth on time.”

“Huh? I was just gonna go now—“ Piers froze, finally acknowledging the rain. He stared blankly at the floor in thought. Your words began registering in his head. Leave early? Did you want him to spend the night? He looked up at you, noticing the embarrassed smile you wore. “Is it cool if I crash here?”

“Of course—!” You chuckled nervously and stood up. “Uh… let me show you to my room.”

“Your room?” His face reddened at the thought.

“Y-Yeah? I’ll stay out here and you can rest up there—“

“I’m not gonna steal your bed!” He suddenly stood upright, his eyes focused on yours. He was stiff, his shoulders scrunched up awkwardly as he stared you down. “I… I mean…” he looked away, pursing his lips, “I’ll take th’ couch. You can have your bed back.”

A nervous chuckle escaped you. “Are you sure? I think I’ve got an inflatable mattress somewhere in the attic—“ the look on his face caused you to trail off. He looked so embarrassed, despite only being slightly flushed. You were beginning to feel bad that you had made him so flustered. Though you weren’t sure why. “I’ll go and get a few heavy blankets for you then,” you backed away slowly. The tension in the air was so horribly thick that you could’ve reached out and grabbed it. Plus, you needed a breather.

You opened the door to the closet underneath the staircase. It didn’t take you long to grab a few blankets that you thought would be warm enough. With the blankets in hand, you peered into the living room, giving Piers a sheepish smile.

“Will these be enough?” You walked towards him slowly.

“Yeah,” he reached out and took the blankets from you before turning away from you. He brought a hand up to his neck to rub it as he stood there. “Uhh, g’night.” You noticed that his ears were turning a bright shade of red. Piers was no stranger to the eyes of others, especially since he recently became one of the top artists in the world. Though, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was about you that made him act so out of character. You gave him an awkward wave before leaving and heading back upstairs.

You knew that if you went to sleep that Eternatus would visit you. You weren’t quite ready for that just yet, so you sat down on the edge of your bed and opened up your phone. It turned out that you had a few missed calls from none other than… wait a second. How in the world had this person gotten your number? And why were they calling you?

“So you must be Oleana,” you said rather smoothly. At first, nothing but the sound of static came from the other side. You really thought you were getting pranked.

“We have important matters to discuss, y/n.”

꧁ ༺ ─── ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ─── ༻ ꧂

Morning arose, the bright sunlight shining through the dark clouds that hung over the region. Piers had left your place a little early to ensure he’d be back in Spikemuth on time, but he made sure to write you a note and leave it on the counter. He was tired, as usual, and a little unenthusiastic for the day’s matches. Going based off of everything that Marnie had told him, these kids were going to be a challenge for him.

He stepped out of his shower, using the closest towel to dry off his long, and rather messy, hair. In front of him stood the sink, and above it was the mirror. He took a second to simply stare at himself. Oh how tired he looked. He frowned and looked down at his body. For a moment, he wondered what made him think he was good enough for someone like you. He shook his head and wrapped the towel loosely around his waist.

All he could think about was how concerned you had been for that kid. Then he remembered how quickly you had spoken up in Allister’s defense at the meeting a few days ago. Days. Over the span of just a few days he had fallen so hard for an idea that seemed to be so incredibly out of his reach. He pulled his uniform top over his head. Watching you speak out against Rose like you had made him admire you more than he already did. Of course he had always found your donations to Spikemuth to be so generous, but watching you defend the one thing that you cared about just made him wonder.

Everything you had said in that argument had been true, and mostly rooted in genuine concern for the region. But your connection to Allister… it reminded him of how much he loved Marnie. He recalled the glint in your eyes when you slammed your hands onto the table. He had related to you. Many times had he gotten into fights for the sake of protecting his sister, and to watch one of the most distinguished trainers in the region do the same made him feel like he wasn’t really alone.

The ache in his heart was one of pure longing. He couldn’t really explain why he had fallen for you, despite having tried through song. He didn’t like the pain it caused him. Recently he had begun to lose more sleep, simply because he didn’t want to close his eyes and see you standing there. Each time, he’d see you standing right in front of him, your back facing him. Each time, you’d be just out of reach. And he’d try. He’d try each and every time to simply reach out to you. He wanted desperately to know that he wasn’t alone. He craved connection with you so much that he had begun to feel like he was losing his mind.

How come the one thing he wanted the most was so far out of reach?

Piers slid on his boots with a heavy sigh. He’d forever regret coming over to calm you down. Not because he didn’t want to help you, but because it only intensified his feelings. Thunder rolled in the distance. He had forgotten all about the rain. The clock on his nightstand read nine o’clock in the morning. Thankfully he was almost done getting ready.

He sat down on the edge of his bed and frowned. He had yet to see any spectators getting ready for the upcoming challengers. He stood up and pulled back a black curtain, pressing his face against the window to see the entrance to Spikemuth closed. All he could do was look at it. Maybe that was a sign. He had been thinking of retiring after Marnie finished the gym challenge.

The curtain was released from his grip, falling back into place against his window. He envied it. For each time it was disturbed by an outside force, it would fall back into its original position. He wished he could do the same.

With a heavy heart, he left his apartment and headed to the stage. He’d deal with his feelings later if he ever got around to going on that date with you. He was hoping he’d be able to stump the upcoming challengers so he’d be able to see you, but he knew he was in over his head. At least one of them would beat him. There was always one that was much stronger than the rest.

He subconsciously fiddled with his choker as he walked down the street. He heard a few Team Yell members say something about Marnie leading a friend inside, which made him frown deeper. He took his place on the stage and waited. The mic stand before him was gripped with shaky hands. Never had he been so nervous. Were you the one to blame? Or was it Marnie…

Marnie entered the area, and another young girl joined her not too long after. They spoke some before the girl stepped up.

“So you’re finally here, huh?” He eyed the girl. This one. This one was the outlier. “Now then…” he stepped down off the stage and onto the court. Of course, he took the mic stand with him. It added to his charm as a gym leader. “This song’s for you, foolish trainer!”

꧁ ༺ ─── ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ─── ༻ ꧂

Leon sat upright in his temporary bed. Dreams had eluded him, but he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was amiss. He swung his legs over the side and stretched. Curiously, he peered over to look between the two doors that connected him to your room. He had yet to hear anything from you, which he found to be odd. You would’ve been ready by now.

He grabbed his phone and looked at it. No messages or anything. Had you just gone back to Ballonlea for your matches? The longer he stared at your contact the more he felt alone. Why hadn’t you said anything to him? He sighed and got up. He’d have to push you out of his thoughts for now. In fact, he was due for a meeting with the Chairman.

He carelessly threw off his shirt on the way to the bathroom. If you weren’t here, then he didn’t need to worry about you seeing him shirtless. Again. He set his phone on the counter in hopes that you would message him soon. You had him worried. Hell, you had him panicked. Why had you left without a word? Had he done something to upset you?

The water was warm as it rushed down his back. He could practically feel it soak into him. Slowly, he washed his hair, eyeing his phone through the glass door. Maybe you’d message him. Hopefully you’d message him. His heart sank. If he didn’t end up hearing from you soon, he’d have to resort to going all the way out to Ballonlea. Curse his inability to read maps.

He shut off the water and wrapped the towel around his waist. The screen of his phone lit up and he nearly slipped while trying to get to it. However, the sight of the contact made his expression fall. The Chairman sent him a message. Hesitantly, he opened it up, reading its contents slowly.

Rose had questions. And Leon had answers.

Things were only going to go downhill.

Leon got dressed as quickly as he could before heading out of the hotel. Fans immediately swarmed him, their voices giving him a headache. He smiled at each one of them, passing out league cards and such to hold them off. Once he got to the monorail, he set off for Rose Tower. The gloomy weather only added to his growing feeling of dread. The monorail came to a halt, leaving him standing in front of a building that he had always been wary of.

Slowly, he began to walk towards it. The doors automatically opened, yet there was no sign of the Chairman. In fact, he didn’t see anyone at all.

A door at the end of the corridor opened, the light from it illuminating that end of the room. A voice called out to him.

“I would appreciate it if you joined me for some tea, Leon.” It was the voice of a woman. She sounded sinister, and it unnerved him. He frowned, taking tiny steps towards the door.

“What do you want, Oleana?” He asked as she shut the door behind him.

“To ask questions, of course.”

꧁ ༺ ─── ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ─── ༻ ꧂

Bede came down the stairs to see you talking seriously with Allister. He had yet to meet Allister, but the thought made him cringe. He wasn’t too fond of children other than himself. Hesitantly, he cleared his throat, which caused both you and the other boy to look at him. You waved him over and he frowned. Allister had always been painted as a weird kid, most likely due to his love for ghost type Pokémon and the mask he wore. Bede didn’t really want to sit down and have a ‘family discussion’ despite his current situation being the closest thing he’d ever get to having a family.

“Allister, this is the other child that will be training under me,” you said gently. You had a hand on his shoulder, your expression kind. Bede softened at the sight. Was that how he was going to be treated? Would you love him too?

“H-Hello…” the child mumbled, his head hung. Bede nodded awkwardly, giving you a look before taking a deep breath and opening his mouth.

“I don’t know how much she has told you, but I will in fact be staying here for a while,” he tapped his fingers against his thighs underneath the table. “Um…” he looked at you for reassurance. He had never really been good at talking to kids his age. “Yeah…” he trailed off and looked away.

You stood up and nodded, clasping your hands together before going off and grabbing a few dishes. “I’ve made breakfast for you both. If you need anything, I’ll be at the Gym. I may or may not have exhibition matches today, so I’ll let you know if anything changes. Bede, my number is pinned on the fridge if you need anything. If you have any questions, then don’t be afraid to ask Allister.” You stretched your arms over your head and walked over to the door. You slid on your shoes and left.

Bede found your behavior to be strange. You were acting like everything was normal, even though your life had just been turned upside down. He turned to look at Allister, who had pushed up his mask so he could eat. It felt strange. He felt strange. To go from almost returning to a home that didn’t love him to one that took him in with open arms, it was all too much for him to handle. He sighed and began to eat, and, surprisingly, he found the food you prepared to be rather delicious.

“So what do you do while she’s out?” Bede asked after a while. He could see Allister jump at the sound of his voice. He frowned.

“U-um… I just… train ‘n stuff…” he spoke between bites. When he finished his meal, he got up and put his dishes in the sink. Mimikyu followed him, hopping around excitedly.

“Will she let me into the gym?” Bede stood up and followed after Allister. He wanted to get a taste for your battle style. He wanted to challenge you and win. He wanted—

“Yeah… she lets anyone in,” the younger boy mumbled as he picked up Mimikyu. He then left the room, and Bede was left alone with his curious mind.

He took care of his own dishes before pulling out his Hatenna. It looked up at him expectantly, cooing when he picked it up and placed it on his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he left the house and began walking toward the gym. For some reason, it felt great to have free will. It felt even greater to be able to head out without his duties looming over him. He finally got to experience what it was like to be a child. A smile made its way onto his face as he stood at the entrance to the gym. That was the first time he had ever smiled so sincerely. It felt weird. He got rid of it and opened the doors, stopping when he saw you standing in the lobby.

“You know, I thought you’d come here,” you chuckled, walking towards him. “Are you willing to begin your training?” You seemed to have a different aura now that you were in the gym, and it threw him off. You seemed… confident. Bede nodded in response, watching as you eyed his Hatenna. You nodded and led him out onto the field.

A few spectators sat in the stands, but other than that it was empty. No announcers, no nothing. It felt odd to be in a gym without the rush the audience provided. You stopped walking when you reached the center of the field. You pulled out a Pokéball and dropped it. Chandelure appeared, crying out into the air as it stretched. It floated above the ground, spinning mesmerizingly. It was beautiful.

“Use your Pokémon to defeat Chandelure,” you said simply, walking off to the sidelines.

“That’s it? That’s my training?” He set down Hatenna and pulled out Gothita. “That’s too easy. Psychic type moves are super effective on Ghost types.” Gothita gave Chandelure a nervous look, turning around to look back at Bede.

“If you say so,” you smirked. Wait, why weren’t you standing on your side of the field? Was Chandelure just going to sit there? No… that was too simple. “Good luck!” You called, grabbing the lawn chair Gengar had just brought you and sitting down. You were curious to see how Bede handled battle. Especially against your strongest Pokémon.

While Bede was battling, you decided to check your phone. You had a few messages from Piers and a missed call from Leon. Your heart sank.

“Leon? Is everything alright?” You called him back, glad that he picked up. “I’m sorry that I didn’t message you sooner, but something came up and I’ve been dealing with it all day.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” he paused, “Oleana called me in to Rose Tower. She wanted to ask about our studies. I told her that we didn’t really get anywhere, but she didn’t buy it,” he sighed.

“She called me this morning,” you said slowly. You found it odd that she had reached out to him too. “But she didn’t ask me about that stuff.”

“Really? That’s odd.”

“Just wait, it gets weirder. She knew about my dreams of Eternatus. Leon she knows more than she’s letting on, I know it. If she knows, then Rose knows. What will they do when they figure everything out?” You sighed, frowning slightly. “Listen,” you lowered your voice, “Eternatus is connected to Ballonlea in some way. That statue? Each generation of Opal’s family has taken care of it since the age of the two kings. But because Opal never had children, I’m guessing those duties were passed on to me,” you paused to allow him to process everything. “It’s all connected to our situation at hand— I just don’t know how…”

Bede let out a groan of frustration as Chandelure rendered Gothita unconscious. He wasted no time sending out Solosis.

“Your connection to this thing is very interesting,” Leon said after a while. “You know, Sonia is actually looking into the tale of the two kings, I’m sure she’d like to hear your story.”

“Let’s save that for after we deal with Eternatus.”

“You’re right. What are you doing right now?”

“I’m watching my latest pupil train—“ you cut yourself off, feeling your phone buzz. Piers sent you another message. “Scratch that, I’m getting ready for exhibition matches. I suppose your brother and his buddies made it past Piers after all.” You stood up from your chair and looked out at the field.

“Of course he did. He’s a force to be reckoned with, that one,” he chuckled loudly on the other end. “Is it okay if I come to the gym to watch them? I’d love to see the progress he’s made.”

“Yeah I don’t mind. Piers said he’d be there too, since he wants to watch Marnie complete the gym challenge.” You gestured for Bede to take a break. “Just don’t get lost.” Leon simply laughed and hung up. You wandered over to Bede, who looked confused. “Go get Allister and tell him I’ve got upcoming matches. He’ll show you where to sit, so don’t worry about that,” you paused, smiling softly at the child before you. “You did very well today. I’ll make sure to give you some pointers next time.”

Bede froze, his eyes widening slightly. He couldn’t believe you thought he did good. He couldn’t believe that you, the third strongest trainer in the region, thought that he did good. He stared at you for a second before walking off the field. Your words had rendered him speechless.

Once he was off the field, you began to take over. Staff members began appearing and spectators started to filter in. Wow. The word gets around fast in Galar.

You left the field and headed for the lobby. It was much more hectic than you imagined. Tons of people were in line to buy tickets, causing your jaw to drop in shock. It had been quite a long time since one of your matches had been completely sold out. You weren’t even sure if you had enough seating room for some of these people. With a smile, you snuck into the locker room and waited patiently for your first challenger.

Sure enough, the first one of the bunch was Hop. He entered the maze eagerly. His attitude remained the same even as he continued to make collisions with dead ends. His smile looked just like his brother’s. It was contagious too, since you found yourself smiling while watching the footage.

Eventually, he made it out to the field, where you joined him. He stared at you in awe, letting out a gasp as his eyes followed your movements.

“Challenger Hop, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” you held yourself upright as you spoke, making you tower over the kid. He grinned. “I’ve heard many good things about you and your friends.”

“I’m so excited to be here!” He shouted, and the crowd chuckled. “I’ve been waiting so long to challenge your gym!” He was practically jumping for joy, which made you smile.

“That feeling will change when you lose, don’t worry,” you taunted, taking a step back so you could appropriately summon your first Pokémon. You decided to start with Gengar for this battle, since it seemed eager to fight. Hop brought out a Dubwool, his eyes shining with determination. You smirked, looking up at the stands before beginning the battle.

Gengar easily took out Dubwool. It was at an advantage since Normal type moves aren’t effective against Ghost types. He then pulled out Snorlax. Seriously? Had he not learned from the last one? You raised a brow, confused by his thought process. You ordered Gengar to take it out, but right as it moved, Snorlax did too. It took your Gengar out with it, leaving both Pokémon unconscious on the field. You were bewildered. Never had you encountered a Pokémon strong enough to take Gengar out with just one move.

“What an interesting move. However, I’m ahead,” you spoke as you brought out Trevenant. Hop’s eyes widened at the sight. Your Trevenant was larger than the standard height for its species, which meant that it towered over most Pokémon. Cinderace met it on the field, which made you sigh. After this you’d have one last Pokémon to drag out. Hop may’ve been at a type advantage now, but you’d still win.

After all, you never lost. It simply just wasn’t in your nature.

In the blink of an eye, Trevenant took down Cinderace. Hop’s smile faltered a little. He was surprised by the raw strength of your Pokémon. Hesitantly, he called out the last Pokémon in his party, Corviknight.

The crowd cheered both of you on, chanting excitedly as they watched. Your opponent was getting a bit emotional, seeing as he threw his arms around with each bad move he made. Oh yeah. He was just like his brother.

The battle came to a conclusion and you saw him off. You told him to come back when you finished up with his friends. He went off to sit in the stands, unaware that his older brother had seen the whole thing. You stepped off the field to heal your Pokémon, and a brief intermission followed while the next challenger entered your trial. It was Marnie.

Your battle against Marnie went rougher than Hop’s. She had a type advantage throughout the whole thing, but you managed to gain the upper hand and throw her off with your Chandelure. If not for your dynamaxing Chandelure, you might’ve lost that battle. You shuddered. These trainers really were a force to be reckoned with. You wondered if Raihan was going to be able to hold them off as well as you were.

The final challenger set foot into the trial, and you instantly knew that this was the one. This was Gloria. Sweet and innocent looking, yet this kid knew her shit. She had powered through all of the gyms prior, and seemed to be much stronger than she looked. You grinned. Challenging her was going to be a wonderful challenge.

But you’d win, as per usual.

“Well hello there, Challenger Gloria,” you smiled as you spoke. You unintentionally came across as intimidating, causing her to nervously chuckle. She said nothing as she shook your hand, taking her place on the field in silence. Unusual. Whatever, you were going to rock her shit.

Unfortunately, you were wrong. You lost the battle, but just barely. The battle was intense and stress inducing, but you got the chance to Gigantamax Gengar, so there was that. You had wiped out all but one of her Pokémon rather quickly, only seeming to struggle when she pulled out her partner Pokémon. Things went downhill when she took out your Runerigus.

You stood before her on the field, shaking her hand as you handed her your badge and uniform. She looked at you with gleaming eyes. She still said nothing, her eyes on yours. There was something about her that put you off. Her strength astonished you. How did she manage to get so strong in such a short amount of time.

“Raihan is waiting for you in Hammerlocke,” you told her, “make sure to beat his ass on my behalf.” She giggled and stepped off the field.

Hop stepped up for his rematch. You let him win (just barely), and handed off your badge to him. Marnie followed, looking much more confident than before. You heard Piers cheer her name loudly, causing you to laugh. Marnie won fair and square, though just barely. You gave her your badge and sent her on her way.

A long sigh escaped you as you returned to the locker rooms. You felt exhausted. Those kids were much stronger than you let on. In fact, your Chandelure was having a hard time keeping up with them. Especially with Marnie. Curse type matchups.

You stared down at your hands in silence, thinking over everything that had happened to you over the past few days. It all seemed to be moving so fast. First you have that meeting, then you begin history hunting with the Champion, and now you have a date with Piers—

“Oh my Arceus,” you mumbled, rubbing a hand across your face. You had forgotten all about your date with Piers! Well, it wasn’t necessarily a date, but still. You stood up and stretched. You were going to have to get ready fast if you wanted to be done by the time he left Ballonlea.

Weather sirens howled. Your phone began to blow up. You could feel your heart drop as you picked it up and scrolled through the several notifications you received.

Groups of well trained trainers were heading out into the wild area to help take down the dynamaxing Pokémon. You hadn’t realized that it had gotten so out of hand.

Just then, you heard several screams coming from the field. Without wasting any time, you rushed out, gasping at the sight before you. Several people were paralyzed by fear, stuck in one place despite the danger they faced. You looked up into the stands and saw that Leon and Piers were still there. Bede and Allister stood next to them.

“Evacuate the gym!” You shouted, ushering them to act hastily. “Don’t worry about me! I’ll handle this!” You reassured as you brought out Chandelure’s Pokéball. Desperate times call for desperate measures. You were going to deal with this.

You held the ball and turned to face the dynamaxed Kommo-o. How it had gotten into the gym, you had no idea. It did worry you, though. This Pokémon was known for being aggressive and territorial. If it chose to put up a fight, you didn’t know what you’d do.

Taking a deep breath, you sent Chandelure out onto the field. You needed to wait to dynamax it, lest you throw away your opportunity to weaken it. Chandelure fought, each move in sync with yours. It moved left, you did too. This was a battling style that was rare among trainers, seeing as many simply don’t have a good enough relationship with their Pokémon. It was said that the longer you could keep up, the stronger Chandelure would get. Some Pokémon have even changed appearances due to the bond they have with their trainer.

“Wait—!” You screamed as Kommo-o swung, knocking your partner to the side like a bug. You watched in horror, looking over to the stands and seeing Bede standing next to Allister. What the hell were they still doing there? Did they not realize it was dangerous? You closed your eyes, taking a brief moment to collect yourself. Chandelure was okay, you could feel it. When you opened your eyes, you realized that you had perfectly synced with it. You were able to see everything it saw, and feel everything that it felt.

Now. Now was the time to dynamax.

