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luveline · 3 months

Note

Hi Jade! I absolutely love your writing, especially when you write for Eddie or Steve. Love these two. I was wondering if you could write about an insucure reader who has been rejected a lot and doesn't believe it when someone actually starts loving her for who she is. I'd love this with either Eddie or Steve . You can choose who you want to write for. If you don't wanna write something like this, that's fine too. Just know that I love your writing!

ty for requesting!! —you have a hard time believing eddie loves you, but he does. fem, 1.1k

“Oh my god.”

Eddie freaks you out when he talks like that. His voice turns hoarse, almost grainy, like he’s in shock, or he can’t get a grip.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” he asks.

“It’s not alright?” you ask, looking down at your outfit. It’s just jeans and a chunky cardigan. He sounds like he loves it, but your brain goes straight to worry anyhow.

“No, not alright.” He leans back against your pillows, his arms behind his head and his biceps doing something cruel against his shirt sleeves. “Not alright at all. Do a spin?”

You shake your head severely.

“Doll,” he says, pouting gently. “Please?”

“No, if it looks bad, I’ll change,” you say.

“It doesn’t look bad! I’m kidding. You look the opposite of bad, so do a spin!”

You love his voice and the way he talks, and you love him —though of course he doesn’t know it— so you end up doing a slow spin for him in your bedroom. You’ve buttoned the top button of your cardigan and it’s a very static movement, but he oohs, ahs, and sits up quickly.

“Yeah, you look fucking beautiful.”

“Boo,” you mumble.

“Just as I suspected you would.” He gestures you forward. “Wait, come over here a second.”

Eddie says wait as an act of persuasion, or a white lie; he makes it sound as though there’s something urgent afoot, but there never is. He grabs your arm when you’re close enough, then your back, looking up into your face imploringly. “I just wanted to look at you.” Being held like this warms you from the inside out. His hand scrunches your cardigan and shirt, the other bringing your arm to his chest. “But you guessed that.”

“No, I…” You smile in a flat line. “You’re sure I look good?”

“Of course I am. I was kidding,” he says, softer now. “You know? I was being sarcastic, because you look that good it’s crazy to imply you look bad. I promise.”

You sit down on the bed beside him.

“You look so pretty,” he says.

You nod as a strange ache blossoms in your throat. “Sorry,” you say, wishing you could explain it to him. You weren’t always scared of what people are thinking, but past dismissal has left you off kilter, and now he’s paying the price.

“For what, angel?” he asks, though he’s not waiting for an answer. “You’re…you do look beautiful, you do, I’m not messing around. Well, I was. But I’m not now, so don’t be sorry, and don’t worry. I love this stuff, I fucking love the jeans, you have nice thighs,” —he laughs at your tired sigh— “and I love buttons. These buttons are great.”

You let your cheek rest gently on his arm, still laughing. He’s such a sweetheart when he wants to be, but he’s not half as cool as he thinks he is. He’s too earnest to be a bad boy. “Thank you.”

“I love you.”

You shake your head. Eddie’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you closer, face encouraged into his neck. “I do,” he says gently. “I’ve told you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes.”

He brings his hand to the back of your neck. “Mm. And have I given you any reason to think I’m lying?”

“I don’t think you’re lying, I just think that… that I… you know.”

“I know. Doesn’t make it true.” He sounds a peculiar mixture of sad and happy at once. Find concern, perhaps, or loving derision. “I love you, and I’d love it if you walked around in bobbly sweaters and clogs. I don’t care what you wear, ‘cos it’s you.”

“There’s nothing even that good about me to feel that way for.”

“You don’t think so, but I do.” He turns his face down to you and presses the bridge of his nose to your temple.

His t-shirt smells like clary soap. You curl your hand into the front of it, the soft wall of his abdomen underneath a familiar comfort. He hugs you tighter still. Eddie’s told you he loves you a few times, and you’d thought that when a guy finally felt the same way about you, everything would be fixed, you could say it back and live happily ever after, but it hasn’t worked out that way so far. Every time he tells you he loves you, you’re paralysed by the idea that he can’t. But then he holds you like this and you start to wonder if he’s telling the truth.

He kisses the side of your face. “You okay?” he asks, kissing you again to punctuate.

“Yes. Yeah.” You work your arms behind his back and squeeze him.

Eddie encourages your head back carefully. He meets your eyes; all you can see is his irises, deeply brown, and his long lashes where they tent together. You’re too close to see his lips, but you can sense that he’s smiling from the warmth in his eyes and the slight droop of his eyelids.

“Kiss?” he murmurs.

You hum a yes. Eddie nudges your nose with his until there’s space to kiss you, your lips pressed tight and then less so, a dance of sweet kisses. You relax under his touch, the physical evidence of his affection, so totally that your back clicks. He smiles into your mouth but pulls away, too tempted by the opportunity to make a joke.

