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justblades · 2 years

Note

congrats on the event once again! can i req #58 w alban knox?

♡ MAKE LOVE WITH ME ! ➠ 100 EVENT

#58 ALBAN KNOX ; ❝ no one’s ever touched me like this, fuck. ❞ gender neutral! reader

WARNINGS ; dom! reader, sub! alban, handjob, teasing, anal sex, praising kink, soft boy alban <3 WC: 573

A/N ; thank u thank u !!

you roam your hands on alban's body freely, exploring the zones you feel like toying with the most. of course, you'd know from the way alban's brows beetle and his lip doing his hardest not to let a breathy moan slip.

holding him captive within your arms, even though the size difference between you and him was remarkable, you manage to keep him in control as you stroke his cock with your dominant hand and the other tracing the fine lines of his fair skin, it was silky and smooth to the touch.

"alban . . you take very good care of your body don't you?" mumbling to his ears, alban could feel his spine tingling in the right places. it sends shockwaves of excitement throughout his body, his erection getting harder and harder the more you praise him. "wow, your dick just grew taller! i think my alban likes it when i praise him."

sliding your hand up and down his twitching girth, whenever you'd play with his tip and the little slit with your fingers, the mocha haired would flinch and mewl from the slightest details the way you're doing him. "so, alban. what do you think? what're you feeling as of the moment?"

alban's voice betrays him as he struggled to speak clearly. the cocky, domineering tone always underlying his words retrogress into a breathy, weak one. "it . . it feels . ."

you wait for a couple of seconds for alban to continue what he's saying, but then you notice from the view beside you, he purses his lips into a thin line. perhaps alban was trying to escape from your question but all of a sudden, you tighten your grip on his cock at its very shaft. he whines as he attempts to remove your grip on his length, "please, no more."

"but you haven't cummed yet. if you don't tell me how i'm making you feel then i'm gonna start devouring you this early with no mercy."

your eyes send deadly daggers at his bi-colored irises, squinting into two little crescents from your hold on his jerking dick. "okay . . i . . it feels good, really good." he expresses with shame sculpting his features, his leg wobbling up and down while his head rests on your chest. "no one’s ever touched me like this . . fuck."

the corner of your lips spread wider, "that's my good boy." you croon and loosened your grip a bit, just enough with how the auburn head likes it. he starts to heave sloth breaths, his hands now tightly clutching on your arms. everytime you'd lubricate his dick with the lube jelly you bought from a store beforehand, his groans of satisfaction becomes louder.

"i can't bear it anymore, i want to put it in you now."

you let out a cocksure chortle, a little too amused from the way alban has been submissive towards you. admittedly, it makes you feel powerful in your dynamic and since he told you the words you've been in dire need of hearing already, then it wouldn't be bad to reward him a little something.

bending over on the bed with your ass cheeks perked up, you order alban, "turn around." your hands spread your asshole wider as you lean back to see the male's expression, "put it in and do me however you want then." you say with an imperious smile.

#☹ soliloquartz 100 #noctyx smut #noctyx x reader #alban knox #alban knox x reader #alban knox smut #nijisanji en #nijisanji #nijisanji en x reader

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auroras-blend · 3 years

Text

Reflection

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 31

Summary: Leo's POV following the events of the attempted kidnapping where he deals with the trauma of losing his son and nearly losing his daughter.

TW: Mention of child death, grief, & trauma

Leonardo softly unwound himself from his slumbering daughter. Her face looked peaceful, a miracle considering all she had been through. She was so young yet her face had matured since coming to Italy, a toll taken by what she had seen. Leaving the bed was the hardest thing he had to do, having to command himself to get up and walk towards the bathroom. I never want her out of my sight again.

Nevertheless, he told his body to move and it did. He softly shut the bathroom door, taking special care to make sure the latch didn’t loudly click and wake Vittoria up. The light turned on, illuminating the room and causing him to squint for a moment as his eyes adjusted. Leonardo numbly stood in front of the mirror and his body did the rest, heaving whatever was in his stomach out into the sink. It wasn’t much, but the sensation still burned his throat. I suppose she gets it from me.

The contents rinsed away as quickly as they came out, and the burning irritated his throat but dissipated soon after he cupped water into his mouth, swished it, and spat it out. His hands were shaky and that in of itself unnerved him. You're better than this. Memories of his father flashed through his head, being forced to eat burnt food until he threw up and then being forced to eat it. Men don't throw up. And he hadn't since he was young, in fact, he almost forgot that he even could until now. He almost sneered at his weakness as his blue eyes met their reflection, seeming as if they belonged to a different person than himself.