Chandelure grew in size, changing in appearance to take on a much more sinister form of itself. It looked terrifying. The move it made was even more so. In one swift turn, it began draining the life force from the Kommo-o. The creature cried out before stumbling backwards into the stands. Thankfully that side had already been cleared out. Your partner weakened it with ease, nearly killing it in the process. Once you deemed it safe, you attempted to catch it. You were going to turn this one in to Rose.

“Y/n saved us!” A voice shouted in awe, pulling you from the trance you were in. You lost your sync with Chandelure and it returned to its original form, size and all. You turned to see who had called out, noticing that they had a phone in their hand. Had they recorded the incident? Surely not.

“The stadium was supposed to be empty!” You frowned, looking at your Pokémon. “Let’s go. You’re looking awfully rough,” you put it back into its Pokéball and left the field.

In the locker rooms, you found yourself being bombarded by texts and calls from various people you knew. Apparently your battle with the dangerous Pokémon had gone viral, and people were commending you for your bravery. They were calling your bond with Chandelure an amazing phenomena. According to the messages you received, no such thing had been recorded in Galar’s battle history.

“Are you alright?” Leon’s voice met your ears. Next to him stood Piers and the boys. Poor children. They looked horribly worried.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you looked down at the floor, “but Chandelure… and the stadium…” you sighed and shook your head.

“Hey don’t worry about that right now. You saved all of those people, that’s what matters,” he stepped forward and placed a hand on your shoulder. You nodded slowly in agreement.

“You’re right…” you lifted your head and looked at Allister, opening your arms for a hug. He ran towards you, holding onto you tightly. “I’m so glad you boys are safe,” you whispered, motioning Bede over. Reluctantly, he joined you.

“How did that thing even get in there?” Piers asked, leaning against the wall. He was trying to play off his jealousy of Leon, but he couldn’t stop looking at him.

Leon stepped back and scratched his head in thought. “It might’ve belonged to a trainer in the stands. If so, then that means…” he turned slowly to look at you, his expression fallen.

“It’s not just wild Pokémon that can dynamax at random.”

꧁ ༺ ─── ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ─── ༻ ꧂

Rose sat at the table, staring blankly at the tea in front of him. Eternatus would wake up any day now, at any given time. Dread filled his heart. Was he really making the best possible decision for the region? He felt he was in the right, but the more he continued to think about it, the more he wondered. Was this dangerous?

His phone buzzed on the table, the screen illuminating as notifications covered the lock screen. Everything he saw was in reference to your battle with a dynamaxed Kommo-o that tore apart your gym’s stadium. There was a video he saw, but he didn’t watch it. Though, one article in particular caught his attention. The image above the headline was one of you looking over your shoulder, your Chandelure behind you, its eyes glowing the same color as yours. The headline read ‘Gym Leader Y/n defends crowd by showing Galar why she’s ranked top three in the region.’

He noticed that both you and your Pokémon had changed appearance to resemble each other in the moment. Cases of such things happening had only been reported in Kalos, and even then these occurrences were incredibly rare. He stared at the picture, reading the headline over and over just so he could make sense of it.

Plenty of times Rose has witnessed you fight, assessing you to get a gauge on just how strong you and your team are. He’d done that with the other gym leaders, creating fail proof systems to take them down if need be. Because of this, he thought he knew each and every one of your tricks.

This news only made him wonder if you were secretly stronger than he thought. If that was the case, then that meant Raihan and Leon were on the same level.

He felt reassured, to a degree. He had planned that Leon would be the one to catch Eternatus and save the region. If you were that strong, and, hypothetically, Leon surpassed you, then that meant Galar was in good hands.

Rose put away his phone, redirecting his gaze to the tea before him. He grabbed the small cup and took a sip, turning his head to look out of the large window beside him. He recalled seeing Bede in the background of one of your photos, which made his heart hurt. Of course he had found you. Of course. He took another sip of the tea. Now Bede would have you and Allister. That was more of a family than he could’ve provided anyhow. Yet, it still caused him pain to think about.

Family. He envied you and your growing family. You had many people to care about you, and you cared about many people, which was a stark contrast to Rose’s life. Rose had himself to care about. All of his family had either cut him off or passed away, which meant that he was eternally alone. Of course, Oleana was always there, but Rose didn’t like Oleana. He found her to be selfish and annoying, which wasn’t something that he wanted to be surrounded by forever.

He sighed. Macro Cosmos had already begun preparations for Eternatus’ awakening. Despite being in charge of it all, he wasn’t quite sure what they were doing. Apparently they were in the process of designing a Pokéball that would be able to withstand Eternatus’ abilities. He found the idea laughable. That creature wasn’t going to go down without a fight once it awoke, so why bother? If he was making Leon take care of it, then his group really didn’t have anything to worry about.

Hammerlocke, however, was going to need to be on high alert. He didn’t wish to tell them though, as it would spare him the long explanation of why he was doing what he was. He frowned as he thought of Raihan. Despite his strength as a Pokémon trainer, Raihan didn’t stand a chance against the raw strength of Eternatus. To be fair, you didn’t either. He scoffed. He didn’t even know if Leon was capable enough to handle it, he just knew that if he pushed it onto him, that the man would step up.

Rose took another sip of the tea. It was cold. He frowned.

He missed his brother.

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northernbluetongue · 7 months ago

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🐉🐺❄️

Whatever dread Hiccup was harboring inside him vanished. Snow gathered at the edges of his vision as he leaned in to kiss Jack goodbye. He was in love — he was loved. He wanted to ask Jack if he could come with him this time. The fierce desire to step over the threshold of Berk with both Toothless and Jack by his side reared its head, but he swallowed it for now, content with the chilly pressure of Jack’s forehead against his. He was in love, he was loved, and he was struck with a deep certainty that he would do anything to keep that love in his life. He shivered from the gentle sensation of Jack’s claws tracing his cheekbone. He’d keep this. As long as Jack loved him. He’d keep this.

It’s not the exact anniversary, but last April I posted the first WWH drawing which led to me meeting the some of the loveliest people, making a genuine friendship, and rapidly developing my artistic style and writing voice. It’s so bizarre to think this crack crossover ship would mean so much to me in the last year but it did. What is in the water here. Anyway. Thank you for engaging with my work, it means the world!

#How To Train Your Dragon #HTTYD #Rise of The Guardians #ROTG #Winter Hymnal AU #HiJack #FrostCup #Hiccup x Jack #Jack x Hiccup #Jack Frost #Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III #Toothless

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gmanwhore · 8 months ago

Note

That would be awesomepoggers in my opinion!! Also i think no matter what Homestuck me would find a way to communicate with Homestuck you due to Heart and Blood shenanigans

Of course of course.

#asks #i think the alpha me would be named Hymn #as hymnal is the older mature counterpart to me #and beta me would ne onyx #starts with o and ends with x

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sink-me-in-your-ocean · 1 year ago

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Careful What You Wish For

Sodo/Dewdrop Ghoul x fem!Reader Smut

W/C: 3560

A/N: Never been more mesmerized in my life then when I went to my first ritual... Unashamedly staring at this fucking ghoul all night. Thank you @endhisbloodlineinmyesophagus for reading this first 💕

Content warnings: sodomy (obviously, which ghoul do you think this is?) m!receiving (oral), fingering, P in V sex, shame/embarrassment, voyeurism. Minors DNI.

“Straight through there, sister, you can’t miss it.” You received an unceremonious shove from Sister Adelaide. After catching yourself on the railing you continued down the curving stone stairwell alone. Your footsteps scuffed along the ice cold, ancient grey stone.

It was freezing in the basement of the ministry, and you wished silently that the good Sister had allowed you to dress properly before she dragged you out of your shared bedroom. All you wore was a black night slip, and though it easily reached to your knees, its lace and satin offered no solace from the nipping, stale air. With no relief from the cold, all you prayed for was that you wouldn’t run into anyone down here.

Finally, you reached the base of the stairs. A single black candle glowed from its head-level position on the wall. You squinted at it, considering it an omen, telling you not to go further. You peered out into the distance, feeling lost already. You can’t miss it my ass. You made a mental note to “thank” the Sister later for her astute direction.

Suddenly, the first long corridor was lit instantaneously by a long trail of wall-mounted candelabras. It provided the only light source as you tiptoed along. The soft, yellow light carried you forth to meet a wooden door. You pushed it open with ease and were met with black darker than night.

You stumble blindly forward through a series of black velvet curtains. Once you step through the first one, your heart kicks up in rhythm, the light seemingly sucked out of the hallway behind you and the door falling closed on its hinges with a creak.

You take three more less-than-graceful steps and shove through one final curtain to find yourself in a dark room, lit by dim blue ambient light. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust, and you take a quick stock of your surroundings: a dark chaise lounge, in what color you couldn’t identify, a dark multi-patterned rug on the floor, and in the corner at an angle facing you, a large armchair. You sucked in a breath quickly. The armchair had an occupant.

Is that…

Your thought was interrupted swiftly as the ghoul in the chair adjusted his posture, spreading his legs in a wide, almost lazy, “v” shape. The only sounds in the room were the distant hymnal voices in practice above ground, and the thrumming beat of your own heart. Your pulse pounded in your ears. You felt your hands become clammy.

You studied the ghoul as your eyes continued to adjust to the dark room. But you were torn: adrenaline begging through your veins for you to flee, and curiosity ever edging your instincts out of the picture.

As if sensing your thoughts, he moved again to stir your attention. His left elbow came to rest on the tuft of the chair, and he tilted his head as he rested it on his pale hand.

His hands.

You didn’t notice how his right hand had been sitting on his covered thigh, but now you couldn’t look away. His thumb was rubbing back and forth slowly, and even in the low light you recognized his tendons and veins as he flexed. You’d know those hands that belong to your favorite ghoul anywhere. His hands were imprinted on your mind like an unholy relic.

“Sodo.” Your voice was hardly audible, a mere breath coasting over your realization.

The fire ghoul said nothing, instead shifting from the disinterested position he was in to a commanding one, sitting straight backed against the chair. Your eyes found themselves watching his right hand again, as he slowly moved it from his thigh to be outstretched. He made a come here motion using two long fingers. Slowly, sensually beckoning you forth.

Your mouth went dry as the dirty thoughts regarding his fingers snaked their way up from your loins to leech into your brain. You obeyed. It wasn’t like you to disobey any member of the clergy. Especially not a member of the clergy who you’ve got it so bad for.

You timidly close the gap between you two. No words are needed in the exchange, but you size him up anyway. Sodo wears his mask, and he is covered from head to toe in his black uniform, the only exception of exposure being his perfect hands.

He pointed to the cushion at his feet and you kneel in submission. A perfectly obedient daughter of the ministry following the clergy.

“Wha -”

Where your question was going, you forgot immediately, as an old television screen turned on to the right of you. You jumped at the sudden addition of light and crackling sound, shrinking back in temporary trepidation.

How strange.

It was a video monitoring of what looked to be the inside of the dark wooden confession box.

Wait. Something’s -

The metal and heavy cloth sounds of the curtain moving made your stomach drop. You watched in horror as you, well, past you, entered the confession booth and sat down.

You heard the unmistakable words of Papa Emeritus IV. “My child, what makes you appear at such an hour? Have you come to confess what plagues your mind and body?”

“I have. It has been one week since my last confession.”

You knew what was coming next.

“Come, my child, speak what unsettles you, let it weigh on your heart no longer.”

Utterly embarrassed, you tilted your head down to hide your shame at the impending admission coming from your past self. But then, you felt a strong, cold hand grip your jaw, forcing your face up to watch in horror, reliving the moment in confession you had after having one too many glasses of wine at dinner.

“Last night I pleasured myself with the sinful thoughts of a brother…”

“Dio miserabile young sister!”

You bit your lip, both in the camera footage and presently. You had forgotten how Papa Emeritus IV had reacted so outwardly to your admission of guilt. After a pause, he spoke again. “Sister?”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Tell me which one of our pious brothers has turned your thoughts in such a devious way.”

“Uh…” You trailed off, your voice in the recording was meek, you sounded so utterly pathetic.

“Sister? I could just guess if that would make it easier for you.”

You winced at how pitiful it was that he had to coax it out of you. You watched, willing your past self to keep her stupid mouth closed, but of course she didn’t.

“It was… brother Dewdrop.”

“I see.”

In the room you thought you heard Dewdrop make a noise deep in the back of his throat, like a groan. Your attention quickly went back to the video, eyes never leaving the screen as made possible by the ghouls grasp on your face. There was a long-lasting pause, one that made your stomach tighten with the knowledge of what you were about to admit in that wooden box.

“Describe it, my child, you’ll feel better once you get it out.”

In the video you sighed deeply before continuing, “In my thoughts he was fingering me, using two, then three fingers inside me to make me come. Then I got down on my knees for him and serviced his cock, taking it in my hands and mouth.”

You stopped breathing. The sound of your blood rushing in the pulse near your ears drowning out the words coming through the screen.

“Continue.” Came the deep, accented voice of the Papa.

“Then I imagined I was in his lap, and he let me use his cock for my own pleasure. I fucked myself on top of him. Forgive me, please forgive me, I beg of you.” The video cut then, leaving you reeling.

Speaking such depraved filth in confession was mortifying enough, but knowing the ghoul you were speaking about heard it too was devastating. You were frozen in place in embarrassment. At least, you would have stayed that way had you not noticed Sodo’s breathing changed.

He had gotten so close to your face while gripping your chin that you could hear his labored breathing. His breaths came in heavy pants from inside his mask, like a predatory animal behind a muzzle.

Part of you wanted to take off his mask, see his devilish eyes, sharp teeth, and his horns for yourself. To let him bite you, mark you, ravage your body with his tongue and teeth. But you knew he’d want to keep it on, and oh how you aimed to please him.

“Sodo?” Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet as you faced him. His grip did not loosen from your chin while allowing you to move, instead his index finger tapped your cheek in what seemed to be contemplation. What did he want to do with you now? Especially after seeing such a horrific display of lust on your part. You had sounded so desperate, so pitiful in confession. But if he gave you the chance, you’d show him how truly desperate you could be.

He released your jaw from his hard grasp, placing his hands on each of his tightly clothed thighs. You exhaled soundlessly through your parted lips as he cocked his head to the left side. He sat there silently waiting.

Your voice came out timid at first, “It’s true, all of it. Every second of that tape is the truth.” You then cocked your head to the right, mirroring him while still from your position sitting on the floor. You gained more confidence as you continued, “Though I’m guessing you know that. And you knew I’d come here.” Does that mean that he too - that he could possibly -

Your eyes widened as he tilted his head down towards his lap, then back up to you. Asking you to, what, sit on his lap?

Fuck waiting to decipher what he meant, you read deeply enough into his vague expression, and you would do anything to get what you wanted. You stood up quickly, his masked head snapping up to follow you intently. However, before you could crawl into his lap, he reached forward and grabbed your hips, spinning you in a half circle so your ass was facing him. He pulled you back to sit down.

You didn’t have time to react, let alone think before he hooked his ankles around the inside of yours, catching your legs with his respectively. Then, he spread your legs wide, earning a sharp inhale of surprise from you as the slip you wore parted salaciously.

He put his fingers over your mouth and you licked them without thinking. You could swear he made a low, dark sound from behind you. Then he took those fingers and dragged them down the front of your body, tracing down your black garb in identical fashion to his movements during a ritual. He paused right at the hem of your night dress, as it had ridden up. His middle finger hooked under it and pulled it upward, exposing your most upper thighs and your lace black panties.

As his hand moved to cup you through your panties, you shifted your hips back to be more comfortable. You felt his hardness against your rear and felt yourself involuntarily clench around nothing. Fuck.

You couldn’t help but grind your ass back against him, feeling his hardening cock against you was something you thought you would only ever get to dream of. You just hoped he was enjoying your body as much as you were enjoying his.

He hooked a finger in your panties, pulling and then snapping them back to get your full attention back on what he was doing to you. You gasped at the momentary sharp sting. Satisfied by startling you, he traced the seam of your underwear once more, before dipping a callused finger inside and brushing along your slit.

You watched him pull his finger away, coated in your arousal, before going back to your heat and ripping your panties off of you, tossing them to the floor. He put his index and middle finger together and repeated the action of touching you. Sodo dragged his rough fingers through your folds and up to your clit. A whine escaped your lips, and his left hand grabbed your chest and pulled you back so you were resting completely against him. It led you to feel his arousal even better under your ass, and you swirl your hips twice to help spur him on.

Without warning, his two fingers plunged into your heat all the way to the third knuckle. You opened your mouth and nothing came out, only silence as you felt his fingers deep within your aching center. His thumb pressed down on your clit, providing the perfect addition of pressure.

His fingers felt as good as you dreamed they would be, so long, and hitting all the places inside you that were drawing you close to the edge already. He worked you in a steady rhythmic pattern, drawing his fingers in and out of you while circling your clit with his thumb. Just from this you knew your own fingers wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you again.

His left hand moved to your breast, cupping and then pressing his thumb to your already hardened nipple. You knew it was a combination of both the chill from the room and the heat of the moment that caused your nipples to ache against the fabric of your night dress. Sodo used his thumb to circle your nipple through your slip, a mirrored action to his right thumb on your most sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. Fuck.

Suddenly, you had a feeling of being watched. If there is a camera in the confession box then… maybe… You couldn’t finish the thought, if anything, it spurred you on further. Your head lolled back, resting on the ghouls' hard shoulder as you felt yourself reaching the peak. You had never come so fast before, and you tried to fight it off, but his fingers were like magic on you. He had changed his movements so that his long fingers curled perfectly within you. Each curl of his fingers had your breath hitching and your legs starting to shake. Sodo was a drug you didn’t know you needed and yet could never get enough of.

All the tension that had been building snapped and you came with a broken moan. His fingers never ceased their ministrations, only slowing to help you come down from your high. Soon you were squirming in his lap, the pressure of his calloused thumb on your clit almost painful now.

Your breath came in heavy shudders, your head still resting on his shoulder, “May I?” You circled your hips against his hardness again to punctuate the question. He made a low sound, moving his legs so they no longer held yours apart. You scooted down to the floor quickly, kneeling on the cushion before the ghoul. He wasted no time pulling his cock out for his black pants, stroking it roughly with his right hand twice before looking at you in expectation.

Your hands dragged up each of his thighs as you shifted forward. You made a silent vow as you rose up on your knees and lowered your mouth to taste him. If this is the penance that I will pay after confessing my lust, then I’ll be on my knees confessing every night.

You started at the hot tip, swirling your tongue around twice before placing your lips around him and sucking. It wasn’t enough, not for you, and certainly not for him. You grabbed him in your right hand and licked, your tongue wide and flat against the base of his shaft, all the way back up to the tip again before devouring him. Your mouth salivated profusely as you dipped your head down over and over and over again, massaging with your tongue and sucking expertly.

If your cunt wasn’t already wet from fucking his fingers, it would have been soaked just from this. Him allowing you to touch him, to pleasure him, was your salvation. You couldn’t get enough, high off his reactions to you as you changed pace. The way his breath shuddered, the sounds of his nails scratching on the armrests of the chair, it was all incentive for you to keep going and please him better than you had anyone before.

You dipped your head down again, going as deep as you could to take him all the way back in your throat. You breathed through your nose, ignoring your gag reflex, wanting only to pleasure Sodo.

You felt his bony fingers slide through your hair and you kept up your movements until he made a fist and yanked hard. Your lips fell from his cock with a soft pop. As your face moved back a strand of saliva connected your mouth to his erection. You looked up at his expressionless mask again.

His silence filled the room. And as he patted his thigh in indication for you to get on top of him, it felt like all of the air had been sucked from your chest. You trembled in your kneeling position on the floor, heart fluttering, and rose, not wanting to vex him by wasting precious time.

You climbed up into his lap like an obedient little pet. The aching within you came to a crescendo as you straddled him, holding onto his shoulders as you centered yourself. You looked into the eyes of the mask, seeing the empty void where his eyes would be. He nodded at you, giving you permission to do exactly as you fantasized about.

You gripped his cock, still wet with your saliva, and lined him up with your center. You dragged the tip of him through your sensitive folds, wanting to draw the moment out just a little more, before sinking down. Only the tip of his thick cock was inside you and already you felt yourself shivering. You steadied yourself again, grabbing his shoulders as you lowered yourself down agonizingly slow. Taking him for this first time had your cunt burning from the stretch to fit him inside you.

His cock was long and thick, but you were determined. Inch after inch you sunk down, and once you finally bottomed out, you didn’t miss how his nails scratched the arms of the chair. His head rolled back slightly, and just that provided the evidence that you needed to know he was relishing this moment too. You wondered how it felt for him, imagining that the ghoul was trying not to come just from the feeling of being inside your tight, wet, pussy.

You rose up on your knees, leaving just the head of his cock inside you before pushing back down in a full thrust. Repeating the motion had you lightheaded already, and you could feel the ridges and veins of his throbbing dick rubbing up against your g-spot with every move. One thing was absolutely certain, you were not going to last like this.

Up and down, up and down, you bucked your hips rhythmically to do exactly what you wanted and fucked yourself on him. You were certain that you held your breath each time you impaled yourself on him, believing that his cock would punch the air from your very lungs if not. The pressure was building again, this time deeper within your core. All the tension was pulling, pulling so tight. Fuck. You wanted to last longer but it was impossible. The feeling of him inside you made that impossible. You gasped, “I’m - I’m going to - Ah!”

A primal sound tore its way out of your throat as you reached your climax. Dewdrops hands grasped possessively at your hips, forcing you to continue to fuck yourself on him through your orgasm. His hands kept you moving steadily on his cock and had you feeling completely overstimulated in seconds. You cried out a series of unintelligible words, the feeling so foreign to you but familiar at the same time. After several more deep, hard thrusts, his cock twitched inside you and you knew he would come soon too. The thought of him coming inside you became your undoing. You came again, screaming his name in praise and adoration and he pulled you down hard one final time before he jerked inside you and you felt his hot load coat your walls. Your pussy still spasmed from your own orgasm, milking him dry.