“You need a masseuse,” he says, bringing his hand to your cheek.

“No, I don’t.” You can practically see the steam radiating off of your cheeks.

“You totally do. I could give you a massage, babe. I’m really good.”

“No… we’re going to the movies.”

“See, that sounds like you do want one. I can give you one later.”

You look at him for too long, his brows pulling together in concern, but it’s nothing he has to worry about. “Love you,” you say quickly, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in for another hug.

His arm stutters at your side. “I love you,” you correct. The ‘I’ is important, especially when he’s never heard it from you before. It’s easy to love someone so patient, and so funny.

He hugs you tight and sudden. “Yeah,” he says, “I love you too.” His watch digs into your spine. You don’t tell him. It’ll probably bruise, but you just don’t care. It’s nice to be loved fiercely.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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teaches-for-demons · 2 years

Text

it's going bad

#3 weeks and I'm feeling like shit #it feels like I'm thinking through mud or molasse #like my mind is on an static channel and thinking makes me feel literal pain #I've gone back to hurting myself #I've never cut myself #but I've punched myself hard #and headbutted walls #to the point where I've felt that I had dealt myself brain damage #it's hard #I don't think it's because I've broken up with my partner #it kinda is but I've felt that things weren't good and we were both tired of our thing #so it wasn't unexpected #since then everything was awful #especially cause we're still friends and talking like nothing happened #maybe it's because I didn't give myself time to process and am bottling everything up #maybe it's just another mental illness #I just want this to stop and to go back where my mind is clear and I don't feel like my thoughts are lagging

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jyoongim · 2 months

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Okay so I think my typing is a bit better now. So I’m requesting fren some Alastor smut of course! I need that good big t-shirt and bonnet sex ya know? Summ soft but still nasty enough to give you butterflies. Maybe just sitting up waiting from him to finish his last broadcast of the night🤭

@callmeoncette you really had my brain go BRRR

Why do i feel like this was too short???? ANYWAY!!!

Themes: black coded reader, big shirt/bonnet combo, soft smut, late night sex

You sat curled under a blanket in bed reading a book. The radio played in the background, the soft sounds of screams keeping you awake despite the late hour.

Alastor should be coming down soon, his last broadcast always ended with the tormented screams of souls he had collected.

You were usually fast asleep by the time he slid into bed and curled around you, but you wanted to greet your demon from a long day of broadcasting.

You were halfway through your book when the sound of the bedroom door opening.

”what are you still doing up my doe?” Alastor asked setting his shoes by the door, shredding his outer jacket.

You smiled, bookmarked your chapter and got up to greet him.

”Weeelll I wasn’t feeling really tired so i caught up on some reading. I caught your last segment, oh how wonderful those screams sounded. Got me all riled up” you purred as you loosened his bow tie and began working on the buttons on his shirt.

Alastor smiled down at you as he took you in. You were dressed for bed, a big t-shirt swallowing your form and hair tied in a satin bonnet. His lanky arms wrapped around your waist, hands falling on your plump ass, kneading the soft flesh through the fabric.

”hmm really? Well I am happy that my broadcast aroused such lust from a beautiful soul”

Once he was undressed, you pulled him to the bed, peppering his face in kisses as he relaxed from such a long day.

Your hands curled in his red locks, scratching at his undercut that had him purring like a cat.

He sighed as he relaxed against the headboard, ears flickering as you softly tickled the tufts. His hands rubbed soothingly on your thighs as you settled your weight on him, thighs settling on either side of his hips.

He cocked his head as his hands ran underneath the shirt, tapping his fingers along your soft skin “No panties? What a naughty girl”

You teasingly pressed your naked cunt against his clothed crotch, grinding softly on the hard bulge that poked you.

Settling your arms around his neck, you pressed your lips against his, nipping at his lips as your hips slowly grinded into him.

Alastor let out a sof grunt as your cunt dragged against him, cock catching your clit making you moan into the kiss.

”How about a quick night cap?” You asked, reaching behind you to caress his cock through his boxers.

You fished to free his cock from its confinement, and adjusted your hips to take his cock.

His ears twitched as you sunk onto his cock, sighing as he was hugged by your warm walls.

You lifted your hips and slowly sank back down, slowly finding a rhythm as you nuzzled into his neck, sucking hickies into the flesh.

Alastor preened as your sharp teeth nipped and sucked at his skin. He sighed deeply as he tightened his grip on your hips, static crackling the air as he sunk deep into your cunt.

His clawed hands traveled up your body, shirt engulfing his arms as he thumbed the perked mounds.

”O-Oh fuuuck” you gasped, rolling your hips as he pinched your nipples slightly.