Leonardo combed his hair back and examined his face. There were some lines, but that came with aging and he firmly believed he was doing that with grace. He didn’t look that much different if he were being honest with himself, but his face looked unfamiliar to him. Leonardo couldn’t bring himself to recognize the man in the mirror, who at the moment was actually wearing his past clear as day, unhidden by his carefully sculpted and well-practiced mask. There were sometimes he wondered if he were fooling himself along with the people he smiled at. No, you’re better than them.

A shaky breath escaped him. You are not weak. But he supposed a shaky breath was better than tears, not that he felt the need to shed any. The day had turned out fine in the end, his daughter was safe in his bed and she would meet the age of nine. She’s okay. She’s alive. Unable to take the brief flicker of weakness he saw in his reflection’s eyes, he covered his face with his large hands that hadn’t met a lifetime of any labor unless you considered pulling a trigger.

Closing his eyes was perhaps the worst thing he could do because suddenly there was the image of that...day...on the bridge. In horror, he opened them again and took a deep breath. Leonardo’s hands met the cold marble sink, steadying him in place. Mi dispiace Andrea. Mi dispiace di non aver potuto proteggerti come ho protetto lei. My poor boy. My poor baby. Every time he saw Vittoria reach a milestone, laugh, or play he thought your brother should be next to you.

Vittoria was a lonely child. He could see that much and he knew she had felt alone all of her life. She could’ve had her brother. Andrea was in his thoughts, every day. My son. A small part of him that was capable of feeling felt a trace, barely there, but a trace of guilt for being disappointed when he found out he had a son and not a daughter. As he looked back in the mirror, he wondered how much closer Andrea would’ve grown to look like him. It was always a thought because there’s no way I’ll ever know.

For the past seven years, before he met his Vittoria, he had worried for her life. He felt powerless and unable to protect her while he sat in his cell. Most of his contacts were off the grid so he had to reluctantly leave her safety in the hands of God. Before Andrea, he had been religious out of obligation, because that was what was done. If he were being honest with himself, he considered himself the higher power because he could only trust himself to not be weak and to take control of everything and everyone around him. In his mind, praying was begging. Weak people beg. And faith was hope. And hope is for fools. I'm neither.

No, Leonardo Borghese didn't like leaving anything up to anyone, even the Lord. He went to church religiously, but he never could be actually considered religious until his son died. The need to believe he'd see him again, that the mother of their children and his father were burning in hell for all they had done. Their misery in life and painful deaths weren't enough. An eternal punishment was needed. He thought also that maybe in death, his mother was well enough to love him again. So until a time came where he could protect her himself and never play the fool again, he had prayed for his daughter, desperate for God to keep her safe in that bitch’s hands.

He wouldn’t put it past her to spite him one more time and take Vittoria away, snuffing out her innocent life. Even now, the thought of the mother of his child ignited a fury and unmatched hatred in him. Leonardo was hateful, but he didn’t know how much hate he could contain until that day.

Entertaining Vittoria’s love of her mother physically repulsed him, but she wasn’t ready yet to know the exact details of her parent’s relationship. She’ll never be ready. And he'd keep it from her for as long as he could. Focusing on hating Patience was easier than grieving and missing his son because despair was too human of an emotion for him. It’d make him weak but hate kept him on his toes.

I won. I have her. Everything you did had no purpose but pain in the end. The words sounded unsophisticated in his head, raw and cartoonish, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. His daughter was with him, sleeping in the next room and for now, he had to put everything that happened in the past aside. Focus on the future.

Leonardo, so deep into his thoughts, hadn’t heard the door creak open but he did hear the small voice call out, “Papa?”

So much for alone time. With a shaky breath, he opened his eyes again and put on his smile before he turned around. “Did I wake you?” he asked.

Vittoria looked at him sadly, her lip wobbling in a pout. Here I thought I’d have a few hours before I had to comfort her. “Are you okay?” she whispered, clutching her grey bunny close to her chest.

“I have you and you’re okay, so yes I’m fine,” he said, moving closer to her and kneeling down to her level.

Why does she have to be so short? His knees ached. He sincerely hoped she grew to be several inches taller than her mother because leaning down so much was taking its toll. “You can cry if you want to,” she said, “It’s okay to cry.”

It isn’t. “Vittoria-,” he began.

“I was really scared and I cried. It’s okay to cry when you’re scared,” she said, taking his hand, “I won’t tell anyone.”