The two of you sat in silence while you caught your breath. You slid off his lap, wincing slightly as you felt his cock leave your cunt. You stooped to the floor, picking up your torn panties and then fixing your night dress. Straightening up you noticed he had zipped his pants back up and was sprawled lazily in the chair again. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Is he sleeping?

Before you left the room, a red light amongst the blue caught your eye and confirmed your suspicion from earlier. You were being watched again, just as you had in the confession. You averted your eyes away quickly, not wanting whoever was on the other end to know you had discovered them. Hoping that by doing so, you could have another encounter with Sodo soon if he so wished.

... hope that ticked your taints *with love and adoration* (～￣▽￣)～

#dewdrop ghoul #dewdrop x reader #dewdrop x reader smut #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost x reader smut #sodo ghoul #sodo x reader #sodo x reader smut #dewdrop ghoul smut #dewdrop smut #dewdrop ghoul x reader smut #fire ghoul x reader

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northernbluetongue · 2 years ago

Text

🐉❄️🐉

"The only thing I'll miss is being able to fly." "Then I'll carry you in place of the wind."

@bignostalgias White Winter Hymnal AU inspires me SO SO MUCH!!

#Hymnal!AU #The Red Scarf #How To Train Your Dragon #HTTYD #Rise of The Guardians #ROTG #FrostCup #HiJack #Jack x hiccup #Hiccup x Jack #Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III #Jack Frost

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ghoulsbounty · 5 months ago

Note

Can I request baby billy maybe reader Is a Virgin and he has plenty of skills he will help teach his innocent girl ?

Hidden Sins

Uncle Baby Billy Freeman x Fem!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, loss of virginity, p in v, fingering, dirty talk, corruption kink, slight cum play, innocent reader, takes place in a church (it used to be a sears, okay), description of a religious service, talk of religious beliefs/upbringing, manipulation, possessiveness, idolisation.

Word Count: 7.3K

A/N: I joined these two requests, I hope that's okay! I love writing for Baby Billy, he just oozes charm but has that slight edge of manipulation 🥵 Thank you for the kind words on A Fall From Grace, anon! I’d love to know what you all think to this, and feel free to send me more requests 💌

As the doors of the newest Gemstone Prayer Centre opened on Sunday morning, the congregation trickled in. There was a gentle murmur of voices as families, couples, and individuals made their way to their seats. The set lights created colourful patterns on the floor as they streamed through imitation stained-glass windows, giving a warm and inviting glow to the sanctuary, which was a recently renovated Sears in Locust Grove’s Eastland mall.

There was a comforting rhythm to the rituals performed as people settled into their seats. Some bowed their heads in silent prayer, while others leafed through their hymnals or exchanged hushed conversations with their neighbours. Children, dressed in their Sunday outfits, fidgeted beside their parents, their impatience to be let free into the mall barely contained. The musicians, positioned near the front, tuned their instruments and chatted quietly among themselves, their voices blending in harmonious laughter.

The keyboardist played a soft prelude, the gentle notes filling the space and creating an atmosphere of reverence and anticipation. Conversations gradually quieted as the music swelled, drawing the congregation’s attention towards the front of the church. The choir stood, their faces reflecting a mixture of concentration and serene joy as they prepared to lead the opening number, a soulful blend of rock and country.

At the pulpit, Baby Billy Freeman took his place, his persona commanding yet approachable. He adjusted the microphone, his warm hazel eyes scanning the room, acknowledging familiar faces with a nod and a smile. As the last notes of the prelude faded, a hush fell over the sanctuary. He cleared his throat, his melodic voice resonating with warmth and authority as he welcomed everyone to the service, setting the tone for the morning’s worship.

“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” he began, rich and melodious, filling the space with ease. “It is a blessing to see so many familiar faces, and I extend a heartfelt welcome to those who are visiting us for the first time. We gather here today, not just as individuals, but as a community of faith, bound by the love and grace of our Lord.”

Calls of “Amen” rang out through the room as he stepped away from the pulpit, moving to the front of the stage with a graceful confidence that commanded attention. He began weaving a story, his voice rising and falling with the rhythm of his words. You found yourself entranced, unable to take your eyes off his tall, lean frame. He oozed magnetic charm, from the way he adjusted the cufflinks on his impeccably tailored suit to the slick, groomed hair that crowned his head. This was a pastor who clearly appreciated the finer things in life, and it showed in every deliberate movement he made.

His story unfolded with the elegance of a master storyteller, each word chosen with care, each pause perfectly timed to draw the crowd deeper into his narrative. The light caught the fabric of his suit just right, highlighting its quality and fit, and you couldn’t help but admire the attention to detail in his appearance. It was evident that Baby Billy Freeman understood the power of presentation, using it to enhance the impact of his message, much like the Gemstone family did.

As he spoke, his eyes scanned the crowd, ensuring each person experienced a sense of direct connection as he addressed them. His hands moved gracefully, emphasizing points with a natural ease that came from years of practice and a deep understanding of his craft. The way he stood, the way he gestured, even the way he smiled—all of it contributed to the aura of a man who was not only confident in his message but also in his place at the front of the room.

When his eyes settled on you, it appeared time itself slowed. His gaze lingered, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took you in, assessing you with a knowing look. The intensity of his eyes sent a jolt through you, igniting a heat that rocketed to your cheeks under his watchful scrutiny. Your fingers moved subconsciously to smooth the pleats of your dress over your lap, a nervous attempt to steady yourself against the flurry of emotions his intense stare provoked.

In that moment, it was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you. The sanctuary, its audience and ambient murmurs, faded into the background, leaving only the charged connection between you and Baby Billy. His eyes, so penetrating and vivid, held you captive, conveying a silent message that was both thrilling and unnerving.

His smirk deepened, a small but deliberate acknowledgment of the influence he had on you. You felt exposed, as though he could see right through the façade of composure you tried to maintain. The room felt warmer, the air thicker, every sense heightened by the charged interaction. Your heart raced, and your breaths came quicker, shallow and uneven, as you struggled to regain control.

The folds of your dress became a focus for your hands, fingers trembling as they smoothed and re-smoothed the fabric in a futile attempt to calm your nerves. Nothing could lessen the impact of his gaze. His sermon and presence made you feel singled out and significant, as if he intended them solely for you.

His eyes moved on, continuing to scan his flock, but the spell he had cast remained. You were left feeling flustered, your cheeks still flushed, and an unfamiliar yet exhilarating sense of longing settling in your chest. The rest of the room came back into focus, the collective presence of the congregation reasserting itself, but the lasting effect of his stare lingered. You knew that something had shifted within you, a spark ignited by the magnetic pull of Baby Billy Freeman’s attention, leaving you both eager and apprehensive about the next encounter.

The moment came sooner than you expected when Judy Gemstone grabbed your hand and marched you toward the backroom after the service, her heels clipping briskly on the tiled floor as you hurried to keep up. Suspense and lingering incense from the church filled the air, adding a heady sense of urgency to Judy’s determined stride.

You had been friends with Judy long enough to recognize the signs—her set jaw, the tenacious glint in her eyes, and the way she moved with single-minded purpose. Judy was on a mission, and right now, that mission was to secure the coveted position of the lead vocalist of her uncle’s church. Almost tangibly, her passion fuelled her determination to prove her brothers wrong and show her father she could uphold the Gemstone reputation.

Like the rest of the Gemstones, Judy’s determination was a force of nature. Her drive to impress her family was relentless, and it often swept you up in its wake. You had long accepted your role as her loyal sidekick, accompanying her on various ventures and ambitions. Today was no different. She dragged you into the backroom of the church, her arm linked tightly through yours. Memories of similar situations flooded your mind, each one of her ideas more hare-brained than the last.

The backroom, a repurposed Sears storage room, was a hive of activity, with band members chatting animatedly and church staff tidying up after the service. The noise and movement seemed to part like the Red Sea before Judy, her appearance commanding immediate attention. You stayed close, your heart fluttering at the prospect of finally meeting Baby Billy Freeman.

The service wasn’t the first occasion you had laid eyes on him, but it was the first time you had done so in person. Your mother admired Amy-Leigh Gemstone for a long time. They became close friends, which likely led to your introduction into Judy’s social circle. She had keenly tracked Amy-Leigh’s ascent to fame, along with her brother, accumulating their albums and any related merchandise available.

Your family home was practically a museum dedicated to the siblings. Vivid posters of Baby Billy decorated the walls, providing a stark contrast to the otherwise subdued décor. Shelves brimmed with collectibles ranging from signed photographs to rare figurines, each item echoing your mother’s deep appreciation for the famed clogging pair. Items adorned with Baby Billy’s image, from coffee mugs to decorative pillows, filled the space, turning it into a veritable shrine.

After your own mother passed away, Amy-Leigh became like a second mother to you, and her eventual passing left a profound void in your life. The Gemstones embraced you, providing a modest home within their compound and a job assisting with their ministry. The day Eli announced Baby Billy’s appointment as head pastor of their new centre, you could hardly believe it. Years of fawning over the man on the poster, and finally you were going to be within proximity of him.

Judy’s heels clicked with authority as she approached the corner where her uncle stood, surrounded by a small group of admirers. His charismatic aura was unmistakable, even in this more casual setting. He was in the midst of a conversation, his laughter rich and inviting, but it cut off smoothly as he noticed Judy’s determined approach.

“Uncle Baby Billy,” Judy called out, her voice clear over the din. “We need to talk.”

He turned towards her, his eyes momentarily flicking to you, a spark of recognition lighting up his features. His smile broadened, that familiar smirk playing at the edges of his lips. Your pulse quickened as his gaze held yours for a beat longer than seemed necessary before he turned his full attention to Judy.

“Judy, my favourite niece,” he greeted, his voice warm and welcoming, though his eyes still held a mischievous glint. “What brings you here?”

Judy didn’t waste a moment. She launched into her pitch with the fervour of someone who had rehearsed every word, every inflection. She spoke of her vocal talents, her dedication to the church, and her deep desire to serve in a greater capacity. Her words were passionate and persuasive, painting a vivid picture of her as the ideal candidate for the lead vocalist role. All true for the moment, but her attentions were often fleeting.

As Judy presented her case, you couldn’t help but notice how Baby Billy listened intently. Yet, every so often, his eyes would dart back to you, a silent, lingering glance that made your skin heat. You busied yourself by nodding along to your friend’s speech, trying to appear composed despite the tumult of emotions within you.

Judy concluded her pitch with a confident smile. “So, Baby Billy, what do you say? Give me the chance to prove myself.”

Baby Billy leaned back, his expression thoughtful and appraising as he considered her request. His eyes flicked between Judy and you, a smile spreading across his face. “Well, Judy, you certainly make a compelling case,” he said, his tone measured. Then, his gaze settled on you, and his smile took on a warmer, more personal touch. “What about you, darlin’? Do you think my niece has the pipes to pull it off?”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand under his attention, the depth of his gaze making your heart race. You noticed every detail—the slight arch of his brow, the glint of curiosity in his eyes, and the expectant look on Judy’s face. Your mind whirled, searching for the right words, knowing that this moment was crucial for your friend.

Clearing your throat, you straightened up, wrangling your fingers out of nervous habit. “Absolutely, Pastor Freeman,” you began, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach. “Judy has an incredible voice and a passion for music, just like her mama.” A small, white lie. You would pray later.

Baby Billy smiled, his eyes never leaving yours as he seemed to weigh your words. The connection between you felt almost tangible, a silent communication that left you both exhilarated and unnerved. He nodded, his gaze shifting back to Judy.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got quite the endorsement, Judy,” he said, his tone approving. “Let’s see what you’ve got. How about a little audition, just so’s its fair? Don’t want ol’ Baby Billy being accused of playing favourites, now.”

Judy beamed with excitement, her eyes sparkling with a readiness that lit up the room. “I’m ready, Uncle Baby Billy! I’ll blow the roof off this place,” she declared, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Just tell me where you want me!”

“Hold on there, speed racer,” he chuckled, raising a hand to temper her enthusiasm. “There’s a bit of preparation that needs to be done first.” He gestured toward a group of staff members who were exiting the backroom to continue the clean-up in the centre. “Why don’t you help tidy up while the band gets themselves ready on stage?” he suggested, handing her a mop from the trolley behind him with a playful smile.

Judy’s face fell for the briefest moment, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features. “Uh, no fuckin’ way,” she protested, holding the mop out to you. You took it from her, feeling the rough handle in your grip. “I’m the star, not the help.”

Baby Billy exhaled and caressed his forehead with his thumb as he glanced at her. “Now, Judy, we must exhibit grace in all our actions,” he murmured, retrieving the mop from your grasp and placing it in her hands. His fingertips grazed yours, sending a shock wave of energy through your nerves. “Amy-Leigh and I, we began by mopping the floors of the church halls where we would perform each Sunday.”

Judy looked down at the mop in her hands, her defiance wavering as she absorbed his words. “Those were humble beginnings,” he continued, his voice filled with a nostalgic warmth. “But it taught us the value of hard work and humility. We learned to appreciate every step of our journey, no matter how insignificant it seemed.”

Judy sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Alright, Baby Billy,” she muttered, reluctantly accepting her fate. “But you owe me one for this.” She turned to you, jutting her head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Baby Billy chuckled, a soft, reassuring sound that seemed to lighten the atmosphere. “Hold on a minute,” he patted Judy’s shoulder gently, his touch almost fatherly. His gaze then shifted to you, his eyes twinkling with both mischief and sincerity. “I have a different job for your friend here,” he said, his voice laden with a sense of importance. He turned fully towards you, his smile warm and inviting. “If you’ll accept.”

You felt the weight of his words, the air thick with anticipation as Judy’s eyes fell on you. Baby Billy’s influence was commanding. It made you feel both honoured and nervous.

You nodded, your voice barely audible, and uttered, “I’ll help.”

“Alright,” he grinned, slapping his hands together with enthusiasm. He instructed the band and the other employees to return to the main area as he carefully led Judy to the exit. “Make sure you give it a thorough cleaning, Judy. The Lord is always watchin’,” he remarked, nudging her through the door and shutting it on her objections.

Your throat dried as you watched him twist the lock, producing a thunderous click that reverberated throughout the silent room. The sound seemed to echo endlessly, amplifying the tension that had been steadily building. He redirected his attention to you, his expression warm and inviting, a reassuring smile playing on his lips. Yet, there was a glint of something darker in his eyes, a flicker of intent that sent a shiver down your spine.

“She’s got a lot of spirit, doesn’t she?” he said, his tone light as he stalked towards you. You nodded, feeling a lump form in your throat under his potent stare. “Always been so desperate to prove herself, our sweet Judy,” he continued. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He stopped just a step away from you. “What about you?” he asked, his voice dropping to a soft, almost tender whisper.

As you swallowed hard, the severity of his question hit you. The room felt suffocating as you struggled to calm your breathing. His eyes bore into yours, searching for something deeper, and you found it hard to think straight under his watch.

“What about me?” you gulped, your voice hardly steady.

He stepped closer, and instinctively, you took a step back. Your back hit the edge of the vanity, causing various lotions and potions to topple over, clattering onto the floor. Your fingers grasped at the table, the cool wood grounding you as you looked up into Baby Billy’s predatory gaze.

His eyes, fierce and unyielding, locked onto yours, making your heart pound against your chest. He was so close that you could feel the raw magnetism seeping from him, leaving you feeling both vulnerable and electrified.

“Are you desperate to prove yourself?” he asked, his finger lightly grazing your chin. He tilted it upwards, leaving you no choice but to look directly at him. The touch of his fingertip sent a pulse of arousal through you, making your pussy thrum. You squeezed your thighs together to ease the ache between them. His gaze was unrelenting, piercing through your defences and searching for the truth hidden within you.

“I-I don’t know,” you stammered, your voice breaking. It wasn’t true. Deep inside, you felt a magnetic pull toward the older man standing before you, a profound need to please him. You’d fantasized about this moment countless times over the years, your fingers teasing your most sensitive spots as you pictured him. You had writhed against your mattress, biting your lip to stifle his name from escaping them in a heated whisper. You’d wanted him for so many years.

“Don’t be shy now,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes glinted with amusement and something primal. “You certainly weren’t when you were giving me those eyes during the service.” His voice dripped with a teasing tone, each word deliberately slow, as if savouring the memory.

His words sent a flush of heat through your cheeks and you tried to look away, but his finger held your chin in place, keeping your gaze locked with his. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, his presence overwhelming. The room seemed to shrink around you, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken tension and desire as you looked up at him, transfixed.

His thumb brushed lightly across your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. The scent of his cologne filled your senses, making it hard to think clearly. His eyes, a captivating blend of mischief and command, searched yours for any sign of resistance, but all he found was the raw vulnerability you tried to hide.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he uttered, his voice a velvety whisper that seemed to wrap around you. “I see you, all of you.” The sincerity in his tone made your heart clench, any defiance melting away under the heat of his gaze.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your lips, teasing and tempting. The closeness was intoxicating, every nerve in your body alert to his presence. You could feel the strength in his grip, the subtle dominance that made you weak with craving. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, the promise of what could happen hanging heavily in the air.

“I saw the way you looked at me,” he continued, his voice low and intimate. “Like you were daring me to come over and do something about it.” His eyes smouldered with intent, and the smirk on his lips grew more pronounced. The weight of his gaze was almost too heavy to withstand, filled with challenge and promise that made your pulse quicken.

You struggled to react to his words, a haze of lust clouding your mind as he leaned in closer. The mixture of authority and need in his eyes was utterly mesmerizing, making it impossible to look away. Your entire being, every fibre in your body was alive with excitement.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “Do you want me to do something about it?” His question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on you as you struggled to find your voice.

Another sharp intake, the proximity and the raw emotion in his voice, leaving you vulnerable. “Yes,” you whispered, the admission sending a thrill through you.

A satisfied smile curved his lips as he pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your mouth. “Good,” he whispered back, his voice low and commanding. “Clothes off, angel.”

His words sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you hesitantly glanced toward the door. Sensing your distraction, he gently tilted your chin back toward him, his eyes locking onto yours with a determined gaze.

“Don’t you worry about her,” he assured, his voice soft yet assertive, drawing your attention back to the moment. “You focus on me.”

“But you said that the Lord is always watching,” you reminded him, echoing the words he had spoken to Judy just moments before.

Raised in a devout Christian household, you had lived and worked with the Gemstones, always striving to be the virtuous, Christian woman your mother wanted you to be. A part of you knew that this was sinful, felt wrong, like a lamb being led to slaughter. Yet a larger part of you—the part that felt a fire ignited within, burning and aching for more of his touch—knew that your words were a hollow attempt to save face before you gave in.

He smiled, running his hands up and down your arms in a soothing gesture. “The Lord and I, we have a deal,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Ain’t no one’s eyes on you but mine.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, both comforting and thrilling. Taking a step forward, his hand made contact with your cheek, his thumb softly caressing your skin. “I bet you’ve tried so hard to be the good girl, to live up to everyone’s expectations,” he murmured. “But what about your own needs? What about what you want, hmm?”

Your heart pounded as his words took hold, resonating within you. The years of restraint, the hidden fantasies, all converged at this single moment. “I... I want this,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve never been with a man before.”

His smile widened, a mix of triumph and tenderness. “Oh darlin’, I know that. I’ll be gentle,” he said, his voice a low, seductive murmur. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, drawing you closer until your lips were almost touching. “Let me show you what it means to truly surrender.”

The last barrier within you crumbled, and with a shuddering breath, you closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both fervent and tender. You sighed into his mouth as his tongue licked against your own; the sensation sending waves of pleasure through you. You felt consumed by him. It was as if all your reservations had melted away, leaving only a deep, aching need for his touch. His hands roamed your body with a possessive tenderness, and you knew there was no turning back.

He released you, gave you an encouraging smile as his eyes flickered over your body. You hesitantly undressed, your fingers fumbling with the buttons and fabric. The room seemed to grow warmer with each piece of clothing that fell away, leaving your skin exposed to the cool air. His expression was a mix of appreciation and yearning, his eyes darkening with every inch of you revealed.

“That’s it,” he said when you were bare before him. He stepped closer, his fingers tracing a path down your chest, over the swell of your breast. The touch was exhilarating, sending waves of sensation through your body. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over you with undisguised admiration. “A sight to behold.”

His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. The feel of the rich fabric of his suit against your skin gave you goosebumps, and he slowly traced kisses down the expanse of your neck, over your collarbone, until he reached your breasts. He took one hardened nipple into his mouth, enclosing his lips around it as you gasped.

You grabbed hold of his shoulders for support as your legs weakened from the fiery touch of his tongue. His mouth worked skilfully, alternating between gentle sucking and flicking, setting your nerves on fire. His other hand caressed your side, his touch both reassuring and tantalizing.

“You’re so sensitive,” he mumbled into you, his voice thick with want. His hand moved to your other breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple, eliciting another gasp from you. He switched his attention, giving your other nipple the same devoted attention, his mouth and hand working in perfect harmony.

Your body responded to his touch, arching into him as the pleasure built. The contrast of the soft fabric of his suit and the firmness of his body against your bare skin heightened every sensation. You could sense the power in his shoulders under your grip, grounding you as he continued his exploration.

He left your nipple with a suctioned pop, lifting you until you perched on the vanity table. His mouth was back on you, kisses trailing lower over your breasts, down your stomach as his hands guided you to lean against the mirror. He knelt between your legs, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. His fingers grazed your thighs as he paused. Looking up at you, a devious grin spreading across his lips.

“Wouldn’t deny an old man a taste, would you?” he asked, low and teasing as he parted your legs wider.

You held back a moan, the longing building as his hands caressed your thighs, spreading them apart. The cool surface of the mirror against your back contrasted with the heat of his breath on your skin, making every feeling more intense. His eyes never left yours, the connection between you pulsating.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. “I wouldn’t.”

His smile widened, a look of triumph and hunger in his eyes. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hands sliding round to grip your thighs firmly, your mind reeling from his praise.