Your cunt made a loud squelch as you began to ride him a little faster, chasing after your orgasm.

Alastor brought a hand to grasp the back of your neck, fingers rooting in your hair, pulling your head so he could look at you.

You will always be gorgeous in his eyes, but there were moments when you were ethereal.

Like right now. You dressed in nothing but a thin, oversized-shirt, bonnet and you were taking his cock so prettily.

How could he not be smitten?

Your face was flushed, eyes blown out, and plump lips releasing whines as he thrusted up into you, using his arms that were practically wrapped around you to pull you down to meet his thrusts.

With a growl, he tugged your head so your lips slotted against his, taking advantage of the moan that poured from your lips to delve his tongue into your mouth.

Tongues tangled together, you both devoured the other as pleasure raked through your bodies.

Breaking away from his lips with spit connecting you, you whined softly in his ear, pushing your hips down hard

”c-cum I’m cumming oh fu-fuck aah a-Alastor please please” you whimpered riding out your orgasm.

Alastor purred at you, kissing your shoulder, “that’s a good girl. You feel so good dear, making such a mess on my cock”

Your gummy walls continued to milk him as he angled your hips to hit that sweet spot over and over until he spilled his cum into you,

”you always take me so well darlin. F-fuck. Yea that’s right take my cum baby take it.”

You slumped against his chest as you slowly recovered from your orgasm. Alastor rubbed your back as you purred happily, slowly falling asleep. He went to lift your hips, to relieve your poor cunt of his cock, but you growled softly “Keep it in”. He smiled as he adjusted himself to lay on his back as he held you.

Soft snores greeted his ears and Alastor ran his hands over your body. He truly adored you.

You shifted in your sleep, making his cock twitch back to life. He patted your ass, kissed your forehead as your cunt clenched around him making him sigh.

What a naughty thing you were.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel fanfiction #jyoongim #alastor x y/n #alastor smut #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor soft smut #alastor x reader smut

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huskersbooze · 1 month

Text

Part 3 to Who's In Control?

Better Than This

Alastor x Reader

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3(here!) |

Summary : After the fight and spending time apart, you and Alastor finally come to realise your mutual feelings for one another, but before that, a more important matter needs to be discussed.. will Alastor finally tell the truth?

Warnings : This is where we go off track and not all of this is canon, swearing/cuss words, Angel jokes about sex(?)

Pairings : Alastor x F!Reader (M!Reader here)

Additional Tags : Lore, world building kinda, angst, fluff, Alastor learns to talk about feelings

Ib : Better Than This by Set It Off

Word count : 1.4k

Wide awake on the couch, you stare up at the ceiling of the hotel.

“I’m closing for the night, kid. You gonna be alright?” Husk asks from the bar.

“I’ll manage. Goodnight, Husk.”

“Night, kid.” He heads towards the staircase, but just before leaving for good, he turns to face you one last time. “Take care. And don’t stay up too late.”

“Mhm. You too.”

After a while, it was quiet. Just an empty hotel with the dim hallway lights and nothing else.

You weren’t really sure why you were here. You could’ve gone back to your room after Husk left, or before, for that matter. Maybe your heart just has desires you couldn’t avoid.

“Shit, stop thinking about him! C’mon, brain! Stop it, now.” You aggressively started to blink, trying to find anything else to distract your mind, but everything seemed to be tied to his existence.

There was no denying you missed him.

“What the hell is happening.. I’m supposed to be mad and angry, not missing him..” You sigh.

Poor Alastor, though.. Maybe I should hear him out? No. Fuck, no! He lied to you! No way.

You groan and cover your eyes with the back of your hand. There was this uneasy churn in your stomach.

Am I.. am I in love with Alastor?

-----

“Alastor, you can’t keep this up forever. You need to fix this.” Rosie sighs, walking Alastor back to the Hotel.

“What use is there, dear, Rosie?” Alastor’s voice is audibly tired-out, though his smile still etched high and proud. “I was so close.”

“You need to tell the poor thing and let her fend for herself.”

“She wouldn’t listen.”

“Alastor, please. This is no longer about your silly little crush.” Rosie stops in her tracks, catching sight of the Hotel a few streets away. “It’s about her soul.”

“Crush?” Alastor asks, oblivious.

“A crush, someone you have feelings for and want to be with.”

“Ridiculous, Rosie. I don’t do.. Feelings.” It pains him to utter such word.

“Whatever ya’ say. Just.. think about what I said, alright?”

Alastor nods, parting ways with Rosie.

Feelings..? Did he have feelings? Feelings for you?

-----

The door creeks, making you turn your head.

Who would be here this late at night? Was it a guest? No, why would a guest come in at 1am?

But then who would it be..?