As bitter as her mother was, as ruthless as he was, Vittoria still held kindness and gentleness in her heart. He let his fake smile dissolve into a soft gentle one that held a foreign genuineness. “That’s very sweet,” he cooed, “But I’m alright. You don’t have to comfort me.”

“I want to,” she said.

He pulled her hand and took her in close to his chest, wrapping his arms around her and held her tight. Her small arms wrapped around his neck and he gave her a kiss on her head. “You’re safe. It’s over,” he whispered, unable to tell if it was more for her or himself, “We’re going to be fine, Vittoria. We have each other.”

“I love you, Papa,” she said in a watery voice.

“I love you too, Vittoria,” he said clearly, I love you, Andrea, “So much.”

#andrea borghese #marilyn winslow #vittoria borghese #leonardo borghese #chapter 31 really messed him up #he'd be DAMNED before he lost another child #costa got off easily #as much of a monster he is #leonardo is still human #which i think is what makes him terrifying

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blarrghe · 3 years

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Hi! I'm going to go for a dramatic one for the cliché prompts: "You’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up" for Fenders (or whoever you prefer) if that works for you <3

I’m on a bit of a Dorianders kick and can’t seem to stop, so thank you very much for the prompt but I went a bit off book with it... hope that’s alright w you.

I altered this a little to “Dorian’s father is asleep on his deathbed and he confesses all his pent up feelings only for Anders to walk in”

So that’s um, how modern au Resident!Anders and Politician!Dorian met. It got a bit long and is very very angsty.

Summary: Anders is a resident working rough hours at a hospital (in Tevinter?? look this is just going to be a series of ficlets I have not worked out the details yet), struggling with his medical debts and work-related sleep deprivation. Dorian is an idealistic politician working his way out of his recently deceased father's shadow. They meet when Anders is attending to his father on his death bed, and things go from there, I guess.

Anders took a deep breath. With it, the something hissing over his heart settled down to a whisper. The hospital always beset him with inner whispers; not a good feeling, but one that compelled him on, nevertheless. Pediatrics hit the hardest, the injustice of it all, but being there also kept his mind steady. Doing something. Critical Care was different. There wasn't usually a lot he could do, in the Critical Care wing. And his rounds today had him facing that patient, the one for whom there was nothing to be done, and who set his obsessively helpful spirit into split ends, because he was also an absolute asshole. When Anders was in a room with him, under steely eyes and the cracking whip of his tongue, the disease in him felt deserved, and some part of Anders burned like blue fire, so hot it took biting his cheek bloody to restrain his bedside manner from bad attitudes. The disease is never deserved, he reminded himself and the licks of flame that still remembered the patient's rude barkings from last time. Even in rich men who in life had been given much more than they ever did deserve, a death like this one was still a hard death, and people who are dying are allowed to die angry. So he took another deep breath, because dealing with some patients just needed that much more breathing, but he could still do his job. And that was the job; to be there, at the end, for anyone.

He was getting worse, sleeping more. It wouldn't be long now, and Anders tried not to be relieved. He checked his charts, his monitors, the IVs still barely holding him up. Increased the morphine, for his pain, and finished without saying a word. For a moment, he almost missed it; at least when the man was swearing at him and ranting in indecipherably bigoted tirades, he was lively. He sighed, staying the extra moment to offer the man's sallow cheeks a sympathetic glance. Death was a natural part of life, and he was old, and an asshole, and maybe he didn't deserve it but... soon the bed would be free again, and that would be alright.

When he turned to leave, there was a dark figure sitting on the bench in the hall outside. He was reading a magazine but not flipping the pages, one leg crossed over the other in the stiff posture of someone who is uncomfortably waiting for uncomfortable news. One of the family. Anders took another deep breath. He hadn't had dealings with the wife, but he'd overheard them well enough. An unpleasant woman for an unpleasant man, trying to buy off death and then trying to kick the whole hospital down with her complaining when she couldn't. If the man waiting outside now took after either of them, his shift was about to get a whole lot worse.

He stepped out into the hall, and the man looked up from his magazine. His features were striking, sculpted. Skin the deep, radiant bronze that Anders was sure his father's would have been, back in his youth before misery and disease stole its colour. And he was, unmistakably now, his asshole patient's son; same steely grey eyes, right down to the faint creases beside them, and just as unfeeling.

"Are you his doctor?"

Usually, that question, asked at this point in the process of losing someone, was croaked out. But the son didn't croak, he asked his question with a continued lack of feeling, and a bit of impatience.