He leaned in, his mouth descending to your core, and you mewled his name as the flat of his tongue dragged through your wet slit. He moved skilfully, exploring every inch of you, his hands holding you open as he flicked and swirled his tongue over your sensitive flesh. When his lips wrapped around your clit and he began sucking gently on the bundle of nerves, you couldn’t suppress the whine that escaped your lips.

One of your hands left the vanity, slipped into his perfect hair, tugging and pulling him closer, desperate to feel more of the intense, foreign sensation. He groaned in response; the vibration adding another layer of pleasure as he continued his ministrations, his tongue dancing over your most sensitive spots with precision and care.

Your hips bucked against him when you felt his tongue dipping into your tight hole. He laughed, his grip on your thighs tightening as he held you to the table and fucked your cunt with his tongue. His strong nose brushed against your sensitive clit, and you cried out, fighting against his hold to grind against him, desperate for more friction.

“Baby Billy, it feels s-so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling with pleasure.

With his finger prodding at your entrance, your grip on his hair tightened and your back arched, while his lips encased your clit again, sucking with fervour as you adjusted to the stretch of his finger.

As he stared at you greedily, he pulled back to witness his finger sliding into you, wet with your juices. “Oh, you sweet thing,” he cooed, his voice dripping with lust, adding to the growing tightness of the coil within you. Your eyes widened as you felt another finger prod experimentally at your hole, swirling through your arousal before pushing in to join the first. You gasped at the stretch, then broke into a cry when he curled them against you, hitting a spot that had your vision spotting.

With precision, he twisted and thrust his fingers, never taking his eyes off your face as he watched your reactions. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a mix of encouragement and dominance. “Let me see how good it feels.”

Your pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. His fingers moved faster, curling and stroking the sensitive spot inside you with expert skill as the rings that adorned them stretched you deliciously, the chill of them a shock against your dripping heat. The wet sounds of your arousal and your increasingly frantic moans echoed throughout the room.

“Please,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”

He smirked, relishing the impact he had on you, and the sight of him so dishevelled—hair unkempt and face glistening from your juices—had you grasping at him, pulling him up toward you for another heated kiss. You rocked your hips harder as he continued to fuck his fingers into you, the taste of yourself on his lips adding to the sinful pleasure.

His mouth swallowed your moans, the kiss deep and hungry, your tongues tangling as you revelled in the shared intensity. His fingers moved relentlessly, curling and thrusting with expert precision, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over as he thumbed your clit.

The room seemed to spin as the pleasure built, your body tightening around his fingers. His free hand roamed your body, caressing and gripping your curves, adding to the sensation of overload. Every touch, every thrust, pushed you towards the brink.

“You like this, don’t you?” he murmured against your lips. “Feel how wet you are, letting Baby Billy do such unholy things to you.”

You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The rhythm of his fingers was driving you wild, the coil inside you tightening to the breaking point.

A choked sob escaped you as your muscles clenched around his fingers, your body convulsing with pleasure as the tension finally broke. He held you through it, fingers never stopping their assault, drawing out every shudder and gasp. You slowly came back down, eyes bleary and body quivering around him. He looked down at the mess between your thighs where his fingers were slowly retracting from your cunt. His eyes shone with a satisfied gleam.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. His fingers glistened with your arousal as he brought them to his lips, tasting you once more with a low, appreciative moan. “You’re nice and ready for me now,” he grinned, pushing between your legs to grind his clothed arousal against you.

He groaned, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you to move against him. “Feel that?” he asked, his voice a low growl. “That’s what you’ve done to me.” His eyes locked on yours. The intensity in them makes even more heat pool between your thighs.

The friction of his hard length against your slick folds sent shivers through your body, your hips rocking against him to seek more. His grip tightened, controlling your movements as he pressed harder against you, the fabric of his pants only heightening the sensation.

“You want this, don’t you?” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell me how much you want it now.”

You reacted to his command, a moan escaping your lips as you ground against him with more urgency. “I want it,” you uttered, your voice quivering with longing. “Please, Baby Billy. I need you.”

His grin widened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he watched you writhe against him. “Oh angel,” he sighed, his voice rough with lust. “You’re gonna get exactly what you need.”

He pulled back just enough to unzip his pants, freeing his aching cock. The sight made your mouth water—thick and long, with a slight curve and beads of pre-cum glistening on his swollen, red tip. He stroked himself, spreading the slickness over his length, and you watched, mesmerized. A sudden curiosity flooded you, imagining the weight and taste of him on your tongue.

“See something you like?“ he teased, his voice a sultry, enticing rumble. His eyes clouded with desire as he watched your reaction, enjoying the effect he had on you. He stepped closer, his hand still working his shaft slowly, as if to give you a show. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, his expression deep in thought. “Ain’t enough time for that now, but you best believe I’ll be puttin’ that mouth to good use next time.”

Before you had time to contemplate his words, Baby Billy grabbed at your thighs, wrapping them around his waist as he positioned himself at your entrance. The weeping head of his cock teased through your slick folds, sending shivers up your spine. His eyes snapped to yours when he heard the whimper fall from your lips, an almost sadistic grin spreading across his face.

Whispering softly, he brushed his lips teasingly against yours, and said, “Once I’m finished with you, you’ll belong to me, understand?”

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you. The stretch was an exquisite blend of pleasure and pain, making your vision blur and chest heave as you clung to him. Driven wild by the sensation of your tight, wet heat, he let out a guttural moan as he pushed himself deeper.

“Good Lord, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, his voice thick with passion. His firm hands held onto your hips tightly, bringing you closer as he filled you entirely. The overwhelming force of the moment left you breathless, your body trembling with each inch he claimed.

He paused for a moment, letting you adjust to the fullness, his eyes hardened with possessiveness as they locked onto yours. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Made just for me.”

His words made you keen, your mind empty except for the thought of Baby Billy and his cock consuming you. Pleas tumbled from your lips, urging him to move, begging him to fill you, and he groaned as he snapped his hips, setting a slow and deliberate pace so that you could feel every ridge of his cock as he moved within you.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut briefly at the tightness of you around him, fingers digging into your hips as he fucked into you. “Take all of me. I know you can.”

As the sparks of pain subsided, overwhelming surges of pleasure took over. The vanity and mirror slammed loudly against the wall as he rocked your hips to meet his, matching his rhythm perfectly. You were so absorbed in him you didn’t care about the door just a few feet away, separating your friend — his kin — from possibly hearing the illicit act you were engaged in.

With your back arching into him, you pleaded for more, as his lips wrapped around your nipple again, eliciting a desperate whine from you. “Faster, please.”

With a growl, he responded, grazing your sensitive bud with his teeth, causing you to sharply inhale. His muffled curse vibrated against your skin as he picked up the pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes that reached new depths, pushing you closer to the edge. Your nails dug into his shoulders, crinkling the fabric of his expensive suit.

“I knew you weren’t as innocent as you seemed,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice dripping with raw desire. “Can’t get enough of Baby Billy, can you?”

His breath was hot and heavy against your chest, each word making your spine tingle. His grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer as he thrust deeper, the intensity of his movements mirroring the hunger in his voice.

“It’s like music to my ears, hearing you beg,” he murmured, delivering a final flick of his tongue over your nipple before straightening to meet your gaze. “My new favourite song.”

The sincerity in his eyes made your heart race even faster, the connection between you electrifying. He held your gaze with an intensity that left you breathless, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. Every thrust, every touch, was a symphony of pleasure that built and built, pushing you both closer to the edge.

As you teetered on the brink of another orgasm, your breaths came in ragged gasps, and your muscles spasmed. One of Baby Billy’s hands left your thighs, snaking between you to trace wet circles over your swollen clit. You bucked into his hand, his touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body, as he looked down at you with pride.

“That’s it. Sing for me, angel,” he commanded.

As your body convulsed around him, a broken cry ripped from your throat. Your thighs shook and you gripped him tighter, riding out your earth-shattering ecstasy, every muscle tightening as you clutched desperately at him. He watched you with a primal hunger, his eyes dark and filled with greed, captivated by the sight of you falling apart on his cock.

Your walls clenched rhythmically around him, drawing a gasping moan from his lips. The sensation was too much for him to handle, and his thrusts became sloppy and erratic, each movement driven by pure instinct. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, trying to maintain some semblance of control as the pleasure overwhelmed him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice heavy with need. “You got me feelin’ some kind of way, angel. Something wicked.”

His words had you spiralling, your orgasm continuing to crash over you like a tidal wave. Your garbled cry cut short as he captured your lips with his and you moaned into his mouth, riding out the rest of your climax with desperate ruts of your hips, clinging to him for dear life.

His kiss was deep and consuming, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he couldn’t get enough of you. He held you tight, grounding you both as he bucked at a frenzied pace, chasing his own release. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, the faltering rhythm of his thrusts echoing in the heated air. Your lips tore from his, head dropped back against the mirror, eyes half-closed, as you surrendered to Baby Billy’s insistent need.

He used your cunt for his own amusement, his thick girth splitting you open and filling you. Every thrust sent waves of pleasure and pain through your body, the intensity almost too much to bear. You breathed in shallow, erratic gulps, mingling with his groans of pleasure.

“You gonna let Baby Billy finish inside of you?” he grunted as you felt the powerful contraction of his muscles under your fingers. “Go back out there with my cum filling you, let everyone know who owns you now.”

His words, steeped in raw, possessive control, gave you goosebumps. The heat between you was almost unbearable, and the thought of being so intimately claimed ignited a fire within you. You could barely manage a nod, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Yes,” you managed, your voice trembling with need. “F-fill me.”

His eyes shone at your words, lighting up with pride. You felt him pulse and throb inside you, and with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. His body shuddered as he found his release, the hot spurts of his cum flooding you, mingling with your own arousal to create an intoxicating warmth. You milked him for every drop of his seed, drawing out every ounce of pleasure.

Your body, wrecked and trembling, collapsed against his as you sobbed into the crook of his neck. A combination of fulfilment and exhaustion washed over you, your breathing slowly adjusting to a calmer rhythm. His gentle touch roamed your spine in soothing strokes, grounding you as you both basked in the afterglow. The surrounding air seemed to hum with the energy of your passion, the scent of sweat and sex lingering, creating a heady, intimate atmosphere.

With his breath still uneven against your skin, he pressed a tender kiss to your temple. “That was a job well done,” he murmured, his voice prideful despite his jest. He groaned as he pulled himself from your swollen cunt, eyes shining at the sight of you leaking with his load. You whimpered at the emptiness, a pout forming on your lips as he tucked himself away, but then he pushed two digits into you, stuffing your pussy almost full again.

“Keep it all in there,” he said, his eyes flicking to you as he twisted his fingers. The squelch of his load being forced back inside of you filled the room, an erotic sound that made your mouth water. “I wasn’t lying. Baby Billy wants you out there, front and centre.”

The intensity in his gaze, coupled with the sensation of his fingers pushing his cum deeper inside you, had you shaking again. Each movement was deliberate, ensuring you felt every bit of his claim on you. The thought of stepping out, filled with his essence, ignited a mix of thrill and arousal within you.

He finally withdrew his fingers, leaving you with a lingering sense of fullness. “Now, let’s get you dressed,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He helped you to your feet, steadying you as you adjusted to standing. The rush of reality hit you as you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—marks from his mouth adorned your breasts, and bruises from his fingers dotted your thighs. You looked spent, yet there was a radiant glow to your skin that hadn’t been there before.

You watched in the mirror as Baby Billy adjusted his suit, fixing his hair until it was back in almost perfect condition. He dabbed at the sweat that had formed on his brow with his handkerchief, his focus intent on readying himself. The sight of him, composed and immaculate, made you suddenly aware of your own state. You felt uncomfortably exposed and quickly retrieved your clothes from the floor.

Your body ached as you dressed, each movement a reminder of what you’d just done. Your muscles throbbed from the recent exertion, and as you put on your clothes, the thoughts that had been repressed by passion now surged through your mind. The reality of your sin with the pastor drowned you in a wave of guilt and confusion.

You wanted to regret it, to tell yourself that you would pray for forgiveness, but you knew it wasn’t true. You’d wanted him so much, was willing to throw all caution to the wind and give yourself so freely to him. Now, he seemed so distant from you, and maybe that felt worse than anything. The desire that had driven you to this moment still simmered under the surface, a raw and undeniable truth.

As you finished dressing, you caught your reflection in the mirror. The marks on your body, the glow in your skin, all told the story of what had transpired. You felt a complex mix of emotions—shame, guilt, satisfaction, and a strange sense of pride.

Baby Billy turned to you, his eyes softening as he took in your appearance. “You alright?” he asked, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before.

With a nod, you managed a slight smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

Drawing nearer, he lightly brushed his thumb against your cheek. “No one else needs to know what happened here.”

You took a deep breath, fully absorbing the impact of his words. The secret you now shared felt like a heavy burden, one you couldn’t speak of to anyone. The fear that this might be your last moment with him gnawed at you, prompting you to ask softly, “Will I see you again?”

He smiled, a teasing glint in his eye, as he leaned in to place a gentle, lingering kiss on your lips. When he pulled back, he lightly tapped his finger over your bottom lip, his touch both tender and possessive.

“Oh darlin’,” he drawled, his voice low and filled with promise, “didn’t I already tell you I’d be puttin’ this mouth to good use one day?”

The way he said it sent a chill through you, the intimacy of his words and the light touch on your lip igniting a spark within you. His eyes held yours, the playful glint mixing with something deeper, a reassurance that this moment was far from the last.

As he stepped back, his hand trailed from your lip to your chin, lifting it slightly. His gaze softened, the teasing replaced with genuine affection as he murmured, “this isn’t the last you’ll see of Baby Billy.”

#uncle baby billy #uncle baby billy x reader #baby billy x reader #the righteous gemstones #walton goggins #baby billy freeman #baby billy freeman x reader #fic request #uncle baby billy smut #baby billy smut #smut fic #the righteous gemstones smut #the righteous gemstones x reader #corruption kink #walton goggins x reader #x reader

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douche-canoe-regatta · 1 year ago

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Where does Gideon get her porn mags? I think junk mail never died! I think with every delivery of whatever-the-fuck Harrow ordered from the "Barely Surviving" order guide came w/ magazine subscription catalogues & ads for x-ray goggles & sea babies (made with REAL infant souls! just add blood!!) so Gideon would just sneak "item 69420" or w/e onto the order and hope it got overlooked. next month there's a fart cushion under Pelleamena's chair, a rubber bone in Harrow's pocket and Sick Seventh Butt Sluts in the hymnals

#the locked tomb #tlt #tlt shitposting #gideon nav #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #nona the ninth #tlt meta #harrowhark nonagesimus

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fadingdaggerr · 11 months ago

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Could you do Mel x reader where reader normally LOVES all things Christmas and gifting presents to people but this year she’s feeling down and just not as festive so Mel goes out of her way to give reader the most magical Christmas 🎄

Please and thank you! May you have the best day 🫶

frosted hymnal

pairing: melissa schemmenti x gn!reader

summary: generally the request above, however, there is definitely a different tone to this then what was asked for, bit more sad underneath | 4.1k

warnings: grief/loss (thematic - not in depth), hurt and immense comfort throughout to makeup for this sad

translations: bambino (baby), cara (dear), tua stellina (your little star)

note: this one is a bit personal to me, especially in the details and a family tradition i snuck in. i’m also not feeling very festive and ‘hell yeah christmas’ due to similar things i put in which is why this reads more h/c than holiday cheer oops

Ever since that balmy night in August when you’d gotten a call from your aunt as you ate dinner, laughing at Melissa’s recount of her conversation with Barbara earlier in the day. As the phone cuts her off unexpectedly, you swallow your laughter as you say a greeting into the phone. Immediately, your smile drops and your eyes flick to Melissa’s, already red and a fist clenching and unclenching as you listen.

“Thank you for calling,” you say with a shaky voice, barely making it out before you gasped for breath. Another beat as your aunt says more to you, “yeah, I will. Love you, too. Bye.” The moment the call ends, your head falls into your hands and tears fall. Melissa is immediately next to you, pulling you into her. Her lips press into your hairline, just letting you lean on her and let it all out.

You’d just talked to your grandfather three days before.

For days after, you hardly spoke, ate, or even moved from the bed. Your arms stayed locked around Melissa unless she had to step away, only then would her pillow take her place. She barely knew what to do, most of her family were angry when in mourning, much like herself; she’d broken half her picture frames and almost her hand when she found out about her grandmother. This eerie silence, the lack of anything from you, it was different, and it scared her even if she didn’t want to admit it. It took days to get you downstairs, a week to get you into the sun in the backyard. Melissa just held you until you quietly asked to go with her to the store after two weeks, the same quiet tone that filtered into most gatherings since.

She’d noticed it at Thanksgiving, the silence and the empty stare when no one was interacting with you. First holidays are always the hardest, she’d felt the same when her Nana passed away, but that was years ago and she’d had everyone around her where your family was states away. You spent the holiday pressed into Melissa’s side, only speaking when spoken to, hand gripping hers for dear life. Aunt Deb tried not to look offended when you barely touched the famous apple pie that you usually inhaled.

It had been Grandpa’s favorite.

—

The silence and the stare never really went away as the table runners went from orange to red and green, apples and pumpkins became evergreens and snowflakes. Melissa tried to stay discreet in how she watched you detangle the gold beads that wrap around the tree, robotic movements and pursed lips. Slowly, she moved from the couch to the spot next to you with her ornaments and hooks, shuffling closer to you to gain your attention.

You turn to look at her for a moment, a tiny smile stretching your lips before your eyes go back to the beads in your lap. The redhead takes the chance to prop her chin on your shoulder, making you turn back to her again, tilting your head back to get a proper look at her. Cold fingers brush her hair behind her ear while you admire her, a low voice speaking to her for the first time in an hour, “hi, pretty.”

“Hi, amore,” she murmurs back, a gentle kiss placed to your shoulder over your sweater, “you’re awfully quiet over here by your lonesome.”

You huff a little laugh through your nose, “I’m sorry, I’ve just been spacing out while I untangle these damned things,” you hold up the beads, “seriously, did you tie these in knots before I put them in the attic last year?”

“All part of my secret plan to keep you here forever,” she jokes as she shoves the ornaments away to help you with detangling.

Melissa delights in the first smile she’s seen from you all day as you shake your head at her answer. Leaning in quickly, you press a kiss to her cheek and quietly say, “like I was planning on going anywhere.”

Half of The Apartment and two glasses of wine later, you both finally get the beads untangled and wrapped around the tree. Basic ornaments went first, then the intricate ones that had been gifted by Barbara from the craft store were next, followed by the more personal ones with names, dates, and pictures within. A fireplace ornament with a photo of you two in it made you pause and let a little smile on your face, but it dropped when you remembered who had taken the picture and hand written your names on the bottom. Melissa sees the warmth in you go cold, taking the ornament from your hands and placing it on a branch for you, front and center.

“Hon, we can hold off on this if you need us to,” she says with a gentle tone, as if the right volume would shatter you into pieces. Melissa had watched you sluggishly place ornaments on the tree, for every three she got on there, you’d only put up one. The blank stare that had appeared at Thanksgiving was even more pronounced, and every conversation about holidays and holiday shopping had been borderline dismissed unless absolutely necessary.

The sigh she gets as an initial answer is less than desirable for a response. You turn away to grab a penguin on skis, breathing out a real answer, “it’s fine, babe, really. I just want to get this over with.”

That was certainly not what she expected. She normally had to hold you back from decorating before Halloween even ended, by the last trick-or-treater you already had a plan for the decor for the winter months. Sure you’d brought down the boxes for her, not letting her help at all since she always complains about her back afterwards, and yeah, you pulled out the Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album, but only at her request. There was no bounce in your steps, no obnoxious lovely singing of carols, not even the reindeer antler headband had made an appearance when decorating. As much as she poked fun at you for all of it, she found herself missing it more than anything at this moment. Simply hungering for your unbridled joy during the season.

Even though her own shoulders deflate, Melissa steps towards you, arms wrapping around your middle. Immediately she feels you give into her, leaning fully and melting into her arms. Her lips pressed to the side of your head, “it’ll get done anyways. Why don’t we take a break? We have the weekend, honey.”

“Can we just finish it now?” you murmur as if you’re afraid she’ll get mad. In truth, you just want it to be over so that you don’t have to think about it anymore, pretend the holiday isn’t even happening. You turn in her arms and move your hands to hold her face, “I just want to lay down and watch movies with you all weekend and eat the cookie dough that’s in the freezer.”

“That dough is for my students, so keep your grubby little hands away from it,” she jokes to lighten your mood, which works fractionally given your soft laugh. She leans to kiss your cheek, “how about I’ll make some brownies while you wrap this up?” She gestures to the remaining ornaments on the coffee table. Your nod and smile have more life to them, making her grin and press a short kiss to your lips, pulling away despite your insistence to make it last.

She watches you from the doorway for a moment, watching you stare at the tree as you mentally mapped where the ornaments should go, almost akin to your usual behavior. Melissa takes the distraction and runs with it, calling your aunt as she pulls out cocoa powder and sugar.

Melissa keeps her voice low as she asks your aunt questions, and slows down as she repeats her address for your aunt. The next call she makes is to her own mother, knowing that Giorgia is near god-level when it comes to sewing, having made every blanket and bunny for her grand and great-grandchildren.

The night ends with only half of the brownie she gave you being eaten while you lay on top of Melissa, head tucked into her neck and a tight grip on her shirt. She resides herself to the knowledge her back will hurt in the morning, but your steady breathing and weight against her was enough to not care.

—

The last day of school before winter break arrives, finally. The next two weeks were going to give Melissa the peace she had been waiting for, especially for you. Half of her lunch today was spent worrying about you when you came in late with redlined eyes, evidence of your tears in the corner of your eye. You waved off concerned glances and questioning looks, just giving a look to your girlfriend that you would tell her later. Under the table, she knocks her foot with yours and keeps it there, a silent I got you.

Getting out of the car, you immediately turn when Melissa doesn’t join you, “where are you going?”