You got off the couch and eyed the corner which led to the main entrance. A threat, perhaps.

You simply stayed put, saw a glimpse of a shadow, pounced and tackled whatever had made itself welcome in the hotel until the two of you tumbled onto the ground.

Prepared for the worst, you were surprised to hear.. Radio static?

“Alastor..?” You ask.

The Demon looks up at you, his neck wrapped tightly around your hand.

“Oh shit! Sorry, I thought you were an intruder.” You immediately let go and backed up, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Whatever gave you that idea, my dear?” He questions, sitting on the floor opposite of you.

“It's 1am.”

Alastor tilts his head.

“I wouldn't expect you to be out at 1am.”

“You know I don't sleep, dear.” He says, wincing at the fact he's repeated this multiple times in the past.

“Doesn’t mean you’d be out at 1am.” You mutter.

“Valid point.” He says, the tension in the air starting to grow thick.

“So.. uh.” You trail, “Why exactly are you out at 1am, exactly?”

“Ah, just simply visiting Rosie is all.”

“Oh, I see.”

Alastor looks away, his gaze glued to the hotel floors.

“And you, darling?”

“Huh?”

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Oh. I was helping Husk with the bar.” You tell him, which, ultimately, was a lie. Husk was doing all the work while you were drinking away your feelings. But you weren’t about to admit that to Alastor.

“Yes, I see. How nice.”

“Yep.” Damn, this was so awkward.

You got up from the floor, turning your back, “Well, uh.. Goodnight, then.. Alastor.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

You start hesitantly walking towards the staircase leading to the staff rooms, feeling Alastor watching your back as you left.

“Darling.”

You stop in your tracks. Actually, no, you freeze. Though you made it evident you had no intention in facing him.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Alastor.”

“You don’t understand, dear. I fear I may regret keeping this from you any sooner in the future.”

“Uh huh..?”

“You’re aware of overlords, I assume?”

“Yes, but what does tha-” Before you could continue, you catch sight of Husk by the top of the stairs.

“Hey, you said you’d sleep, kid-” He tries to joke, but realises you’re not alone. “Oh. Hey, boss.”

“Husker.” He acknowledges.

“Uh.. am I interruptin’ something?”

“Well, actually-”

“No, of course not.” Alastor cuts you off, passing by and giving you a small pat on the head.

God you missed those.

“We’ll discuss this another time, darling. You need your rest.” Alastor gives the small of your back a little push forward, urging you to go to bed. “I hope to see you tomorrow morning?”

“Y-Yeah.. Sure.” You reply, stepping forward, already missing the contact from Alastor’s hand. “Goodnight.”

“Indeed. Sleep well, my dear.”

You reach the top of the steps and Husk accompanies you back to your room, leaving Alastor still in the lobby by himself.

He returns to his broadcasting studios, a gut feeling in his chest telling him to just be honest with you about the contract. He hums a tune as he returns back.

He’ll fix this. He has to.

-----

“Good morning, Al.” You reached the table where everyone was gathered, and was somewhat pleased to find Alastor already sitting in his normal seat.

“How was sleep, my dear?”

“Good. Did you have your daily dose of venison yet?”

“Not quite. You don’t seem to have your breakfast either.”

“Gotta have my priorities.” You shrug. “Shall we discuss this somewhere else?”

“Let’s.”

You leave alongside Alastor, and the rest of the crew can only stare at each other in shock.

“Did I miss something?” Charlie is first to speak up.

Husk smiles, Sir pentious shrugs, Vaggie asks the same thing.

“Who thinks they’re fuckin’?”

“Angel!”

“Joking, jeez!”

-----

“You wanted to say something?” You take a seat on the floor next to Alastor’s chair.

“By all means, you’re welcome to sit on the chair.”

“I’m good. Your broadcasting panel scares me. You sit.”

“If you insist.” He takes a seat, ruffling your hair. “You’re familiar with overlords, correct?”

“Mhm.”

“Have you ever heard of Azrael?”

“The Legend of the Dark Arts Overlord?”

“Precisely.”

“I’ve heard of it, yes.”

“Well, dear, he’s not a legend. He was the most powerful overlord of us all.”

You weren’t sure what reaction to be giving so you nodded along, waiting for him to continue.

“7 years ago, us overlords were experimenting with power and magic. Azrael formed an experiment, inheriting part of his magic to a human.” He says, meanwhile you still had no idea what this had to do with you.

“This human would be protected, and would only die when Azrael himself gets killed, thus sending the experiment to hell, whether they deserved it or not. 7 years ago, some of us overlords had ‘matters’ to attend to and Azrael had died in the process during the last 2 years.” Alastor proceeds to drop multiple history facts on you at 9 in the morning.