"Not his attending, only a resident. I can page the doctor, if you'd like,"

"No, that's fine. Can you just tell me how long?" The man stood up, tall. Much taller than the way people usually stood in hospital corridors; poised and proud in his posture — not actually taller than Anders, but he felt it. Still a little stiff maybe, but anything uncomfortable was covered up by how well he fit into his suit; smooth and black and clinging to his body like it was made to hold him. Anders blinked, "how long he has," the son clarified unnecessarily, still coolly impatient, "I have places to be, you see."

His eyes wandered past Anders, hesitating over the window to the room where his father lay dying, then snapping back again. Not entirely unfeeling after all, but the sadness in them was troubled by something else, still indecipherable. Anders wondered what kind of relationship a son could have with a father — a father like that — for so many secrets to be buried in that glance.

Anders swallowed. No he didn't, he decided, but the thing that whispered care into his heart was wondering, catching onto the well-hidden glimpse of feeling in the man, craving already to comfort the rest.

"A few days, maybe." He answered, gentle with the news. The son nodded once. "You should say your goodbyes."

The son was looking past him again, back through the window at the sleeping form of his father, more unhappy secrets set into his jaw. Anders watched the jaw tense, and stay there.

"In a few days, maybe." Replied the man, though he barely moved his tense jaw to say it. "He's awake."

Anders turned to follow the man's eyes, landing his own gaze on a twitching hand and barely moving bedsheets. He didnt look back again before darting into the room to offer his patient care.

"Dorian?" Croaked the patient, steely grey eyes opening to scan his face, and then closing in apparent disappointment.

"Your son? He's right outside, I'll —" but he wasn't. The tall, statuesque man was gone, the magazine left lying open on the bench outside in an empty white hallway. "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Anders amended, attempting to offer a bright spot of hope. His patient grunted.

Anders took a step away from the bedside, but as he did a thin, wrinkled hand shot out, and grabbed him by the wrist. The cold, unfeeling eyes opened, except now they were sad. "A word of advice, if you don’t want to be disappointed in life, don't have children." Even breathy and hoarse, he managed to give his voice bite. Then his asshole patient's gaze fell on the little gold earring hanging from Anders’ ear, and he coughed. Anders took a deep breath in preparation for another insult, and to help him recover from the bit of unfriendly advice. "You're lucky they don't let you people have them."

Anders tried not to sigh. The dying are allowed to die angry. "I'm sure he'll be back." He said again.

----

Dorian. The name stuck to him almost as well as his tight black trousers, and Anders couldn't help but turn it over a few times in his mouth after he left the room. He made the rest of his rounds, and checked back in on father-of-the-year Pavus a few more times, lying to himself about what he was hoping to find. Dorian. He never did come back though, not during visiting hours of that day, nor the day after. On the third day things weren't looking well, and Bride of Asshole Pavus had alerted everyone on staff to the fact that it was their fault, even the poor janitors. The bed would probably be free again by the end of his shift.

He made his rounds, thinking as little about that particular patient and his particularly unpleasant wife as he could, trying to tell his inner whisperings that it wasn't worth being sad over, even if the son never said goodbye. Maybe he didn't deserve one, how could Anders judge? (Everyone deserves one). Under his breath, Anders told himself to shush. (If not for the father's sake, then for his own). Again, shush. Then, through the too-thin walls and slightly ajar door as he made his way down the glaringly white hallway, Anders heard muttering. Sad, broken, angry muttering. He stopped.

" —I don't want it." the phrase was repeated a few times, some utterings angry, others sad, all of them broken. "I don't want your life. I don't want to be you. I don't —" Dorian. Dorian choking on a sob. Anders took a step back, careful about the squeak of his shoes. "I don't even know why I —" he tried not to listen in (no you didn't), but the door was ajar. "Everything. I could become everything you ever asked of me and it would still never be enough, so I don't know why I— I —" there was another heartwrenching choke to a stop, then a gutteral sound of frustration that Anders could feel in his own gut. "Just once. You couldn't say it just once?" It sounded like the kind of question he wouldn't be getting an answer to even if the man were conscious. "I'm sorry." Anders felt that in his gut too, and the thing he was trying to keep quiet inside him wondered if the words were from Dorian to his father, or the ones Dorian was begging his unconscious body for, or both.

In hospital rooms, the sound of beeping monitors disappeared into the fray. Wheels on stretchers trundling down the halls, squeaking shoes on linoleum, ventilators whirring and monitors beeping. They only sounded like anything when they stopped, and let out that one long note to signify the end. Dorian choked out his apology several more times, once sad, once angry, always desperate, and then the monitor stopped beeping, drowning out his gasps for air with its ending, and Anders had to do his job. He walked in.