“I gotta run over to Ma’s, I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she says, crossing her fingers that you won’t press more, “I promise.” Your eyes give her a once over before you nod and turn back towards the house. She pipes up again, trying to ease the guilt of not being able to spill the beans, “no kiss?”

You laugh from your spot at the front door, calling over your shoulder, “you can come collect when you get home, ditcher.”

At her mother’s she is given the creation already wrapped since it was “perfect” and looking would be “questioning the genius at work,” so she doesn’t peek, knowing her mother adored you too much to have screwed this up. Pulling into the driveway, she moves quickly to not gain your attention, slipping inside to run upstairs before the door even shuts. She hides the box in the spare bedroom closet, praying that you won’t feel the need to remake the whole bed over the weekend.

As she descends and joins you back in the kitchen, she sees your rigid posture as you stand over the stovetop. Soup. You always make soup when you’re sad, always watching it simmer and bubble, stirring near constant like the spoon is pushing your thoughts around and not the vegetables. Before she can wrap herself around you, you’re already turned to the side with an arm out, inviting her into your embrace. Melissa quickly accepts, taking the moment to bury herself in your neck, holding your waist tight as one of your hands rests on her back, the other still stirring.

“What happened at lunch?” she asks from her hiding place, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.

Your blunt nails scratch her upper back as you speak, “Tamika gave me a card and was telling me all about her Christmas plans this year.” There it was. Tamika lived with her grandparents, and Melissa remembers from when she was her student that the girl was very close with her grandfather, always talking about their weekend adventures. You sigh as you play with amber waves, “I just needed time to cool down before I came to lunch. If I came in crying, I would probably still have Janine glued to my hip right now.”

Melissa just squeezes you tighter, “text me next time, won’t you? I could’ve been there for you, you don’t have to do this ‘suffer in silence’ bullcrap.”

“I know-”

“I don’t wanna hear it. You need me, you get me. Got it?” Despite her serious words, her tone is soft, telling you that she means every word, and that these words are coming from her heart.

“Yes ma’am,” you mumble, kissing her hair as she tucks into you more.

—

Christmas Eve at the Schemmenti house was loud, very, very loud. Melissa’s eyes were drawn to you every few minutes, gauging your reactions and facial expressions, knowing full well you’ll put on a face for everyone else that only she can see through. Her heart beat speeds up as she sees no sign of anything on your face as the nieces and nephews are practically climbing you like a jungle gym, all vying for your uninterrupted attention. When Giorgia finally allows everyone into the kitchen again, you enter with Michael over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, plopping him into his booster seat as he giggles and squirms.

Falling into your designated seat in between the toddler and Melissa, you’re met immediately with a hand squeezing your thigh. You can feel the silent question in her touch, responding with your own squeeze of her hand, an answer telling her that yes, you’re okay. Giorgia captures your attention as she passes the bolognese over to you, but Melissa’s eyes stay on you and the crinkles around your eyes.

“Bambino,” Girogia says later on, pulling your eyes away from the kids playing together, “you’ve barely touched the tiramisu, I know it’s your favorite. Not even a second slice?” Leave it to Giorgia to ask you how you are without actually saying the words.

“Ma,” Melissa begins to warn, but stops as your hand falls on top of her on the table.

“I’m okay, mamma,” you say with a little smile at her concern, “I just don’t wanna eat too much of one thing and not get to enjoy the rest.” Unconvinced, but knowing not to pry, she cuts out another square of the desert and puts it on your plate. There is no room for refusal, so you dig your fork in and pray to whoever may be watching that neither woman notices your hand shaking. As the kids open their singular gifts for Christmas Eve, there’s a notable lack of smile on your face, unless one of the kids is looking right at you. The smile seems to come out easiest for them, but Melissa can see how quickly it falls once the attention is gone. She wonders if you’ve been doing the same around her when she’s been able to get a smile from you the last few days.

Everyone began leaving shortly after, most of the kids getting tired and cranky. Though she was half asleep in her father’s arms, Nicolette made a point to drag herself over to you to hug tightly before she left, barely wanting to let go. Vinny has to pry her off of you with a promise that she’ll see you in a week for New Year’s, though you end up having to give her a pinky promise to seal the deal. Melissa thinks that may have been the most you’ve smiled in months.

Once the kids and cousins are all gone, the redhead allows herself to drape across you, mumbling into your ear, “ready to go home?” She gets a nod as a response, your eyes shutting as you bask in her touch for a few selfish seconds. Saying goodbye to Giorgia, though never a want, was a must by the end of the night, your off-behavior making it that two Schemmenti women had eagle eyes set on you. Two big kisses to the cheek and a ciao set you free from the house, Melissa’s hand only ever disconnects from yours as you get into the car.

That night, Melissa and you lay in bed watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas while you braided little sections of her hair, releasing them and rebraiding every few minutes. Your fingers trailed from her hair for her forehead, gently gliding down to her chin to tilt her face up towards you. Her lips stretch into a smile as she watches you look down at her in adoration, eyes soft and searching over her face. Leaning over her in your lap, you relish in her smile growing at the sudden closeness.

She pushes up, pressing her lips to your shortly. Sitting up and turning to face you, she kissed you again, pushing you back into the pillows. Melissa’s hands gripped your hips while yours came to her face, thumbs gently caressing her warm skin. Whining as she pulls away becomes laughter when she presses kisses across your face, settling a last kiss to your lips.

You stay cupping her face as you take your turn to stare up at her. In a quiet voice, as if you were afraid to ruin the moment, you say, “I’m sorry for being such a downer lately.”

A kiss to your cheek, “you’re not a downer, you’re grieving. It just feels different this year and it sucks. You can be all sad, and I get to hug and spoil you without you complaining about it.”

“Name one time I complained about you kissing me, I’ll wait,” you say with fake indignation, before she can answer, you cut her off, “you can’t, don’t even try.” When she laughs, you feel it as you still hold her face, staring up at her dumbfounded.

“What?” she asks when she notices that difference in your gaze.

Your thumb brushes over her bottom lip, catching slightly, “I just love you so, so much.”

“I love you, too,” her lips press to your thumb. Her eyes shift to the clock on her nightstand, 12:02 AM stares back at her, “merry Christmas, baby.”

Your only response is pulling her down to kiss her again.

—

The sun wasn’t even up yet, why the fuck did she think this was a good idea?

The better part of the early morning was spent desperately searching how to get her laptop connected to the TV, and God forbid the sound works one of these times. Melissa is just about to scream into a throw pillow before the screen lit up and the tester video finally played through the speakers. She got her present for you all situated, wondering how the ones for her got there without you waking her up, she’d both fallen asleep and woken up on top of you. After what felt like six hours but was only two, she slowly moves upstairs to wake you up, but is met with you groggily sitting up in bed.-

“I’m surprised you’re up already,” she says as she moves closer to you, her arms raising to rest on your shoulders. Your own go around her waist, pulling her in until she’s straddling your lap, hands pushing under her shirt to warm against her torso.

“It was too quiet, no one was snoring in my face,” you mumble, smile stretching across before wincing as she smacks your shoulder, “you wound me, I may never recover.”

She can’t hide her laugh, “if this ends with you saying the cure is taking my shirt off, it is too fucking cold in here and you can stay wounded.”

“I thought you loved me,” you huff as you flop back down on the bed.

Melissa leans over you, “would breakfast and presents work?”

“She really does love me,” you say with a giggle as you push up to kiss her quickly before patting her thigh to ease her off of you.

When you walk downstairs, you almost completely walk past the TV without noticing half your family on the screen, waving as they see you. Nearly jumping out of your skin makes them laugh, but your attention goes to Melissa. She just points at the laptop, showing you that the call is live, that your family is sorta-here for the holiday. There’s heavy effort that goes into making sure you don’t start crying on the spot, overwhelmed by the work that you know Melissa put into getting everyone on the call together.

“Merry Christmas guys,” you say, waving at your nephews as they start cramming into the camera, desperately trying to reach you through the screen.

“Aunt Mellie said we surprising you,” the oldest one yells, grinning with a front tooth growing in.

You smile, hands almost reaching like you wanted to grab him, “oh, you did, you totally did, buddy.” Turning back to Melissa you walk into her opening arms, needing to express the love for her that felt like Coke and Mentos in your chest. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you murmur into her neck as she sways you from left to right.

The rest of the morning is spent watching the kids open their presents from you and Melissa on the video call, listening to your cousins, aunts, and uncles update you on everything, and staring at Melissa as she talked easily with your family. She’s so good with them, and more importantly, they’re good with her, most of the little kids already prefer her to you anyways. Who are you to complain, you already know she’s the best.

When everyone hangs up, the tears in your eyes are no longer sad, but happy, carefree. Melissa put an arm around your shoulders, “have a good morning, hon?”

“You did all that for me,” it’s not really a question, moreso a statement of disbelief.

She nods, “I got one more thing, even though it does break the ‘only a stocking’ rule.” Your face screams unimpressed, she’s the one who said if it couldn’t fit in a stocking, neither of you could get it for the other. Before you can argue she amends her statement, “there was no purchase involved, cross my heart.” That seems to get the irritation off your face.

From behind the tree, she pulls out a box in ice blue wrapping paper, paper you recognized from her mother’s house. You eye her carefully, but her face gives nothing away, only the fidgeting of her sleeves says that this was a big deal to her. Carefully, you undo every piece of tape, pulling out a which box. Melissa’s hand urges you to open the box, nodding at you even though her eyes stay trained on the lid until your hand begins to open it.

In the box is a teddy bear, a worn-maroon color, tortoise shell buttons for eyes. Your thumb runs over the fabric, eyes flicking across it as the bear starts to feel familiar. Raising it to your nose and inhaling, there’s a lingering scent of wood and shoeshine, and this indescribable smell that brought you back to hanging clothes on the line at your grandparents house. It was his shirt, it was your grandfather’s lucky shirt. He’d worn this shirt the day you were born, when each of the grandkids graduated high school or college, and to every anniversary date with grandma.

Tears fall down your cheeks freely. Looking up at Melissa, she seems unsure of what to do, finding it hard to look at you while you look at the bear. Flying out of your seat, you launch yourself at Melissa, knocking her backwards onto the couch, “thank you. Thank you so much. This is so... you’re too perfect, thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it,” she answers as she holds you to her tightly.

“I love it,” you press a kiss to her skin. You trace your finger over the stitching on the arm, recognizing the pattern, “did your mom do this?”

“She did. I called your aunt and asked her to send a shirt, and gave it to Ma at a dinner a few weeks ago to make into a bear or rabbit or whatever she could with the material,” Melissa clears her throat, “this way, you can give the old man a hug whenever you need one.” The sincerity and adoration in her gift, her words, her actions, were all too much. She felt a choked sob against her as fresh tears fell, mutterings of I love you from both of you.

The cocoa on the table went cold, the breakfast she was going to make completely forgotten. Melissa was never one to care this much about what she got from or gave to other people during the holidays, truthfully she threw out almost everything anyone by you or Barbara gave her, save for the pencils from her students. Sure the novelty items were great, and the scratch tickets weren’t bad either, but she liked the look on your face seeing that bear more than anything she’d ever get.

This was everything. You in her arms, holding onto her, kissing her face everywhere as the appreciation and love for her overflowed into the living room. Nothing else has or will ever matter as much as this, as much as you with her in this moment.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” she whispers into the space between you.

“Merry Christmas, gorgeous,” you answer, closing that space.

happy holidays my angels, love u all ❄️

as always, feedback appreciated <3

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #lesbian

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honey-minded-hivemind · 3 months ago

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💿Reboot AU, Post One, Patient is the Night:

• The breeze is colder than you expected it to be today. It nips at your skin, at your nose, at your cheeks, at your eyes. It stings, as though someone tossed ice on you. But you keep going, taking the old cracked sidewalk to get to your destination.

• It's an old building, with many windows showing off antique tea sets and plates, Christmas trees and baubles, old lamps and costume jewelry, and different paintings and old furniture and knick knacks. The place has been there for as long as you can remember, with its dark green, chipped doors, it's slanted entrance, and it's lack of heating and air conditioning. The old place, the Bay Antique and Flea Market, has three floors: the ground floor, the basement, and the top floor. And inside are booths upon booths, with almost anything imaginable. It also happens happens be where you work.

• Entering the old building causes the bell above the door to ring, and you're greeted by a tired co-worker, who waves you off, letting you go to your section of the antique store. You pass many items, mostly old and vintage, only a few new things sticking out here and there in bright, mismatched colors. There's the large glass display case featuring silver spoons, different large and jeweled rings, mannequin parts displaying necklaces and bracelets on their black velvet shapes, and thimbles and cups and rare toys in protective casing. As you pass that, you slip by the clothing section, full of expensive old fur shawls and coats, old prom dresses as far back as the 60s, feathered and ostentatious hats, pointed heels, and old bows and ribbons and brooches. You turn sharply to the left, wea ing between large oak drawers and stained glass lamps, past the old porcelain cups and mugs and glass goblete and retro kitchen items, further past the fake fruits and oil paintings and old rocking horse, and then you reach the old metal stairs.

• You descend, gripping the middle railing as you go down, reaching the next set of stairs, taking the right set, and then you're in the basement area. Where the ground floor smelled of coffee and leather and old metal, down here smells like mothballs, dust, and old book pages. In the farthest room is a whole book section, with children's books from different decades, science and history and algebra books for homeschooling, ABC and Spanish and hymnals, even old Bibles and trashy romance novels. Next to that section are old costumes and skirts and dresses, donated by older teachers and grandparents and old theaters. You loop through the section, moving quickly past the football team mascot merch and old soda bottles and creepy dolls, and into a section you quite enjoy, amd where you usually stay: the Marvel section.

• You pop your back, then get to work. You start unpacking old comics, each in protective plastic, and categorize them into their appropriate sections. After that you're putting up random T-shirts, with different phrases or characters or motifs on them, from Disney to Deadpool to even chibi Avengers. Once that's over with, you sit down, taking a small break.

• That's when you notice the box

• It's on the display case/desk, worn and dented, with no address or writing, besides being addressed to someone that sounds like some odd hero or villain name. You feel a little put off by it, but with careful hands, you peel back the flaps...

• Huh. There are a few DVD cases, depicting different teenage and adult characters, with some title that includes X-Men. You feel puzzled looking it over, checking the cases and DVDs for damage, but oddly find none, not even a scratch on any of the discs or chipped plastic on the cases. You take a closer look at the title...

• X-Men: Evolution... except when you peer closer, it says by it "the Rebooted Series". Hmmm... You go through your thoughts, trying to think of what you know about any X-Men or Marvek media, but come up short. Huh. So. This could be an old series, one that became lost media. Or could be a fake version. Or it might even just be a prank by some dumb teenager. Well... You're curious, and you could use a good thing, so with that decided, you set up the old TV in your section.

• It takes a few tries, but you figure out the remote, soon turning on the old screen and setting it to AV. You open the case labeled as the first season, and take out the first disc... You shiver, feeling a purckling sensation along your back... but you shake it off, inserting the disc, then press the play button... The screen flickers, a small pop of static, then it sends you to the main menu... You hum lightly, pressing the play all option, and soon it winks out... And then it opens to the first episode, and you breathe out a sigh.

• You watch the first few episodes, enjoying the designs of each character, puzzling over undertones that there are secrets being kept, watching the teams form and dynamics be made, and you grin, a tired, warm tilt of your lips and a settled look in your eyes. It's a comfort, somehow, seeing the adult X-Men and Brotherhood members acting like odd mentors and parents, seeing the teens become friends and teammates, seeing the difference abilities and powers that bring them together... You find yourself feeling calmer somehow, and you soend the next few hours finishing the first season...

• You added a bit of commentary as you watched, and you tilted your head when the characters seemed to pause from time to time, or mentioned they were missing someone, or asked seemingly no one if they were watching, if they heard them, if they could remember what had happened... you feel a deep sadness at that, wondering who they're trying to reach, and what could possibly be wrong...

• Your dream is fuzzy around the edges, dark, as though blurred, but by what you don't know... something is speaking to you, or whoever you're supposed to be... they aren't kind, but your head can't remember what they're saying, it can't focus on what's happening... you feel pain, filling your veins then filling your heart and then filling your mind, drowning you under deep agony... there's a bright light, there's a sharp jolt through your chest, and then everything go numbs, voices settling, darkness swallowing everything whole...

• You jump, waking up. There's no one there... Your head feels weird, thick and groggy, as you struggle back to wakefulness. You can hear the muted voices from the TV, and let out a small breath. You're okay... You're fine... It's just a nightmare, it's just a dream, it can't hurt you...

• You look back at the screen, noting how the characters seemed to stare back for a moment... before resuming their conversation, a few sounding concerned while you started waking up.

• "-not okay, how do we know it's safe-" "-if we don't try now, we won't get another chance-!" "-settle down, please-" "-shhhhh, you woke them up!" "-remind them-" "-miss them-" "-it vill be okay, guys, it has to be-"

• You groan slightly, pulling yourself up to your full height. Your shoulders roll back, firm and strong, amd your legs carry you over to a small mini fridge. You squat down, yawning a little, and pick out a cold coffee. You pop back up, heading back to your seat, and take a minute to down your drink. Your sweater is soft, in a warm shade of brown, and your jeans are a dark gray. Your boots, short bit sporting heels, click together lightly as you bounce your leg a little to help you wake up. You finger your left ear a little, noting your three earrings are still there: a trio of dangling moonstones; a thin silver hoop; and a dark black stud, twinkling like a star. You rub at your eyes, then you're back to being awake.

• You look back at the screen, noting the characters are all getting ready for bed now, and you yawn. They have the right idea... You watch as the episode is finished, and soon the first season is done. You stretch as you get up, then stride over to the TV, popping out the disc, then setting it back in its case. You wander over to the worn box they came in, and sift through the remaining cases...

• There's at least... five, if not six, seasons... And while you really would like to start the second season right away... you think maybe taking a nap would be a good idea...

• "Night, guys... See ya in the morning..."

• As you lay your head back down, pillowing it on your arms, you think you almost hear something... but you're soon winking out, too tired to stay awake a second longer...

• "Night, Reader... we miss you..."

• The screen flickers once, twice... and then it fades out, a quick flash of eyes watching the sleeping teen, before it disappears...

@sugar-soda @vivid-bun @danni1323 @weebwholovesuchihasasuke @thewickedweiner @opossumdaydreamz @ainsellshadewalker @c0ld0utside (Welcome to 💿Reboot AU...)

#honeycomb thoughts #platonic yandere marvel #yandere platonic marvel #platonic yandere xmen #yandere x-men #platonic yandere marvel x reader #platonic yandere xmen evolution #platonic yandere xmen evolution au #💿reboot au

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caffeinatedmunchkin · 6 days ago

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Wyll Ravengard x Reader smut teaser ✨

idk where this came from and idk where it’s going

Broad and sturdy, his weight wasn't crushing or confining. It was guarding.

He was shelter.

"You are perfect.” His declaration was steeped in charmed disbelief. "Gods above you're so perfect."

Crooned thick and silken from deep in his throat, like smoked butterscotch, heady and rich. His rumbling praise curled your toes and rolled your eyes back.

Sheathed inside you to the hilt at long last pulled from him a ragged, exultant huff of relief, pure and unadulterated, against your lips. One you breathed in with greed.

The inside of your thighs were slick with perspiration, as they shook around his hips with the ferocity of one possessed. Restless, hungry fingers roamed over the scars that streaked the taught musculature of his back. Knotting in his midnight tresses, and stroking up the base of his horns.

Grabbing anywhere and everywhere to anchor yourself to the moment. Holding tight to your tenuous vigilance as The Blade invaded your depths with the brunt of him.

The heft of his girth pulsed deeply in tandem with the heartbeat that laid over yours. His strokes heavy, they dragged along your plush heat as it puckered around him in desperation.

A piercing eye forced open to appreciate the sight of you like this beneath him; the glimmering claret seemed to glow with reverence as it drank you in.

Breathless and flushed, a building pressure coiled low in your pelvis that furrowed your damp brow, and teased your lips apart. Forcing them open while you sang for him, the plea of his name on your strangled breath hymnal. Your surrender to him sacrosanct.

When Wyll laid with you he felt absolved.

The estranged measure of his self-worth stoked and blazing like the embers of a bonfire. The more you clung to him, your nails making the demand for more, more, more by way of the path they carved in his back, saw those flames raging to a height that bordered on egotistical.

#Idk I was listening to Worthy by Jacob Banks while looking at Wyll fanart and blacked out to this in my docs #wyll ravengard #wyll ravenguard x reader #wyll ravenguard smut #wyll x tav #wyll fanfic #Wyll ravenguard fanfiction #munchkins musings

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xalygatorx · 10 months ago

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Unbound | Chapter 10, "What You Want"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: The party has reached the Grove after a stressful few days on the road from the goblin camp. The tiefling refugees and Zevlor join their camp for the night to celebrate their victory and rest up before resuming their journey to Baldur’s Gate. While making her rounds, Áine receives a proposition from Astarion.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: 18+/NSFW (p-in-v sex); Astarion romance scene #1 spoilers; suggestive content & dialogue; angst; trauma (intrusive thoughts, self-loathing); lightly proofread; encouraging comments welcome to assuage my anxiety over whether I could do Astarion’s inner monologue justice here hahaha jk unless

Word Count: 8.3k

Listening to: White Winter Hymnal - Fleet Foxes, I Will Love You (Even If It Kills Me) - Too Far Moon (again)

“When I come near, your odor alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end.”

Easily able to hear the conversation taking place in front of Lae’zel’s tent, Astarion snuck a glance at Áine’s expression, seeing if he could gauge her interest based on look alone. He nearly shot the piss this lot passed for wine through his nose at the sight of her impossibly rounded chocolate eyes and the polite smile plastered across her lips. His mind cemented that sight into a memory that he could only hope would enter his reverie’s nightly rotation and serve to chase at least one recollection of the horrors he’d endured back to its rightful shadows.