“2 years ago,” He states. “The human was sent to hell with locked up dark magic they weren’t aware of. The overlords are now gambling for this soul as whoever owns the soul owns the power and magic, but on one condition.”

“One condition?”

“Yes, my dear. You see, to own the soul is one thing, but to own the magic.. The soul has to be killed.”

“That’s terrible! And complete bullshit.”

“Exactly, darling. And I own this very soul.” He sighs. “As long as I can own her soul for long enough and find a backdoor, her soul won’t be gambled any longer by the current overlords. But you see, dear, I’m on a time limit here.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Who’s soul is it?” You desperately question, completely forgetting you were supposed to be still mad at Alastor.

Alastor sighs, looking at you with compassionate eyes as a hand comes to cup your cheek.“2 years ago, this soul entered hell. 2 years ago, another soul that entered hell.. was you.”

———/ TBC. /———

Taglist : @musicalsundrop @for-hearthand-home @saeran-g @smoky000 @otherthoughtsofbu @letmebeagreekstatueyoumotherfuck @hudiexiaoying @prettyboychoso @thonethatflies620 @imaptiencepersistonthinstring @speaker15 @zq13 @starr11111 @fokrilove @aloraaaxcrystalzx @simps-for-to-many-people @siriuslyobsessedwithfiction @ohdarlingohdeer @sophiasrant @soyobi-wankenobi @karolinda007-blog @alastorsgirl48 @memymay @perrynina @john-kramer-0807 @preciousbabypeter @sugxryratz @polytheatrix @maksdust @96jnie @spirit-of-the-hollow @chirimeimei @itsukiestia @sky2lar @centuriantalevevo @cryptidabduction911 @bubblsteaa @sirens-and-moonflowers @readergirlstuff @capri-sun00 @simpingsohard @manicjk @wen01203 @hellkaisersangel @kitty-kei @spookieroz @bontensbabygirl @sakuraluna2468 @hunnybee11626 @chanty-loves-turtles @the-sharpened-pencil

If you want to be on this fics taglist leave a comment! Please specify you want to be tagged or else I won't tag blogs that ask for another part cuz it doesn't seem polite- Thanks in advance <3

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forlorn-crows · 2 months

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And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

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ellabsprincess · 9 months

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Can you do an Ellabs no reader drabble for their early mornings?

I think Ellie would be the type to love her sleep and always want to sleep in, and Abby would be the type to be more regimented and have an early morning routine, leaving her to be the one to wake a grumpy, tired Ellie up all the time. i think abby would know how to cook too, so she would make her breakfast a lot.

The odd times where Abby wants to sleep in, Ellie would wake up before her and want her attention and get all needy… 🥰

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: i'm literally so sorry this took so long babes and OKAY i know y'all wanted "a better use for that mouth" first but i am struggling to put together a plot and i feel a little stuck on that fic so please accept this ellabs fic first

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 - 𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐬

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, very suggestive (not really any explicit smut), talk of thigh riding, fluffy and sappy ellabs stuff, ellie being a needy little shit (affectionate), firefighter!abby, VERY BRIEF mommy kink, dom!abby + sub!ellie dynamic, NO READER INSERT

ellie's eyes flutter open, her vision blurry and obscured. her world seems fuzzy, but as she blinks a few more times, the bed beneath her comes into view. abby's side of the bed is neatly made, tucked and folded to perfection, her pillows fluffed and plump as if they've never even been slept on.

a radiant beam of sunshine has cast itself over the eggshell-colored sheets, illuminating the room via the skylight above the large bed. as ellie comes to her senses, taking in the peace and tranquility of the quiet saturday morning, she notices the smell of sweetness and the sound of crackling, cooking meat, coming from the kitchen. it's not really a surprise. abby is an early riser, a gym rat who gets up entirely too early to get a workout in while her precious girlfriend is still asleep. she must have come home hungry from building up her physique, and decided to make breakfast.

ellie follows the enticing smells out of the bedroom, throwing the bedsheets off of herself and trailing the scent of sweetness like an old-timey cartoon cat enticed by the smell of fresh-cooked turkey.

she feels a bit pathetic, walking into the living room with her messy bed head and her pajamas astray. on the other hand, abby is a sight to be seen in the kitchen, covered in a light, glistening sheen of sweat from her workout, her cheeks still slightly pink from exertion. her arm and leg muscles flexing as she moves with the grace of a ballet dancer around the kitchen, working to prepare a hearty meal. and of course, her signature braid is completely in tact, not a single loose hair visible.

ellie clears her throat, trying to clear all of her body of her remaining confusing and annoying morning grogginess. abby whips around, slightly started by the sight of ellie.