Dorian shot up. Hands swiping at his red eyes and posture somehow rising without even a hint of hunch, and Anders pretended poorly not to see any of it. The attending came, procedures were followed, and Dorian disappeared into the waiting room like he was supposed to, without a look back.

The wife was gone by the time Anders poked his head into the waiting room. It wasn't his job to tell the family, and the news had long been shared, but something told him to peek in anyway. He took another deep breath when he saw him — this family really seemed bent on messing with his breathing — sitting, one long leg crossed over the other, staring down a terrible cup of coffee, not drinking it. He sat straight, his skin shone, his suit fit him like a glove and not a hair on his head was out of place, but he looked tired. Dorian. Anders approached cautiously. It would be a while before the family could take the body, and he should go home, rest. He told him as much, to a response of slow nods. Then Dorian looked up from his coffee, eyes emotionless except for the fact that they were lined in watery red.

"I'm just waiting for my mother to finish hounding her lawyers," he said, and despite himself Anders looked about nervously, "she's not here, don't worry. She left for home an hour ago. If I wait another, she'll have tired herself out and passed out under a bottle of wine." He sighed heavily, "could use one myself, but to be honest with you I don't quite feel like going home." His eyes flicked up into Anders' with a dim light of mischief, and Anders wondered what his looks could do for him on a good day. Things Anders could never hope to achieve, no doubt.

Anders offered him the carefully crafted soft smile he reserved for these kinds of things, and said “sorry for your loss” with just a touch more feeling than most patients’ families received, since the man looked like he needed it.

“Can’t say the same to you I suppose,” Dorian replied, shaking his head, “though I am sorry.”

Anders opened his mouth, struggled to find anything to do with it, and then closed it again.

“For my mother,” Dorian explained as he put the coffee cup he was still holding down on the low table in front of the chair he was decorating, apparently giving up any semblance of drinking it, “I’m sure his care was better than he deserved, but she doesn’t do well in situations she can’t control. It won’t come to anything.”

Anders nodded slowly. Better than he deserved? A phrase Anders might have thought himself, over the past few weeks of dealing with the irate patient as he approached death’s door, but now that he’d gone through it, something about the sentiment irked him.

“Everyone deserves compassionate care,” he corrected with another careful smile, “the best chance we can give, and comfort when that’s spent. No less.”

The response did something odd to Dorian’s face; first a sigh, then it transmuted itself into a strangled sort of laugh, while he shook his head and regarded Anders with still-dull eyes. “Well, it can’t have been easy,” he muttered, eyes landing on Anders’ soft smile, which he hoped was still there. “Thank you.”

Anders left him then, offering one more nod and smile before turning away to finish the rest of his shift. Two hours later, changed out of his scrubs and into his tattered old jacket over his tattered old t-shirt and jeans, he walked by the waiting room again, on his way out. Dorian was still there, still staring down that same cup of undrunk coffee.

“Mr. Pavus, ser?”

Dorian started at the sound, and looked up from the coffee with an almost angry light in his icy eyes. “Please, Maker, call me anything but that.”

Anders swallowed. “It’s — it’s Dorian, isn’t it?” Dorian nodded, “Dorian,” saying his name to his face felt wrong, somehow, “it’s getting rather late, is there someone I should call for you?”

Dorian shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “Are there any bars nearby? A really terrible one, preferably.”

Anders frowned, but there was a pretty terrible bar just across the street, stuck into a hole in the wall of an alley, with grimy old barstools and floors littered in peanut shells, so he told him so. Dorian stood, always so tall.

“Thank you, Doctor…”

“Anders,” he attempted a smile, but there was a good deal too much worry in it, he was sure, “just Anders; I’m off duty.”

Dorian turned from him, then suddenly turned back. “Would you care for a drink, Anders?”

Anders blinked. “I uh —”

“You’ve seen the last of what was undoubtedly your worst patient today, haven’t you? Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to celebrate.”

His brows creased unhappily, all on their own, and something inside him whispered back the memory of that broken bedside apology. “I wouldn’t —”

“You should. I aim to. On me?” There was that light of mischief again, a little brighter, coupled with what could almost be a smirk. Maker, was he flirting?

“I don’t drink.”

Dorian frowned, and Anders almost wished he did. “A bowl of peanuts on me, then.” Dorian amended his offer with a shrug. And for some unknown reason, Anders nodded.

“Alright.”

#my fic #my writing #dorianders #dorian x anders #modern au #angst angst angst

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