Then again, even if caught off-guard, perhaps she’d say “yes” to Lae’zel. He focused back on their conversation and turned his gaze toward the tieflings drunkenly mingling nearby to obscure his intrusion.

“I want to taste you,” Lae’zel was saying, her confidence palpable. It was an honest pride, unlike the sort Astarion wore at times, he realized. She truly believed these things of herself and he envied her for it. “Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same.”

Astarion listened with figuratively bated breath for Áine’s answer. He would make his final advances tonight regardless of what she told Lae’zel or anyone else. 200 years’ worth of perfecting his methods under threat of torturous punishment from Cazador would not be for nothing when he finally had a personal use for his skills. If she said “yes” to anyone else, then the plan would simply adjust rather than fail, just like when he’d thought she was seeing Shadowheart.

Not particularly to his surprise but to his benefit, Áine was in the process of letting the githyanki down gently. “I’m sorry, Lae’zel, I don’t feel the same way. But thank you. I think.” Astarion smirked, obscuring his expression behind another sip of whatever acrid brew lay in his wine bottle.

For the time being, he let his attention wander across the party and their guests, letting the rest of their conversation wrap up without his ear. Áine seemed to be making the rounds around the camp and all its residents, regular and temporary, so she would eventually end up at his tent as well. And if she didn’t, he supposed he’d go seek her out, but Astarion had complete confidence that she’d come. Several times, if all went accordingly.

Meanwhile, Lae’zel was taking Áine’s polite rejection with as much confidence as she’d delivered its related proposition. “Your loss, I fear,” she said, still smiling. “One day soon you will wonder how my lips might have tasted. How my fingers on your skin might’ve felt… And you will wish you could return to this lost moment.”

Áine wasn’t often at a loss for words, but she was now. And yet still she admired Lae’zel’s self-assured demeanor where most would have crumbled in her place at being rejected for a post-party romp. In fact, she’d seen a couple of those responses firsthand already just that night. She was beginning to think Shadowheart may have been onto something when she’d told her all those nights ago that the majority of their camp wanted a shot at her. The idea made her more anxious than flattered.

With Lae’zel and her steady unfazed response, however, Áine allowed herself to just feel flattered. “If that does come to pass, I know I’ll have no one but myself to blame,” she said, smiling. “I hope I’m as confident in myself as you are someday.”

Lae’zel smiled back at her, the tilt of her thin lips no longer holding a sensual edge but one of camaraderie. “You deserve to be. I can firmly state that your only major fault that I have witnessed thus far has been your taste in mating partners,” she said. Áine laughed, content to sit in self-deprecation as Lae’zel added, “Oh, but do enjoy yourself this night. I intend to, myself. Wyll or Astarion in particular both look rather tempting...”

Áine’s brows rose, her eyes sliding toward where Astarion stood at his tent. He watched the party with an expression flitting between amusement and a glower, occasionally raising a green glass wine bottle to his lips and seeming to regret it every time. Despite the twisty faces he pulled, he was immaculate as always. Just looking at him made her chest tighten a little, as had begun to happen any time he caught her eye in the past few days. Truly, she’d felt that twinge ever since he’d kissed her that night which already felt like so long ago.

And amidst that twinge at Lae’zel’s mention of propositioning Astarion was…jealousy? She had no right to be jealous, but she—unlike a certain vampire—could admit that she was. Perhaps he’d be taken with a proposition from Lae’zel, after all. She didn’t hold any sort of right to him and he could do whatever he liked. A simple fling was also often preferable in these times and a much easier task to manage for most, and Áine wasn’t most. As much as it ate at her, she supposed it might be best for all parties if his fancies turned elsewhere and she could start squashing the feelings growing inside her.

“Well, I just passed Wyll on the beach for whatever it’s worth,” Áine told Lae’zel. “And you can, of course, see your other interest from here… Whatever you do tonight, Lae’zel, I hope you have a nice time.”

“And you as well,” Lae’zel said, inclining her head. Áine couldn’t help but feel heartened when she saw the githyanki’s gaze flicker first toward the beach rather than the tent adjacent to hers.

Áine made her way around the tents further back from the fire, careful to give Gale’s tent a wide berth following their own exchange earlier in the night. His advance she’d seen coming more easily than Lae’zel’s, which had come out of left field, but it hadn’t made her any more ready for it. No matter how sorry she felt and how she communicated that to him, he still tried and seemed increasingly bitter toward her responses each time.

She’d feared something similar from Wyll, but with his new devilish appearance courtesy of Mizora’s punishment for his refusal to kill Karlach—which had come to pass during their trek back to the Grove—he was more doused in angst than anything down by the shoreline. Áine sighed to herself as she approached Halsin, her dour expression fading only to offer a smile and wave to Mol as she passed by. She hoped that Wyll found it in himself to join the party before it wound to a close. Of all the people who might judge him for his new appearance, she really didn’t think the refugees he’d helped so much would be among them.

“Halsin!” Áine greeted the Archdruid over the jubilant, but occasionally raucous party noise around them. She took in his empty hands and asked, “Can I grab you a drink?”

“Oh, no thank you,” he chuckled. “In truth, I rarely imbibe. The stuff goes right to my head and, before you know it, I’d be breaking into song or declaring love to the first person I lay eyes on.”

Áine laughed. “That hardly sounds like a detriment to a good party, but no pressure, of course,” she said.

With all the other noise in the vicinity, Astarion now found Áine’s conversation to be out of earshot, only able to pick up the occasional dulcet note of her voice amongst the clamor. It was most certainly not because he’d grown accustomed to seeking out her voice. At the thought, he remembered seeing her by the fireside just a few nights back with tears streaming down her face, her fingers still positioned diligently against her lute strings.

Astarion pulled a face and took another swallow of wine, which caused him to pull an even stronger face. Bleeding Hells, he wanted a proper vintage, but more than that he wanted to know what that tree trunk of an elf had just done to make her grin like that!

“But I digress,” Halsin was saying, “there are many grateful people here who want to spend time with you. Go on now, don’t waste a night like this talking to me. We will discuss your problem tomorrow.”

Áine frowned at both halves of his statement. “Firstly, it wouldn’t be a waste. But second, I thought you said we could run through some things once we reached the Grove. But we’re putting off the conversation again?”

Halsin frowned. “I understand your eagerness. However, it is something better discussed on a fresh morning, I think. Your parasite shows no further signs of turning before the morrow and a well-deserved night of recreation and rest awaits you.” He offered her an encouraging smile and waved her on. “Enjoy yourself. Seek out some wine before it runs dry—there are a lot of thirsty people around here.”

Yeah, no kidding, Áine thought, artfully dodging both Lae’zel’s and Gale’s eyes as she was dismissed from Halsin’s company. She trotted along toward Shadowheart’s tent, dodging a very tipsy Bex and some other well-drunk tieflings along the way. Áine couldn’t help the smile that formed on her lips at seeing everyone so happy. Even if they ran into trouble on the morrow, like Halsin had said, at least they had tonight.

“Everyone seems to be in high spirits, don’t they?” Shadowheart suggested as she drew closer, brandishing a silver goblet. “Can I tempt you?”

Áine paused heavily, suddenly uncertain of what she meant and opting for caution. “...With what?”

Shadowheart’s lips curled into an amused smile. “Wine and glorious friendship.”

“Yes, please,” Áine said, drawing a chuckle from Shadowheart. “Sorry, it’s been a minefield out there tonight. I’ve begun to err on the side of overcareful.”

“I told you that the others were firmly on the prowl,” the cleric said, pouring a goblet for Áine. “Even more true now than it was when I first said it. At least you’ve almost gone full circle at this point, only one or two more stops to make if I’ve paid appropriate attention.” Behind a sip of wine, she mumbled, “Only one of high importance though by my estimation…”

“What was that?” Áine challenged her with a laugh at how utterly smug Shadowheart looked after she lowered her goblet again. The bard took a sip of the wine she’d been gifted, her brows rising as the rich fruity notes graced her tongue. “My goodness, where did you find this?”

Shadowheart gave Áine an ambiguous look that reeked of mischief. “I may have nicked one of the vintages that Wyll stashed away in his tent,” she said. “But you’ll never get me to admit such a second time.”

Áine laughed. “Shadowheart, shame on you!”

“What?! You probably pilfered this bottle, yourself, before the little rat scurried off with it,” she pointed out, refilling her goblet with abandon. “He can’t steal every good wine he sees for himself, he has to share with the class. I’ve simply liberated a single bottle as a treat and you’re welcome for it.”

Áine couldn’t help the amused smirk that found her lips, the heady wine layering on top of the weaker blends she’d already taken that night—many of those pressed into her hands by happy attendees wanting to share their spoils—and making her head pleasantly swim. “Thank you for sharing,” Áine said with a sassy curtsey, a gesture returned by Shadowheart as the two giggled. “What did you mean by ‘only one of importance’?”

“You know what I meant,” Shadowheart said, taking a deep sip of her wine. “Unless I’ve missed you speaking to him, but I daresay I haven’t.”

“Astarion?” Áine asked and, at Shadowheart’s dubious look, she said, “I haven’t just yet. Not for any reason, I just—”

“Prefer to save the best for last?” Shadowheart suggested. Áine started to speak but ended up pursing her lips, silenced by embarrassment. The cleric grinned triumphantly. “Well, go on, what’s the concern? Are you worried he’ll join the list of people to ask you to bed tonight?”

“No!” Áine said but quickly recanted. “I mean, a little.”

Shadowheart measured Áine’s expression before she slowly asked, “...or are you worried he won’t join that list?”

“I don’t know,” Áine admitted. “For all the reasons we discussed, this sort of thing is a big deal for me in ways that usually just inconvenience others. And while I felt guilty turning down Lae’zel, Karlach, and Gale, I—”

“Karlach, too?” Shadowheart asked, surprised. “I must’ve missed that conversation.”

“She was the first I said ‘hello’ to tonight,” Áine said, “and she was very kind about it. Like you were.”

“That should be the standard, you know,” Shadowheart pointed out. “Anything less than respect shouldn’t be tolerated.”

“Do you know how many people I would have had to ‘not tolerate’ if I followed that rule?” Áine sighed. “And that isn’t a ‘oh look at me, people want to have sex with me’ sort of brag, it’s just the uncomfortable truth.”

Shadowheart frowned. “I suppose. At least you don’t people-please. I would worry about you more if you did.” Áine’s heart warmed at the cleric’s protective tone. “Right, so which are you hoping for then? That he’ll ask or he won’t? Because I’m wagering he will, for whatever that’s worth.”

Áine blushed. “I truly don’t know. I suppose I’ll know if he suggests something,” she said. “That’s all to say if he even does. Lae’zel had an eye on him earlier, so who knows? He may have plans by the time I end up talking to him.”

“You’re counting on that, aren’t you?” Shadowheart asked suddenly. “Because it’s easier than facing the decision yourself.”

“You’re alarmingly observant when you’re drinking,” Áine remarked. She sighed. “It’s all been tension so far and it’s been…nice. I’ve never been interested in someone like this before and I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. By what I’m like as a person, as a partner, or by my actions in the moment. By doubting myself and the truth of my feelings.”

Shadowheart studied Áine, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh. “Far be it from me to encourage you toward that rakish vampire—and, believe me, I don’t believe his intentions to be pure regardless of who he associates with—but if one of you is to ‘ruin’ whatever you have going on, it will not be you. And if you do then so be it,” she said, shrugging. She swirled her wine around her goblet, looking at its dark currents thoughtfully. “In my experience, the regret we feel at not seeking something out is stronger than that which we feel at seeking something out and finding it wasn’t what we thought.”

Shadowheart’s gaze lifted back to Áine’s. “All that to say, at least you’ll know if you try. But do be careful. I am a cleric after all and can fashion a stake in mere minutes if need be.”

Áine gave her a tender smile and collected Shadowheart into a hug. “Thank you.”

Shadowheart hugged the bard close, resting her chin against her shoulder and gently patting her back. Over Áine’s shoulder, she caught Astarion’s eye who was attempting a surreptitious glance their way. He froze when they locked eyes, at least until Shadowheart gave him a teasing wag of her brows while she still held the object of his interest in her arms.

Astarion scoffed and looked away with a roll of his eyes, causing Shadowheart to chuckle. Áine felt the movement of her chest against her own and asked, “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shadowheart said as they parted, sipping her wine. “Here, have one for the road,” she added as she topped off Áine’s goblet. “And, again…be careful. But also enjoy yourself.”

Shyly, Áine smiled and inclined her head in thanks for the advice and the wine. Sipping from her goblet as she turned to head back into the fray, Áine’s eyes wandered the party, but they of course settled in a predictable spot. Astarion’s vibrant crimson eyes caught hers the moment she did, snaring her attention as wholly as ever and affirming that she would indeed have to face whatever would end up surfacing between them that night. Perhaps nothing would—but the possibility of “something” unnerved and electrified her at once.

Clutching the goblet from Shadowheart in her palm like a lifeline, Áine crossed the distance to where Astarion stood waiting, contemplating his bottle and the wine within until she stood before him. “Good evening so far?” Áine wondered, measuring what was gone from the bottle he held to try to determine that.

“It is now,” he said, smooth as ever. Áine gave him a scolding look but couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. Astarion smirked and commented, “You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…”

Áine watched him pause to take a long sip of his wine before he finished his thought. “I hate it. This is awful.”

The bard laughed. “Surely it can’t be so bad? We did a good thing.”

“The tally of lives didn’t change much—a few goblins killed to save a few tieflings,” he said with a shrug. “And what do I get for all my hard work? A pat on the head and vinegar for wine.”

“Oh stop, you got to kill a horde of goblins, too,” Áine chastised him, her tone affectionate despite her scolding. “And the wine is not that bad.”

Astarion’s brows rose and he challenged her by offering the bottle. Áine rolled her eyes and shook her head, but took the bottle in her free hand, tilting it back to take a sip. When a rich, dry red wine hit her tongue, she looked at the bottle and then at Astarion, bewildered at how he could find anything wrong with the blend.

He mistook her baffled expression for distaste. “See what I mean? Awful!”

Áine licked her lips, a motion that Astarion followed with keen interest, as she looked back down at the bottle. “It tastes relatively normal to me, but perhaps our palates differ,” she suggested, although she was wondering why he was trying to drink wine in the first place. He’d told her and Gale once in passing conversation that any food he’d tried since turning tasted wrong on the tongue, wouldn’t wine have the same result? Maybe he wasn’t ready to accept that yet. “Try mine?” Áine offered instead, holding out her goblet. She decided to withhold that it was an expensive vintage for now until he tried it. For science, of course.

Astarion took the goblet she offered, his wintry touch ghosting across her warm skin and, she thought, lingering a bit longer than usual. When she stole a glance at his face, she found him watching her with an intensity that caught her off-guard. Without breaking eye contact, he tried the wine she offered him, and she saw his throat work again before he said, “I admit it is better, but still leaves much to be desired.”

Áine wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that wine wouldn’t taste good to him anymore if even these decadent reds didn’t pique his interest. She didn’t have a death wish.

Astarion handed her back her goblet, politely refusing the bottle when she tried to return it to him, giving up on that one completely. He sighed loudly. “All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” he griped.

Áine was occasionally sipping the wine from her goblet, resting her lips against the rim even when she wasn’t. The cool metal was a helpful grounding tool. She snorted a little, glancing toward the festivities taking place all around them. “And what do you consider ‘a little fun’?” she asked. Here it was—either he’d suggest something akin to what everyone else seemed to be hungry for that night or he’d flip her expectations and crave something else. Violence, perhaps. Mischief, most certainly.

“By the Hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion.”

Shadowheart had been right. Áine paused heavily, her lips still brushing the rim of her goblet as she looked up at him and studied his expression. He had his rake mask on, not a crack in it to be seen.

While she introspected a little at how his suggestion made her feel, she said aloud, “Ah, I see,” with a soft laugh. As somewhat of a test, Áine nodded toward Lae’zel’s tent and informed him, “I was talking to Lae’zel a little bit ago and she mentioned having half a mind to seek you out for some extracurricular. For what that’s worth.”

Astarion’s brows rose. “Is that what you want?”

Now it was Áine’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean? You said you wanted sex.”

“Yes, and you’ve suggested that I seek out Lae’zel, or let her seek me out,” Astarion said. “Is that what you’d prefer I do?”

Áine frowned at him. “I want you to do what you want to do. Always. Consider it a heads-up, if nothing else.”

There was that assertion of autonomy again. Astarion didn’t know how to handle her when conversations took this turn. He hardly knew how to handle himself and he hated that feeling. The rest of it, he craved. Dangerously. However, Astarion also craved needling her a little. “Right, now who’s jealous?” he accused with a crooked smirk.

Áine gave him a sideways look that reeked of disapproval, which only egged him on. “I am not jealous,” she declared, but she was lying and they both knew it. Instead of continuing to persist, she grumbled into her goblet and took a deep gulp of wine.

He watched her intently, gauging every microexpression in her pretty face as he said, “What if what I want is a night with you?” Her face visibly warmed over and she didn’t speak right away. He found himself filling the silence when she didn’t. “I know, me and everyone else this eve. It wouldn’t take my specialized range of hearing to guess that you’ve had such a proposition at every stop tonight.”

“Shadowheart didn’t ask,” she supplied, her lips pursing as she realized he was pretty much correct about the others. “Wyll didn’t either.”

“Shadowheart doesn’t surprise me. She already took her shot,” Astarion commented, his unanswered question hanging painfully in the air while they chitchatted around it. “Wyll does surprise me though.”

Áine shrugged and inclined her head back toward the beach. “He’s having a time. When I checked on him earlier, he wasn’t keen on joining the festivities. He’s still adjusting to his new look and he was wary of the tieflings seeing him like that.”

Astarion scoffed. “Was he, now? Oh, boo-hoo, ‘no one at the tiefling party knows how hard it is to have horns,’ now that makes complete sense,” he remarked.

“Shush,” Áine half-cackled, giving him a playful shove. “Gods, that’s not funny. You’re positively evil for making me laugh at that.”

Astarion smirked. “An absolute villain, I know,” he bantered back. He’d stepped closer to Áine after she’d given him her little shove and he was comfortably cloaked in her bouquet—the delicious, tempting scent of her blood combined with soap and mint leaves. “Did you want Wyll to ask you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a low husk.

Áine shook her head, having to tilt her head back some to meet his eyes when he was this close. “No. I was relieved that he didn’t,” she said honestly. The quiet stretched again, and then apropos of his earlier question, Áine finally gave him a slow nod. “I would say yes, by the way.”

Astarion was a little slower on the uptake, unsure if she was referencing back to his original question or if he was experiencing a form of wishful thinking. “Yes to what, dearest?”

Áine swallowed against a suddenly tight throat and replied, “To you. If what you wanted…was me.”

Astarion gave her a rakish smile. “But we’re not jealous, are we?”

Áine gave him a hard look in return. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Fine, fine,” the vampire said with a chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. “Once things quiet down… Once everyone’s asleep, we’ll find each other.” Astarion nodded toward the far side of their camp. “The little glade we set up in when we last passed through here isn’t far from here… That should give us plenty of privacy to…get to know each other better.”

Still a little timid, Áine nodded back. She was nervous, but it was a nice sort of nervous. One might even call it “butterflies.” Gods, she was deep in it already. However, she’d decided she would follow what her gut told her to do this time and when he’d suggested that he wanted to spend the night with her, the thrill that had hummed through her bones and the heat that had warmed her from her belly to her heart told her all she needed to know. She wanted to know what happened next for them.

To him, she said, “I suppose I’ll see you there, then.”

Astarion smiled, the expression perfectly dashing and sensual as he murmured, “Indeed, you will, my love… Indeed, you will.”

His voice and the words he wrapped within it did funny things to her heart and Áine gave him a look before that look crumbled into a soft laugh and a smile. “Right,” she murmured, handing him her goblet. “I leave you the ‘still much to be desired but better’ wine and will now make myself scarce.”

Astarion accepted her offering and raised the goblet to her as she stepped away. In truth, the wine she’d offered him was as acrid as what was in the bottle she took with her, but it was less to choke down, he supposed. Someday perhaps he would admit to himself that wine was as much off the table as any other consumable that wasn’t blood, but today was not that day.

He watched his little bard find her way to Alfira, greeting the other woman with a fond hug and finding herself immediately furnished with a borrowed flute. Subconsciously, he rotated the goblet against the press of his lower lip until he found where she’d rested the metal against hers, her warmth still lingering there. Astarion closed his lips over the spot, disguising his fixation with a sip of wine that nearly drained what remained in the goblet.

As his eyes traced Áine’s movements—her dancing while she and Alfira performed, the rise and fall of her breasts as she portioned her breath between the flute and her steps, every time her hair caught the light of the fire or the moon peeking over the canopy, the joyful sparkle in her eyes that he found himself hoping he represented one small part of—he took a moment to collect himself.

Astarion, at no fault to himself or his allure, had been almost certain that she would give him the polite “no” she’d delivered around the camp several times already that evening. He’d had competition from their allies, even from some of the tieflings, and even though he knew he was the obviously correct choice amongst them all, she’d still picked him of her own volition. He was positively preening, but he was also wary. Wary of how easily this singular woman’s “yes” had set him aflame, the “heart of a schoolboy” feeling anew yet again, and also how the personal stock he was developing in winning her over might cause him to make a mistake.

This is a transaction, he reminded himself firmly. Sex was always a transaction, regardless of feeling. He’d learned that swift and soon and had been reminded of it every day since that first time allowed out of the kennels to prowl the streets and lure back a prize he’d deliver to his master. His former master.

Astarion’s jaw set. This was hardly any different. He’d chosen her as a target, an easy one at that, and would follow through on executing his plan as he’d originally intended. The only difference was that he’d get to keep this prize and its benefits of protection. He’d never have to hunt, to lie, to bed for another’s gain again.