"oh hey baby, didn't expect you to be up so early! was gonna surprise you with some breakfast in bed."

ellie smiles, awake enough to acknowledge the sweetness and kindness of abby's actions. her tired brain still feels like a combination of syrup and tv static inside her head, so she only gives a soft whine in response, but abby understands.

abby knows their dynamic well by now. ever since they moved in, it's been the same routine almost every morning. she wakes up before the crack of dawn, hits the gym and clears her head, and then comes home to her sleepy girlfriend still curled up in bed, often laying spread out like a beached starfish and breathing in abby's signature pine scent still lingering on the sheets.

but abby doesn't mind. no, she loves the opposing dynamic of her relationship, and she adores that ellie loves to sleep in, when the perfectionist side of abby makes her get up and work on herself most days. she loves her carefree ellie. she needs that energy to balance out her own internal monologue that always begs her to do everything perfectly. she needs her ellie.

ellie trudges towards the kitchen, dragging her feet against the soft, plush rug of the living room as she blindly makes her way towards her girlfriend. she rubs her eyes, desperately trying to rub the last of the sleep away. reaching the kitchen island, she pulls out a barstool and plops down with a soft thunk, resting her head in her hands and gazing at abby. at the sound of ellie's tiredness and careless state, abby smirks. she adores these lazy mornings with her girlfriend more than anything.

sure, she likes to be taken care of herself, but it feels nice to be a provider for ellie, and to make her food and take care of her when her brain is too tired and sleepy to let her do anything by herself.

after a few more minutes of shuffling around the kitchen, abby finally plates the breakfast. an omelet, stuffed with proteins and flavorful herbs, and a small side smoothie bowl full of fresh fruits and sweet grains, just dripping with sweet honey nectar.

ellie almost drools at the plate in front of her, of course plated and staged to perfection, as abby wouldn't have it any other way. the fruit of the smoothie bowl making a perfect symmetrical spiral, the herbs placed so delicately on top of the omelet. abby was typically rough with her hands, working as a firefighter, but she had a deep appreciation for the arts, and loved to express herself through culinary means.

placing a strong hand on ellie's upper back, abby gracefully slides into the seat next to ellie, her own edible artwork sitting in front of her.

"i love you baby," abby says, almost a whisper.

"love you abs, thank you for taking care of me," ellie responds, slightly mumbling in her lethargic state.

"always ellie. anything for my best girl."

and so they sit in peaceful silence, the room only filled with the sounds of birds chirping outside the slightly ajar kitchen window, and the soft clinks and chinks of their silverware on their plates, and the quiet clunks of their glasses reconnecting with the counter after a sip of refreshing water.

it's nothing much, just a simple breakfast together as a couple. but it's that moment of peace that's everything to them.

THE NEXT MORNING

"abby c'mon"

"abby"

"abbyyyyy"

"mommy?"

abby's eyelids flutter open at the nickname. it's only barely light in the bedroom, just a few gentle sun rays streaming in through the windows.

as abby comes to her senses, she realizes that ellie is curled up against her front, nuzzled into her broad chest. she's letting out muffled little mewls and whines among the desperate pet names. abby also realizes with a raise of her eyebrows that ellie's legs are wrapped around one of abby's muscular thighs, leaving ellie's clothed cunt perfected placed among the mountain of ridged muscle.

"oh poor baby, you woke up needy els?" abby coos.

"mhm, need you mommy." ellie pleads, hiding her face in the middle of abby's chest.

abby chuckles. "well then go ahead baby, grind the drooling cunt against mommy's thigh."

it seems that every once in a while, they liked to change up their routine. after all, who doesn't enjoy a bit of morning fun?

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @m-3-ijiworld @seraqhites @uraesthete @hehatesmati @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @elliespookie @dropsofs4turn @millersaurora @jjmaybankslittleslut @amitycat @digit4lslut @dykefromstatefarm @inlovewithelliewilliams @hi2647 @kissesskittens @elliewilliamsthang @franreadss @findingds @slut4ellienabby @lllijeu @zahraaziza @lias-writings @thelastofrowie @feelsoseencantdream @shaemonyou @limerenze @zethd @xnoviee @elliewilliamsfuckbuddy

𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭? 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

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wings-of-a-storm · 1 year

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An early but epic scene that I never tire of re-watching is when Simon and Wille first lay eyes on each other after the school break in S2 and the pining goes offfff. For me there are four stages to it and I am so weak for each one.

STAGE ONE: THE SIGHTING

I think what I really like about the moment they first notice each other in the crowd is that Simon is so caught off guard (more so than Wille who probably suspected that wherever Sara was her brother would likely be nearby), so he doesn't have time to hide his feelings -- he just feels them. And noticeably so.