He was in control of this situation, he reminded himself as he returned his pensive stare to its subject, teaching himself to dismiss the things that transfixed him. He wouldn’t be controlled by her or by his feelings for her, he wouldn’t be tricked into a vulnerable position, into servitude, into capture by the tangential side-effects of physical intimacy. Astarion brought those additional walls down around his mind and heart, remembering his foolish attachments from those first few victims he took in Cazador’s name. The guilt, the heartache, the shreds of hope—all of it had simply added to his misery in those sparse stone dungeon rooms after he’d delivered those first ill-chosen innocent souls to their fate.

Misery would have no company from him. Never again.

It occurred to him later, while slipping off his shirt under the cloak of shadow just past the trees circling the clearing, that despite telling himself that he was in full control of the entire situation, the entire seduction, that he was awfully anxious for that to be true in its entirety.

Astarion chalked it up to how much of his guaranteed personal safety relied on this and also from the mild pressure he’d felt start to build by being the partner Áine had chosen out of several available options. It was different than seducing someone in a tavern or from a street corner. He wouldn’t be taking her to her death afterward—he’d see her the next day, travel on as usual, and likely even sleep with her again at some point if she asked or he felt a need to renew his “contract,” so to speak. And he had no doubt she’d ask. But it was something quite different to know that this encounter wouldn’t be the last he had with someone.

He worried the inside of his lower lip with the edge of one fang, firmly pushing down the anxiety rising in him that made as little sense as the foreign symptoms of desire that he’d only seen in others who looked upon him for ages but hadn’t felt within his own body for centuries.

Astarion grumbled at his physical betrayals, setting his well-worn and oft-repaired ruffled shirt down on the grass in front of him as he sifted through his mind for some of his best lines, the ones he felt most comfortable delivering and also a few with a good track record for success. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you,” was always a strong choice. And it was a line he’d used a thousand times over as well. That would help him numb himself a bit and dissociate from what was soon to come.

Or so he hoped, anyway. Maybe she’d changed her mind or passed out after all the wine and dancing had taken their toll on her.

He’d no sooner thought that than he heard familiar, hesitant footsteps working their way from the direction of the campsite. Astarion’s mouth twitched with a faint smile that echoed a feeling of triumph, of anticipation…and of something bittersweet. He wasn’t a monster, after all. He did feel a touch guilty for reeling her in like this. The poor thing was infatuated, just as he’d intended for her to be, but he knew quite well he’d played the rake as well as ever. Of course she was entranced by his practiced façade. He’d yet to meet someone he’d tried to seduce who didn’t end up under the spell of its glamor.

It is, after all, all you’re good for.

Astarion dropped his head forward, wincing at the voice in his head reciting something Cazador had told him so many times that Astarion had begun to hear it in his own voice, telling himself the truth of things. He heard the footsteps nearby when they crossed the edge of the clearing, and then when they stopped, too.

He shelved the despair that clawed its way forward with incrementally more success in each attempt to overtake him again. There was no Cazador in this scenario, there would never be again. The only person he needed to worry about for the moment was growing evermore hesitant just shy of his hiding place and would retreat to camp if he didn’t show himself soon.

Roughly, lovelessly, Astarion rubbed himself through the taut leather of his pants, his jaw tightening as familiar nausea seeped into the pit of his stomach. He winced as his own touch turned harsher, hateful even. His mind recited old lines, ones he was soon to use on a surely unsuspecting Áine and ones he used on himself to ensure he would perform as he must. Remember to tell them how much you want this, he ran through in his head, his palm still grinding against his cock until his anatomy was bullied into arousal. Now stay hard until she finishes. This is your payment. This is a trade. Remember that and remember to smile.

One shuddering breath later, Astarion donned the mask as professionally as ever, all traces of self-loathing, of pain, of grief for what he’d lost neatly leeched from his exterior, nestled like a leaden ball behind his bared chest, where his heart should’ve beat. And then he stepped out into the moonlight.

Áine was still there but looked as though she was just considering heading back. She stilled her step when he showed himself and he watched her eyes trace down his torso, across his muscular arms, before they snapped back to meet his. She reminded him of a fawn, which was a far cry from the hellion he knew she could be—it made seeing her like this that much more new, that much more a secret between them. He’d be gentle with this prey, Astarion told himself, eager to hang onto this vision rather than the more dangerous alternative of looking at her and seeing her. If this endured, he would remain fully in control.

“There you are,” he greeted her, remembering to smile. “I’ve been waiting.” Astarion inclined his head as he approached her, his gaze trailing languidly across her clothed body, noting where the fabric clung to a curve, where it draped across her toned limbs.

He also kept a speculative eye on her expressions and how she reacted to him, body and words. Her attraction to him was consistent in how it gave her away—he could feel her heat already from where she stood, just at arm’s length, and hear her heart flutter first in nerves and then in wanting. Astarion noticed that the more of this he took in, the less nauseous he seemed to feel, perhaps because his attention was elsewhere. Áine smiled at him, either what he offered or what he’d said pleasing to her.

Emboldened, Astarion added, his voice a calculated, sensual husk, “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you… Waiting to have you.”

Something about that didn’t land. Áine gave him a peculiar look although her smile lingered and he wasn’t sure what had tipped her off. He’d heard himself give a flawless delivery of a line that had made many a man, maiden, all weak at the knees.

Áine smirked as she fiddled with the ties of her shirt, rolling the tiny knotted ends between her fingertips. “Before or after the headbutt?” she asked. “Or perhaps because of the headbutt?”

Shit.

Astarion pursed his lips, already mentally lashing himself and working on a recovery. Of course she’d found that funny rather than sexy—he hadn’t accounted for how different their meeting had been from the others he’d scouted. They were no sensual brush of hands in a tavern near closing, no whispered word against the ear whose echo carried only to an inn room door, no loveless meeting of eyes in a darkened street where the fire of carnal favors were the only ones with light on offer.

They were a dagger to the throat, an offer for companionship, a roll in the dirt, and yes, even a headbutt when he hadn’t let her go the first time she’d asked. They were a quiet conversation fireside, a snarky comment and an answering laugh, a sometimes-bard and sometimes-swordswoman with a sneak-thief archer protecting her flank, an injury and a salve in perfect alternation thus far.

The part of the salve this night it seemed, Áine smiled at him, the crescent of her lips warm and inviting and putting the moon above them to shame. “I could always replicate our meeting,” she offered. “You don’t have me yet, you know.”

“Don’t I?” Astarion challenged her, a little unnerved by her now. She was turning the tables by flirting with him, by seducing him. He couldn’t recall ever being seduced. Never needed to be, really. And he didn’t need to be now either, but it felt…nice to have her eyes on him, to be met with a—he cursed himself for even thinking it—partner in this sense. There was no power struggle either, it seemed, which was also new. His earlier attempts to keep his mind away from Áine as a person rather than something to hunt and catch were failing one after another and the way she spoke to him felt kind and playful. She spoke to him like an equal as much as she ever had. “You’re here, after all. And…I don’t think you want to talk.”

“No?” Áine bantered back seamlessly. Perhaps his slip had been to his benefit. She seemed somehow more relaxed, more interested than before, even when his little lines had been working. What a strange one you are, he thought, still studying her as she asked, “What do I want, then?”

He was back on track. “I think,” Astarion purred, stepping closer as his hand traced the air around her, not yet moving to touch her, “you want to be known.” He smiled at her meaningfully. “To be tasted.”

Áine’s lower lip caught between her teeth. He could feel the heat coming off her skin as her blush deepened, he could smell her desire and it could only rival the bouquet of her life’s blood that he’d come to recognize without question. An alien sensation coursed through him and went straight to his cock where it still pressed against the seamed leather of his trousers. It jarred him and, were he any less broken, he may have thought that had been his own first taste of desire. But Astarion felt nothing when it came to sex. He’d been broken of that long ago. It hadn’t even taken a year.

She interrupted his internalized confusion when she turned the tables on him yet again. “And what do you want?” Áine asked, her voice hushed into a murmur that sent a shiver up Astarion’s spine. No, it was the air. A wayward breeze, he corrected viciously. She wasn’t allowed this sort of influence on him, this was what he meant to do to her. And clearly was, but…had he ever been asked what he wanted? Especially on the precipice of carnal pleasure?

What did he want?

His hesitation did not breach his mask. “What do any of us want? Pleasure,” he reasoned simply, perfectly present while his thoughts careened down forbidden paths. The best he could do was block out his wayward mind, focus on what he had complete control over at last—his body. And yet wasn’t he just repeating its most habitual motions? Now wasn’t the time to question himself. “Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.”

Astarion could see the way her eyes grew heavy with lust, the cadence of his voice purposeful and near-hypnotic. He could see her beginning to bend—he simply needed her to break. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

Part of him wanted her to say “no.” Not to refuse him, but to tell him that wasn’t what she wanted. To tell him that this was somehow more than just a bit of dissociation, at least for him, more than what he logically knew it really was. And she did see something in his eyes, or so it seemed to him, that made her hesitate.

Yet as different as she was from anyone and everyone before her, Astarion artfully derailed her train of thought with the simple gesture of skimming his fingers up the length of her arm, her skin like summer against his icy touch. Áine leaned in toward him, her lashes fluttered, and a soft sigh eased her lips apart. It was all the answer he needed, the only one he was comfortable receiving despite all his contrary wishes. Astarion smiled and whispered, “I thought so.”

Áine’s eyes remained conflicted despite their lack of focus and Astarion relied on his distractions winning out before he could discover what had her faltering. He couldn’t stop to wonder if he’d let something slip through his otherwise carefully curated façade. It didn’t matter.

His fingertips trailed up her sleeve, tracing the sweep of her collarbone until he reached the ties of her shirt, and his carefully tended nails found purchase on one of the knots she toyed with. Astarion’s eyes flickered up to meet hers as he tugged the tie loose, taking the hem of her shirt and lifting it over her head. This was a procedure. It was practiced. He’d help her undress and then he, with her help if she preferred, would disrobe. Then he’d simply initiate with a kiss, lay her down in the grass, and uphold his part of the unspoken bargain. It was the most repeated pattern in his lifetime. All he had to do…

Astarion’s regimented thoughts, the rehearsed little moves he’d run through in his mind, all sputtered to a halt the moment he let her shirt flutter to the grass and he laid eyes on her naked body again. He’d counted on having once already seen her topless down in the river that night, thinking that this at least would have no way to distract him again. And yet the sight of her lavender skin, star-shaped scars, and perfect, pert dusky breasts all highlighted by the celestial landscape above them left him stunned all over again.

Luckily—or perhaps not—for him, Áine was too busy minding her own clothing to notice him staring, his mask forgotten for an instant. She fumbled with her belt with nervous hands until he reached out and hooked a finger in the strap, pulling her toward him and catching her parted lips in a kiss when she looked up. Nimbly, he unfastened her buckle and untied the laces of her trousers all while his tongue explored her warm, yielding mouth.

He felt her fingers at his waistband and smirked against her lips. “Eager little thing, aren’t you,” he mumbled and claimed her mouth again before she could snap back, causing her to whimper against his tongue and fangs instead. Astarion barely swallowed the growl that rose in his throat at this new sound of hers, surprised at himself and how tightly wound he felt.

She succeeded in loosening his trousers but he snagged her persistent hands in his own before she could go any further. Astarion placed Áine’s hands on his shoulders and reached down to get rid of his own pants, suddenly anxious at the feeling of someone else’s hands touching his skin, his clothes, trying to strip him down to touch his cock. Memories of pawing, grabbing, chafing touches from rough, hungry hands seeped in like a sickness and he tensed against the intrusive tactile flashbacks.

Astarion broke their kiss and swallowed thickly, opening his eyes to look at the woman before him and remind himself precisely where he was and what was happening outside his tortured mind. He could feel Áine’s hands twitch against his shoulders, but they stayed firmly where he’d put them. Trusting her to resist her obvious desire to touch him, Astarion focused on finishing the removal of his trousers and then hers thereafter before scooping her up into his arms.

He cradled her ass in his hands and backed her against a tree, kissing her again. She kissed him back, harder and more passionately this time, and he readily followed her lead for the moment as he felt her legs hook around his hips and draw him in toward her heat. He punished her mouth with his, cursing her warmth, her intoxicating scent, her beautiful body, her kindness, all of it straight to Avernus. She was far from his first warm body and yet she still felt like a first as he smoothed his hands over her thighs, unable to help the quiet growl that surfaced from his throat this time with her satin skin laid open and bare against his palms. He felt her shiver against him, her arms tightening around his shoulders as her back arched, pressing her body needily against his while they devoured each other as if starving.

This would get messy quickly if he didn’t check himself. He hadn’t promised an impassioned, tortured lover, after all, he’d promised the artful, cunning seducer. The patient wolf, the beguiling rake. Besides that, he couldn’t comprehend still how the first could even be happening. Astarion had warred with himself throughout every step of putting his plans for her, for them, into motion and yet it was all coming to a head with the delirium he found himself exposed to now. Everything he’d thought would resolve itself when he finally slept with her was just intensifying with each second that ticked by. As if to prove his point, she impatiently squirmed against him and he very nearly took her on the spot.

Astarion circled an arm around her waist, holding her still as he reached between her legs, finding her plenty hot and wet for him to get this wrapped up. The tiny moan that escaped her when he touched her went straight to his now rock-hard cock. Áine threatened his self-control in a way that terrified him. It was the polar opposite of the way Cazador’s power over him had terrified him, but it terrified him all the same. She made him feel as if he’d come apart from her slightest touch. A lack of control, to him, in any form was unwanted, and more frightening still was realizing that some part of him wanted her to render him helpless. It went against every single thing he’d sworn to himself during his imprisonment in the last two centuries and everything he’d sworn to himself since stepping off that Nautiloid.

Astarion took her down to the grass, allowing himself to memorize and savor her despite his fear of what she may be capable of with him. Áine met his gaze and a flash of consideration entered her beautifully lust-laden eyes before she tilted her head back and bared her neck for him. Astarion’s eyes flickered between her face and her neck, his throat beginning to burn with the rest of him as he weighed her offer if it was truly an offer.

As if answering his thoughts, Áine nodded and temptation won out. Astarion buried his face against her neck, running his tongue along her pulse before he bit her at the same time he positioned himself to slide into her warm, wet cunt.

The instant he did, any semblance of control he had, he lost.

Astarion maintained his clarity for the sake of not bleeding his lover dry, but the rest of his body acted with abandon. He found a rhythm between their hips, angling himself to pump against her inner walls that already clenched around him with every thrust. Swallowing the mouthful of blood he’d taken, he licked her wound closed and concentrated on his thrusts, gratified when her little moans became trembling, barely controlled mewls and her legs tightened around his hips.

Astarion was so focused on bringing her to her peak that he hardly realized he was reaching his for the first time with someone else. He could force his body into anything—he’d learned that without room for doubt over the years—and had sorted out how to perfectly fake an orgasm if needed. Not that the vast majority of those he bedded cared whether or not he came. It was something he was so unused to monitoring during sex that when it hit him, it hit him harder than he could’ve thought possible.

As Áine muffled a cry against the back of her hand, her body shaking under him as she came, Astarion suddenly felt himself go over the edge with her, gripping her tightly as pleasure ripped through him, a quavering groan that he just barely managed to bite down rising in his throat as he flooded her with his seed. They both shivered through aftershocks in each other’s arms, but through the mind-numbing euphoria, something else resurfaced in Astarion.

That guilt again. For ever thinking of this as a chore, like something he had to do to ensure his safety. For every time he’d squashed what he felt while touting their match as something real and normal and without deception. For setting Áine up to wind up with nothing but his broken, worthless, rotten soul at the finish line when he’d wordlessly promised so much more.

For not being able to give her something real, no matter how desperately he now realized he wanted to.

Next chapter: Chapter 11, "Old Scars"

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northernbluetongue · 2 years ago

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🐉🐺❄️

and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime

#Hymnal!AU #The Green Ribbon #The Red Scarf #How To Train Your Dragon #HTTYD #Rise of The Guardians #ROTG #FrostCup #HiJack #Jack x Hiccup #Hiccup x Jack #Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III #Jack Frost #Wolf!Toothless

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raccoonspooky · 1 year ago

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Looking back, I should've been on my knees

RATED E! 6k Words. Father Paul x Fem Reader sort of? Or hallucination of "God?" Umm Father Paul x Faceless third person entity he's fantasizing about. Solo masturbation.

TW for mental instability, delusional behavior and blood drinking. Dude's jerking off with a corpse in the room. Full list of tags on ao3 Y/N device is not used in this fic.

Tags of note under the cut

Tags of note: Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Sacrilege, Guilt, Horny Delirium, Masturbation as a form of worship/prayer.

Salt dry, ocean wind glides through the empty church with a prayer on its breath. The litany is hollow, the words are rehearsed. Maybe the sentiment is echoed from this morning as if the word of god traveled out to sea but the wind pushed it back to the church… or maybe it’s something the ocean came up with all on its own.

Besides such empty delivery, the air is alive with the wind’s echoed praise.

The Monsignor knows the words, they've become a part of him over the years; and after a handful of new developments, he’s begun to associate taste with memory and comprehension. The world is bright and it flares brighter as the wind settles against worn pews to flutter ragged hymnals barely holding onto their cracked spines. With the wind’s closing Amen, it parts way for an older presence that begins to make its way through the church.

It ambles along slowly, taking its time to spread throughout every board and nail. Its sense of divinity turns chipped paint into a hallowed thing. Father Pruitt can feel His proximity before his attention directs toward himself.

In his office, oxygen seems to pull into itself until it cuts out entirely. His nearness is welcomed but the old building seems unable to compensate for the reverence it wants to give. Father Pruitt respectfully drops to his knees and angles toward the emanating warmth. He tilts his head up and his hands come together, tied together by hopeful adoration. Each inhale burns from the lack of oxygen in the room but faith comes with ache. Pain is an essential component of life, a blessing disguised as penance. Iron coats his tongue, it’s long since become paste at the corners of his lips. Somewhere beyond himself, he’s aware that someone lays still behind him, it’s only been a few moments since they took their last breath. They still linger, waiting and Father Pruitt is honored to be here for their transition. God wouldn't leave the faithful cold. He arrived with something incomprehensible, something winged and beautiful.

The Monsignor’s vestments are heavy at the edges, weighed down by bloodied sacrament. The Lord himself told Father Pruitt that he was ready to greet one of his chosen and thus he enacted His will. Their atonement was burdened thick with tar but he freed them of such weight. He consumed their guilt, drank their regret… and now, one of his flock walks without sin alongside God and his son. There’s salt rimming his eyes and his lashes soak up unfallen tears. A rod of iron expands in his throat and like in revelation, he will wield the scepter to show the world the power of an almighty god.

Some of his strength lingers here, it curls around his collar, reminding him of his place. The touch isn’t ungentle but it further steals his breath. He’s done well. The Lord rewards him with sparks of twinkling gold that erupts behind his eyes. The blood he swallowed meets his own and he’s made stronger for it, God’s light reaches inside of him and his body is made clean in his shadow. As a servant of God, he fights the pleasure that comes with subservience. The only pleasure he should want should come from devotion alone. This closeness, this sense of love, this is his reward. The Lord assigned him an angel to rescue him from the stray path he previously wandered and since then he’s been blessed with clarity.

Reborn and given purpose, Father Pruitt has never felt so alive. He has never felt so close. A lifetime of prayers left unanswered and now his God shares this very room. Spidery doubt and hidden cowardice were burned out of him when the Angel showed him His glory. He remembers laying on the ground, feeling dirt in his lungs. God was far from him then. Sure that he was to die, the Monsignor came close to renouncing all that he knew… and then the Angel cauterized his wound before it could fester.

With his head full of twisted, rambling thoughts and an old man’s regret, Father Pruitt wasn’t aware of how much of his light was lost to blind faith until the Angel taught him how to see. He stood on two legs out of reflex and memory. Much of this form of faith is cemented in ritual and Father Pruitt had long since forgotten who the ritual was for. He’d forgotten whose halls he was sheltered by. God was an abstract thing to the old man. God was made real by hope alone.

He was wrong of course. God is as real as he is. He’s here in this room and his presence expands into the Monsignor. It’s… exhausting, but too holy, too pure to look away from. His love is vast and unending and the Father will take the pain that comes with it because God has faith in him to endure.

“Feed.” The presence insists, looking down at him with grace.

In half a breath, Father Pruitt becomes a flurry of movement. Robes flutter heavily and his fingernails scrape against the wooden floor as he frantically scoops darkened blood into his hands. He licks his palms and messily sucks his fingers into his mouth but it’s not enough. His nose crushes against the ground and behind the taste of iron and God's watchful gaze is the bitter taste of dirt and earth.

On his knees, he drags himself through the rust and clumsily reaches for the lamb’s cold wrist. They’re not yet stiff, and he punctures their flesh with a garbled thanks. He didn’t dare to further mutilate one of God’s children without His approval. The flesh is satisfyingly weighty between his teeth, it promises nourishment but the Lord has not yet instructed him to bite and swallow. The lamb’s blood is too bitter, too coagulated in their veins. It’s gummy in his mouth and his throat protests swallowing. He nearly gags in discomfort and his tongue trembles as it drags over one of the lamb’s wounds, a weak hint of fresh blood keeps him from disobeying God’s insistence. Father Pruitt groans against their flesh, unsatisfied but aware. He is to taste his sin. He is to give his thanks and understand that sacrifice is necessary and never asked for lightly.

Shame is held at an arm’s distance only because of the presence in the room. He’s alive with purpose, able-bodied, and here to enact greatness. He’s sound of mind and his thoughts no longer weave around and through each other until he’s unsure of where he started. The Lord’s angel faithfully tells him God’s will, and he’s never felt so loved. It took a lifetime, but his prayers were heard. God showed himself and recalling the memory is too much to comprehend.

With his pupils blown wide and his mind buried in thanks, his body distances itself from his waking thoughts. His flesh awakes under the watchful eye of God, reminding him that despite his sensitivity toward the divine, he is still only a man. Blessedly mortal as any other. Time is an unforgiving concept. He’s spent so long unaware of how far he’d fallen. He’s a shepherd once more and his little church is attuned to so much beyond its old walls. His blood thrums with promise, the true word of god was made clear to him and he smears his index finger through the blood beneath him, smiling in awe to the above as he makes a cross over his heart. Pledging himself again and again.