Like the heavy swallow as he stands frozen in place just staring at Wilhelm, clearly unable to process anything other than: Wille! And you know from that moment that Simon is still full of feelings for Wille if just the sight of him through a sea of bodies sends the rest of the world away and makes his heart race.

He even walks towards Wille instead of shutting the moment down. Since Wille's an ex, it's not like Simon has to talk to him or anything but still those legs of his move forward to close the gap and be near him even if no words can be exchanged...

STAGE TWO: THE HAIR CHANGE

Seeing Wille up close after Christmas break would have been a strange moment at first... Simon had been thinking of Wille all break by his own admission (and let's be real, he even has that tabloid magazine of Wille that he probably looked through again in moments of weakness), so essentially Wille has never really strayed far from Simon's mind. But the Wille in Simon's mind would have been a different Wille -- a static Wille frozen in time who looked a certain way and who could only really speak words of the past. Just a paler memory version of him.

But it is a very different experience being up close again with the real version of that person in your head -- the real person who will move and talk in ways you can't control in your mind; who now LOOKS different.

It's a much more heady experience being in the presence of that real person who is just...so much MORE than your brain can ever conjure. Someone with a special intensity behind their gaze that is hard to replicate in your head; someone whose little mannerisms come out and add colour to their movement; someone whose smell of cologne or whatever hits you right in the biochemistry...

“I figured it would be easier to see him after the break, but it was just harder!”

Of course Simon, because Wille is more than a static memory; he is a living, breathing person whose proximity near you lights up all of your senses. Never underestimate the physiological response of being around the boy you like *sob*.

And yeh, not only is Simon having to deal with all of that when he hasn't prepared himself for it at the party, but he has to process that Wille has physically changed from his memories; Wille is displaying a new version of himself that Simon is not yet familiar with.

And we know that Simon does notice Wille's haircut (or at least allows himself a moment to examine it) when they get right up close to each other and Wille is distracted on his phone.

It is fascinating how Simon forces his eyes away after a moment, like shaking himself out of a funk, and then starts fidgeting through his emotions with the telltale sadness of a lowered gaze. It would be hard feeling things like longing while knowing how futile and unhelpful it is… And adding to his sadness would no doubt be the psychology of seeing someone who was once so familiar to him looking physically different but in a way that has nothing to do with him anymore.

As mild as a haircut/style change may seem, it would still make that person seem a bit more unfamiliar and inaccessible when you know you won't be able to make memories with this version of them. It would rub it in for Simon, the reality of their moving apart.

(And yes! Like others have said, Simon might also be feeling a little sad that the shorter sides in Wille's new hairstyle mean he can't tuck his hair behind his ears anymore in that easy display of affection he used to instinctually like doing. Yet another physical reminder for Simon that their old memories and habits have to remain in the past now…)

STAGE THREE: THE CONFLICT IN SIMON

It's tough seeing Simon so subdued in these moments, standing near Wille and struggling to get ahold of his yearning and sadness. But it's also so interesting seeing one of the undercurrents of this season begin -- Simon's inner conflict between wanting to get over Wille and his subconscious fighting against the very idea.

Because the thing is, if Wille's haircut is a reminder for Simon that they won’t be as familiar with each other moving forward, then that should be a helpful thing, right? Because that is indeed the reality Simon was psyching himself up for over break and now time is making tangible changes to compliment that reality. But Simon's subconscious seems to be disquieted by this reminder. It’s a pattern that we see repeat itself over the season (like when Wille is forced to leave Hillerska -- that is a situation that benefits Simon's need to be away from him to properly move on, but instead it panics Simon into intervening to try and get Wille to stay).

This is the start of the excruciating conflict Simon has to bear every day this season of his warring heart and head.

STAGE FOUR: WILLE'S HELP

So in amongst all this longing and sadness that Simon is currently feeling as he stands beside Wille at the party, do you know what's gotta suck? Having to then deal with all the emotions that come with said ex, whom you've been secretly pining for, being the one to help you find your sister when no one else could.

I mean, Wille may have a new look, but his classic pattern of trying to help Simon at Hillerska is going to feel familiar as heck to Simon. It would remind him just how nice it feels when Wille has his back at Hillerska instead of the days when he had to fight everything alone. And Wille’s help right now has come during a very stressful family situation! Since family is number one to Simon, that poor kid was never going to feel calm until he had everything under control. It means that receiving help for a situation so close to his heart would probably have had an added impact on him. So now Simon probably has to deal with feeling relieved and grateful towards Wille on top of everything.

(And all of this was before Wille even got to unleash his adorably awkward 'I got a haircut!' declaration, complete with self-conscious gesticulating and fidgeting. It would be pretty hard not to be affected by Wille's earnest desperation to keep the conversation alive no matter how much of a dork it makes him appear.)

After those four stages, all I can say is… Er, yeh, good luck getting over Wille, Simon. That was totally going to be possible…. ;)

#Young Royals #Wilmon #YR thoughts #the four stages of simon is screwed #rewatching this scene never gets old for real

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newyorkthegoldenage · 3 months

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Seeing in The New York Times the photograph of Helen Keller in the Observation Tower of the Empire State Building, I [Dr. John H. Finley] wrote her asking her what she really “saw” from that height. This remarkable letter written by her came in answer and was published in The New York Times Magazine. It will be agreed by all who read it that, as she said, she “beheld a brighter prospect than my friends with two good eyes.”

January 13, 1932 Dear Dr. Finley:

After many days and many tribulations which are inseparable from existence here below, I sit down to the pleasure of writing to you and answering your delightful question, “What Did You Think ‘of the Sight’ When You Were on the Top of the Empire Building?”

Frankly, I was so entranced “seeing” that I did not think about the sight. If there was a subconscious thought of it, it was in the nature of gratitude to God for having given the blind seeing minds. As I now recall the view I had from the Empire Tower, I am convinced that, until we have looked into darkness, we cannot know what a divine thing vision is.

Perhaps I beheld a brighter prospect than my companions with two good eyes. Anyway, a blind friend gave me the best description I had of the Empire Building until I saw it myself.

Do I hear you reply, “I suppose to you it is a reasonable thesis that the universe is all a dream, and that the blind only are awake?” Y—es—no doubt I shall be left at the Last Day on the other bank defending the incredible prodigies of the unseen world, and, more incredible still, the strange grass and skies the blind behold are greener grass and bluer skies than ordinary eyes see. I will concede that my guides saw a thousand things that escaped me from the top of the Empire Building, but I am not envious. For imagination creates distances and horizons that reach to the end of the world. It is as easy for the mind to think in stars as in cobble-stones. Sightless Milton dreamed visions no one else could see. Radiant with an inward light, he sent forth rays by which mankind beholds the realms of Paradise.

But what of the Empire Building? It was a thrilling experience to be whizzed in a “lift” a quarter of a mile heavenward, and to see New York spread out like a marvellous tapestry beneath us. There was the Hudson—more like the flash of a sword-blade than a noble river. The little island of Manhattan, set like a jewel in its nest of rainbow waters, stared up into my face, and the solar system circled about my head! Why, I thought, the sun and the stars are suburbs of New York, and I never knew it! I had a sort of wild desire to invest in a bit of real estate on one of the planets. All sense of depression and hard times vanished, I felt like being frivolous with the stars. But that was only for a moment. I am too static to feel quite natural in a Star View cottage on the Milky Way, which must be something of a merry-go-round even on quiet days.

I was pleasantly surprised to find the Empire Building so poetical. From everyone except my blind friend I had received an impression of sordid materialism—the piling up of one steel honeycomb upon another with no real purpose but to satisfy the American craving for the superlative in everything. A Frenchman has said, in his exalted moments the American fancies himself a demigod, nay, a god; for only gods never tire of the prodigious. The highest, the largest, the most costly is the breath of his vanity.

Well, I see in the Empire Building something else—passionate skill, arduous and fearless idealism. The tallest building is a victory of imagination. Instead of crouching close to earth like a beast, the spirit of man soars to higher regions, and from this new point of vantage he looks upon the impossible with fortified courage and dreams yet more magnificent enterprises.

What did I “see and hear” from the Empire Tower? As I stood there ’twixt earth and sky, I saw a romantic structure wrought by human brains and hands that is to the burning eye of the sun a rival luminary. I saw it stand erect and serene in the midst of storm and the tumult of elemental commotion. I heard the hammer of Thor ring when the shaft began to rise upward. I saw the unconquerable steel, the flash of testing flames, the sword-like rivets. I heard the steam drills in pandemonium. I saw countless skilled workers welding together that mighty symmetry. I looked upon the marvel of frail, yet indomitable hands that lifted the tower to its dominating height.

Let cynics and supersensitive souls say what they will about American materialism and machine civilization. Beneath the surface are poetry, mysticism and inspiration that the Empire Building somehow symbolizes. In that giant shaft I see a groping toward beauty and spiritual vision. I am one of those who see and yet believe.

I hope I have not wearied you with my “screed” about sight and seeing. The length of this letter is a sign of long, long thoughts that bring me happiness.

I am, with every good wish for the New Year,

Sincerely yours, Helen Keller

Top photo: Times Wide World Photos/Letters of Note Bottom photo: Associated Press

#vintage New York #1930s #Helen Keller #Empire State Building #Empire State Bldg.#Jan. 13 #13 Jan.#blind #deaf #imagination #seeing blind #how blind see #idealism #materialism #American materialism

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