Father Pruitt’s head bows and he recites the lord's prayer as a reflex. The shape of the words is branded into his very being, they slot into worn groves beneath his skin. He uses them to center himself toward a place of rest and the word Amen lingers in the air, made alive by the promise in his prayer. His hands separate from each other and he reaches to squeeze his throat. He swallows dryly, shaken by everything he just felt. He uses his wrist to wipe his mouth but all he does is smear blood across his cheek.

Coherence is blessedly kept out of reach as if the Lord wants him to take a moment just to feel. With a slow exhale, he listens to his alarmingly rapid heartbeat. His back hurts but only because he woke in a wound up ball of contorted limbs. Old ache ghosts over his limbs but it's phantom pain. For years, he became so used to suffering that now he finds it difficult to focus on anything besides the pain he once used to keep his head on straight.

Something itchy and raw wakes in his chest. Without the presence of divinity and the lead weight it blankets him with, he’s left to venerate the hunger that’s newly lodged within him. Without God’s presence, he is left wanting, left waiting for His next command. It’s not a burden, if anything it’s a reminder of his second chance with this all. Still, idle hands are twitchy and his emotions slip and slide all over the place while he’s too nervous to shelve them back to where they belong. He’s kept on edge, eager to serve but frustrated that sometimes it takes time for His will to flourish.

It’s difficult to keep everything contained. He feels so much bigger than his body. He wants to show everyone the same light he saw. If everyone could just open their eyes, they’d find salvation and love unending. He’s made progress with some of the wary, he’s welcomed new members to the church… but he could do this all so much faster. Now that he knows God's love directly, he’ll do anything for more. He doubts nothing, questions nothing. Today, the Lord sensed his dry throat, and then a new face knocked on his office door. He freed them of their burden as the Lord instructed and Father Pruitt was nourished by their sacrifice. He felt their soul as it loosened from their flesh… and he was too weak to find no pleasure in it. To consume someone’s faith and take it into your own is indescribable. Its sanctity is meant for God alone, but as his servant, he’s allowed just a taste… just a tiny mouthful of something honest.

To the Monsignor, it proves that he’s doing something right. Honesty is the first virtue that has any meaning to it. Without honesty, there’s no goodness, no belief, or love. The lamb was startled at first, they struggled as he held them down. The taste of fear and pain burst across his tongue with his first bite but it was cleansed immediately with the incoming rush of delirium and then the closing sermon of bright, biting joy. Release. Weightlessness. After a lifetime of blind devotion, being able to taste the concept has Father Pruitt near feral for another hit. The mouth is a sacred part of one’s self, we use it to take communion and to speak with god. We consume his son’s blood and flesh. We are made sentimental creatures for the inherent desire to consume something beloved. Love twists into a set of teeth just as we shape words into worship with our tongues.

Regarding faith, Father Pruitt has never aligned with the idea that we as people are put onto this earth to suffer. He thinks perhaps that the pleasure he finds in servitude to God is something for him alone. It’s a sign that he’s using His gift for good. The body in the room isn’t pretty but God still came for them. His tongue still salivates, he wishes that he took things slower but he didn’t want the sacrifice to suffer. Their blood was complex, when he swallowed it trailed down his throat with legs like fine wine. He could’ve fed on them for hours, taking the time to pick apart the individual components of personality that flavored them in such a way… but he was a man of god. A man of faith. He wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered. The lamb deserved something quick in exchange for their sacrifice that God so wanted.

God asks us to listen. God asks us to obey and follow in his footsteps. He gave the world his son so the faithful could understand we can only do so much in our earthly vessels. We can love one another, and do good as we are able to— God only asks for what we are able to give. We aren't given bodies to be ashamed of them and push them past their mortal capabilities. God made man in his image, he did not give us the ability to think and feel as a punishment. What we do with our bodies is another thing entirely.

As to answer his thoughts, one of the Monsignor’s twitching hands finds his belt after awkwardly runching up his robes. This isn’t sin. This is worship. God gave him this body with all of its functions and he was awarded a glimpse of all that is good for a reason. His mind translates enlightenment in the only way he can understand. It turns something holy, something sacred into sensation rather than comprehension. Sin is not one thing or the other. It’s a fluid concept. The church is old and lost in its ways just like he was not so long ago.

Perhaps he’s a heretic, and such thoughts might've once sequestered him into a panicked, praying stupor… but he’s promised his very soul in exchange for the truth. No such heresy comes from worship. No such shame should come from pleasure found in servitude. Uneasy but determined, Father Pruitt decides that his faith has yet to wrong him. Wouldn’t he be distrusting God by questioning the morality of the way his body reacts to His word?

The noise of his belt buckle clinking against itself cuts through the heavy silence in the room. Some spell laid over him lifts with a promise to return and Father Pruitt thanks it for its mercy. He’s airy now, eager to offer himself in this way. This may as well be liturgical practice, this is… right. This is physical devotion and the same as self-appointed lashing or any other physical offering. Father Pruitt’s breaths are slow but heavy, he swallows dryly, and as soon as he’s fumbled his zipper somewhat undone, he shoves a blood-sticky, prayer-warmed hand into his waistband with a haggard breath of thanks. His cock is half hard, twitching to life and he can feel its pulse more than he’s attuned to his heartbeat. The first graze of touch has him gnashing his teeth.

At the edge of coherence, he’s aware that the blood is staining not just his soul. His vestment robes are soaked through, he’s yet to perfect the ritual but he’s sure that he’ll eventually get the hang of it. Blood has since streaked across the floor. Some drips steadily from the pool atop his desk and Father Pruitt resists cleaning the mess with his tongue. Kneeling in the worst of it, he’s sure that soaked denim is soon to cut into his skin. His hand was far from clean but he didn’t think twice about wrapping it around his cock. It swells as if to meet the blood on his hand and it only takes a few shy strokes until he’s fully hard, each awkward pump of his fist has his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. He’s unpracticed, unsure of what he likes, and in a lifetime before, he was beleaguered with too much shame to ever think of doing something like this.

A chuckle leaves him while he ponders whether or not someone a few hundred years ago assumed people would spend all day touching themselves if such pleasure wasn’t branded as a sin. Something so effortlessly taken, so effortlessly given could easily become wrong if one was to lose themself in unearned pleasure. But his body is a vessel of the Lord’s, he is nothing but a servant. He acts only by his Lord’s will. Even now, he mumbles thanks and prayer while his hand rapidly follows his words. Although they are patched together gracelessly, the sentiment is there. Father Pruitt hunches over, gulping down a breath as he works his cock with frantic, overeager strokes.

He thanks God for his grace, thanks God for his mercy. He asks that God may bring peace to those in need. He asks God for his congregation’s health and happiness.

So much of what he once knew as truth is now muddled with new realities. Stubbornly, he wonders if this is wrong. His hand slows and he forces himself to a stop even as his needy prick throbs with angry discomfort. He shouldn’t want anything besides what’s best for his flock, he shouldn’t feel so high-strung and on edge. Shouldn't this feel like worship? He wonders if he should feel calm, he wonders if he should slow down and perhaps acclimate to the sensation so he’s not panting like a dog… but all he can do is think of the first gush of wet blood that spilled into his mouth. Recalling the first swallow and the way the blood immediately awoke all of his senses to new heights forces a whimper from his throat and it clings to his bottom lip, making it tremble.

He decides that the same pleasure found in servitude to God is no different from the consuming want that emanates through him now. Father Pruitt sucks in a wet sounding breath and he shifts on his knees so he can better angle his hips. He fucks into his fist and the room balances on the closing note of a song. It hums with the same low note that lingers in the aftermath of an Amen. This is not selfish. This is not wrong. This is for Him. The Lord wants him to understand his miracle, this body is a gift… it is meant to be cherished.

The original sin was a gift. God allowed his first creations to ask questions, he made Eve a curious soul because she was a needed balance to Adam’s instinct to listen and obey.

Men were created to listen. Men were created to serve. Even with free will, Adam still chose to submit.

Everything is new and wonderful. Behind closed eyes, Father Pruitt sees only stars. An involuntary shudder builds in his ribcage and it escapes down his spine to find uneasy purchase atop his nerves. His hips cant upward, chasing his retreating fist and by now his breath has turned ragged, and his limbs feel loosely tacked on.

Buried memories awaken amongst the rapture and the crumbling relics speak long lost invocations in the language of heaven. He can’t understand them, but to hear something so ancient and otherworldly brings new wetness to his eyes. Like this he’s only a vessel of worship, he cannot speak or think clearly, he’s mindless and obedient to pleasure, seeking more to honor his Almighty. Mindlessly pumping his fist, Father Pruitt looks up and groans a pitched whimper.

“Yes, God.” He thinks. “I am yours, I am yours.”

His tongue feels oily, it can’t find its place in his mouth. He wants to give his thanks but the noise that pushes past his teeth is tangled up in its afterbirth and it struggles to make itself known. His soul swells with love, he’s made pure by this bloodied baptism. He understands it now. This hunger. He’s a newborn babe, brought screaming into the world. A lifetime of devotion made him pure once again. He’s without sin. He should be without guilt. Unashamed, Father Pruitt easily falls headfirst into a memory that he once kept secret from the lord. The memory is wet and tight, his breaths are shared with another’s and her lips feel so right against his.

Maybe this love wasn’t his to take, but he’s never regretted it. He’s never regretted her. Even now, the memory is only a wisp of what once was, but being able to recall anything of it is more than he could wish for. His knuckles scrape against denim and his movements pick up speed. Caught in a mess of prayer and thanks, the Monsignor hiccups while half swallowing a moan.

The presence inside of him blends the memory of her with the tinge of iron and fear. He remembers being so afraid of what he’d done, but not afraid enough to stop. She was everything in that instance of broken resolve. She was the universe itself. She was God and all things holy. She trembled around him, crying out to God and he selfishly commanded her to say his name instead. The command was strong only because it was backed by regret. He knew that this was unforgivable, he knew that no penance or no amount of hail Mary’s could amount to the weight of what he’d already done.

You cannot commit half a sin.

Close as they were, he wished to be closer. He wanted to shed her of her modesty and hide beneath her skin. He wanted to take her flesh for his own, anoint it in oils and make her holy so he had some excuse for the way he felt. He wanted to become some permanent piece of her because he was unable to rid himself of his devotion to God. She’d never push his faith, she would never have been able to claim him as he claimed her and the unfair trade burned him like a hot iron. Couldn’t he offer her just a piece of himself? After years of unshaken faith, couldn’t he give her something worth keeping? As the church is one with the body of Christ, partaking in his flesh and blood —couldn’t he offer her some minuscule, unimportant piece of himself?

From that first sin and all the subsequent moments of stolen love, John —Not the priest. Not Father Pruitt, Not God’s devoted parishioner—, wanted to see her soul. He wanted to see the thing he’d given everything for.

He found love in a sense of shame. He had no right to fuck his guilt into a woman chosen for him by God. He should’ve listened. His love was a desperate, aborted thing. Barely alive and stolen from his Lord, he gave handfuls of both to each party when neither wanted anything to do with his sickly worship.

You cannot worship out of fear. You cannot form shame into love.

Christened again, he understands with an old man’s regret that it’s natural to be afraid. He was blind to the gift he was given back then, he rejected a woman who loved him and rejected the God he so loved because of self-appointed shame. He lived the rest of his life a broken old fool, but he’s seen the light now. He can lead his congregation to salvation, just like the Angel who gave him a second chance at life. He’ll take their burden. He’ll take their guilt and their shame. He can handle it. Even now, there’s an ache inside of him that demands it. Even now, he’s hungry.

Rather than recoil, he chases the feeling. Acceptance is all it wants. It wants to be heard. It wants to be known.

This want, this hunger— It’s all part of His plan.

In shameful instances of the past, there were moments of resentment. God blessed him not only with forgiveness but also with the inability to harbor the concept of resentment any longer. He’s never known a love so unending. He’s never known something so bright, so vast. He feels it in his veins, the blood circulating through him is the same as liquid gold.

Faith tells him when to sleep and what to dream. It forces his lips as he speaks his sermons. Inside of him is something ancient and divine and he is so honored to hold such privilege. He doesn’t mind the ache of constant hunger. God tells him to consume mortal sin and feel it burn as it goes down his throat. It won’t corrupt him. His conviction is imbued into his bones, into his soul. When he is hungry, the Lord will provide. The sky is cracked open and he can see everything there ever was. It’s simple in its complexity. Everything is one centered breath, time itself exists in the span of a single heartbeat.

We exist out of love. God sees us wholly and without sin. He sees the perfect version of who we are meant to be because we came out of His imperfection. In the end, we are memory and devotion in its purest form. To love and be loved is our only purpose in life and Father Pruitt has been afraid for so long that he held a finite source. He held an unfair reserve over his heart, offering only part of himself to the woman he loved and the Lord who blessed him with such a feeling.

Containing multitudes, he understands that God wants him whole. He’s not a fractured mess of a man who once was. The air around him is perfectly, succinctly still. Each exhale feels almost rude. The room is severe, he looks up and waits for a sign. He wants to beg for direction.

“Please,” he begs the empty air and his voice weakens upon the crest of a gasp. He swallows and manages a firmer plea, but the air remains still. Looking up doesn’t seem to offer him anything, so Father Pruitt shuts his eyes. His hand acts on its own accord and his fist loosely settles around his stubbornly devoted cock. Blood lingers on his taste buds though he’s sure that the taste is long gone. He wonders if it’s a reminder or if it’s a promise of more.

In his mind, real as anything else— his hand slowly skims up someone’s bare calf. His touch is reverent, his head is bowed. He wants to look up at her, but he doesn’t need to look to know who she is. He hasn’t seen her face as it was in so long. His eyes are adjusted to the dark and looking up seems wrong, she didn’t ask him to look. He has a duty to perform, he can’t blind himself now. She’s naked in all of her glory and the universe narrows down until all he can see is her parting legs.

He waits for no direction, with her spread like an offering he understands his place. He is to bow before her holiness and he is to worship as God commands him to. This isn’t a test, this isn’t a cruel memory. He can smell her blood as it circulates beneath her skin. She’s real and she’s here. She reaches between her thighs to spread her lips— showing him everything he never deserved— and he stumbles forward to bury his tongue in her folds.

Unsure if she’s an embodiment of the Lord, one of his angels, or one of his memories given life once more… The Monsignor decides that they’re all the same. He decides he doesn’t care and he’ll take what he is given. His head is bowed as if in prayer, one hand holds her calf while the other words his cock. His tongue strokes through her folds and she’s decadent. She’s his as he is the Lord’s. Her skin is so soft in his hands, she’s otherworldly and the world itself. He has no purpose but to serve, to taste, and feed. God asks so little of his children. He gives and he gives and the Father is fed and loved for it. He could stay here forever, he could kneel and rot to nothing happily like this.

Was this… a reward? Was this God’s favor? He struggles for an answer but the closer he gets to the truth, the further he strays from the task at hand.

“Stay with me.” She commands, voice soft but words piercing. Fingers tighten in his hair and his previous curiosity mutates into his instinct to serve. She’s given him so much and the worship she asks for is so easy to give. So close to divinity, he’s barely able to breathe while refusing to part from her body. Devoted to his worship, his nose slots beside her clit as he curls his tongue between her lips. He’s so full of love but she urges him to take another mouthful.

Her pleasure drips wetly down his chin. Wet and warm like blood. Sweeter though. There’s no struggle, no initial fear. She tastes of heaven itself and Father Pruitt holds her hips still, tracing his thanks with his tongue as she writhes against his assault. She twists on her altar, back contorting as he sucks on her clit and Father Pruitt wonders if she’s to be prayed to or to be prayed for. She’s all movement, difficult to hold onto, and difficult to comprehend.

His cock leaks into his palm and each pump of his fist is slick. He is only a parishioner right now, his throat is bare, clerical collar forgotten somewhere beyond this place. The sin of his making whispers that he wants more. Behind the curtain of humility and faith… he wants to bury himself inside of her so deeply that her body will mold to his. He wants to lay her before God himself so as to show his Lord what devotion he’s willing to give. He wants no separation between their bodies, he wants no separation from his Lord. If God would give him this for just an instance, he would linger on this earth for the rest of eternity guiding all who wander toward the Almighty's light. He’d be kept alive only by the memory of something perfect.

The Angel who commands his heart promises that he is worthy of such love. He’s submitted, he’s given everything he is and more. He could take what he wants, nothing would punish him for it. Her pussy drips that much wetter, she grinds against his face, begging so sweetly. She only wants his worship, she already owns his soul…

Abruptly, she comes apart, unravels beneath his tongue and Father Pruitt groans along with her. He pulls away from her cunt only to look at what she’s become. This gift is his strength. This gift is his weapon. Take His body and drink His blood. This gift is the broken love he once gave to her and his Lord and it is returned to him in abundance, kept fat and happy by God who thrums with awareness beneath his skin. The ache of being begins to burn. Father Pruitt hisses behind his teeth as a ray of sunlight streaks across his back from a high window.

It ties him to his body and he’s thankful for the pain. He would’ve stayed wherever he was, licking her cunt for all of eternity if not for the earthly reminder of his flesh. Clarity pulls him from the depth of worship and he’s not allowed a moment to mourn the loss of his vision. She retreats with grace, her footsteps fade toward the sacred place she calls home inside of him. He’s taken his fill. He’s served righteously and he won’t ask for more. A younger version of him might’ve begged, but Father Pruitt knows better than to question God’s will. The Lord washed his palette clean.

The church’s next service will serve his blessed blood as communion and they will be made stronger because of his worship.

This is His will.

“You’ve done well, Father.” God’s voice is feminine and kept soft.

Father Pruitt takes her praise with all the grace he can summon. He wants to snatch it from the air and stuff it down his throat, he wants to bury his face in it and fuck it into a wet mess. All he’s ever wanted to be is worthy. All he’s ever wanted to be was seen.

An ethereal touch forces his eyes open. She crooks her finger beneath his chin as if to lift his gaze toward her unseen face and ghostly fingers settle on the side of his face. She’s so real. He can sense her somewhere. Whoever she is, a memory or some asset of God…he doesn’t care. Her touch is so soft, so divine, and otherworldly that it pulls an unbridled moan from his chest. Burdened by earthly gravity, it spills to the floor like incense smoke, curling at the edges and cleansing the curdled and blackened mess he kneels in.

His soul was never his to begin with. She doesn’t ask him for worship, nor does she ask him for bloody sacrifice. Her guidance is freely given, so gently laid that he feels as if he’s shrouded by sheer feathers. Her form isn’t here, not in this room in a physical sense, and yet somehow she is. She’s with him. Inside of him. A part of him. His belief has never been based on physical senses and he’s lived long enough to know that there is so much more beyond what he can see. He can almost hear the musical tone of her laughter, of her happiness found in his belief. Her wings constrict, holding him close and shielding him from the world. She asks him to let go. She asks him to breathe. Fingers tighten at his throat, and he’s reminded of who he breathes for.

He is owned as he is loved.

The sense of ownership builds until it finds the ends of his mortal body. It stretches thin after that, pulling beyond until it has nowhere else to go. The whisper comes again and she tells him to let go. He doesn’t need to hold on so tight. Wherever he begins and ends doesn’t matter to her. Father Pruitt inches toward embarrassment, feeling stupid for worrying over such a concept for so long and the presence only holds him closer in response.

There’s no slamming edge to his orgasm, the presence he feels it’s expansive and somewhere beyond himself. Torn from his body, he’s unaware of the pitched moans he whines into his empty office, he’s unaware of the way he bites the side of his thumb to keep quiet. His cock surges and holy light fills him up from the inside as thick white dribble arcs against the inside of his robes. He lurches forward and he’s forced to catch himself with his free hand. Startled, he yelps when his palm slaps against slimy wet sludge. The texture is so similar to his cum that he recoils, he’s pulled back into his body with an abrupt shove and Father Pruitt nearly falls face forward once again with the sudden shock of coherence.

With wild eyes, he whips his head around, looking for her even though he can feel the emptiness of her unsaid goodbye. The air in his lungs is too thin, his heart is too fast. His dick feels rubbed raw and he wipes his palms on his thighs, groaning with discomfort as he puts himself back together.

John can still feel her on his skin. He can taste her on his tongue. He knows exactly where her presence left and he accepts her loss just like any other day. She’s needed elsewhere and he knows to let her go. Others are in need, others love her just as he does.

His mind and body are that of his Lord’s and he has work to do. With an awkward stretch, Father Paul manages to force his legs into working order and he stands with pins and needles swarming his calves and feet. His back aches, and he leans backward in an attempt to pop a stiff joint. His eyes meet the still gaze of the vacant body pushed into a corner and he sees no recognition upon their face. They’re beyond him now. With her. With God and his angels. Safe in transport toward the kingdom of heaven. He wonders if they saw her too, he wonders if they felt just a smidgen of what he felt beneath her touch.

Did they see her face? Did she smile as she held them in her arms to absolve them of sin?

Gently, he removes his vestment robes, and as respectfully as possible, he covers the body as if swaddling an infant. He closes their eyes with an accompanying prayer. He tells them that they’re beautiful, he tells them that they’re loved. He prays for God to soon wash their soul clean so that they may leave this world holy and pure as Mary’s blessed son.

Father Paul doesn’t tell them that their blood was sweet with sin. He doesn’t tell them that he no longer can tell the difference between all that is Holy and that he’s beginning to rethink the reality of heaven.

Thanks for reading! Woof this dude is going through it.

I wanted to write something "Short" for my boo @ventiswampwater but idk how to write short i guess haha.

Let me know your thoughts!!

#poki writing #I forgot i didnt tell tumblr anything abt this fic #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfic #monsignor pruitt #father paul #father paul x reader #father pruitt x reader

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