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bunnyreaper · 8 months

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the price we pay

kinktober 10 - fuck machine

dom!ghost x sub!reader x sub!soap

(18+/mdni, fuck machine, cuckolding vibes, bondage, degradation, negotiated kink, anal)

Belonging to Simon Riley brought with it a litany of mysteries, both large and small—it's a privilege and a burden you and Johnny both willingly signed up for.

Simon was always the first (and often only) one to know things in your relationships—plans, observations, feelings, they'd all sit inside his head for weeks or months, waiting for the perfect opportunity to come out. Over time, you've learned to spot the signs of a brewing plan or ruminating thought. This one you picked up on fairly quickly, having made a game of it with Simon.

Simon sits across from you, lonely on the loveseat as you lounge on the couch, lost in his phone with a focused squint. It's nothing unusual, the two of you spending time together peacefully coexisting in silence—but you sense something amiss.

"You're planning something." You whisper, eyes glued to him as he taps at something on his screen.

He pauses, gaze connecting with yours as he stares you down, resolute with a slight smirk on his face. "Yeah, and?"

"How long now?" You ask.

"3 weeks."

"I'm getting faster, Simon!" You punch the air in victory, kicking and flailing your legs in a delighted little dance that makes your lover smile. "Okay, continue, I won't ask any more questions." You giggle as you bite your lip and turn your attention back to the TV, willing yourself to not think about the surprise.

So you weren't caught completely unaware when one day an oversized, nondescript box was delivered to the door. Johnny's away on an assignment without you both, meaning whatever it is could only belong to Simon, and likely part of whatever he's been working on over the past several weeks.

Johnny went away aware something was coming, but not knowing what—because unlike Johnny, Simon could keep a secret from his lovers. You've been resorting to unfair tactics with Simon, waiting until he's in his blissed-out, post fuck state to probe him gently.

You lay draped across Simon, both of you completely bare as you cuddle up—his hot cum still oozing out of you.

Now's your chance, you think. Simon's always more relaxed post-sex, and you're not going to ask too much.

Threading your fingers up to his hair, you stroke his scalp and smile as his eyes slip shut. "Is it a gift?"

"I suppose." He whispers, eyes cracking open as he eyes you wearily, you can see the cogs turning as he debates giving you an inch, and worrying you'll take a mile.

You study him intently, wondering if you can chance another. "For me?"

"For all of us." He reaches to your chin, tilting it as he leans in for a breath-stealing kiss that silences any further inquiries. "Now that's enough."

You nod, beyond satisfied as you snuggle back into Simon's chest and try to temper your excitement.

The package arriving perfectly in time for the day Johnny gets home from his mission is very suspicious.

You'd both spent the afternoon cuddling Johnny on the couch before Simon disappeared upstairs with his box and ordered you both to stay out of the bedroom until he allowed you in. Johnny had probed you for what you knew, as he tried to come up with ideas for what it could be.

"Mebbes it's a puppy, I'd like tha'" Johnny comments idly as he plays with your hair, stroking through it as he snuggles up behind you.

You giggle, but shake your head, not convinced by that theory. "I'd hope he wouldn't keep a puppy in the box for that long, plus surely it would've made a noise by now."

"Hmm." Johnny hums. "King size weighted blanket?"

Simon's eyes had lit up when you had mentioned it in the past. "Ooh, one we can all snuggle under." You wriggle back into Johnny, imagining the comfort of being cuddled up with your boys and blessed with the extra weight. Then again, you didn't really need a weighted blanket when you had them.

You hear Simon's footsteps as he starts to come back downstairs, and you turn over to shush Johnny with a kiss. "Quiet, don't get us in trouble."

"Aye, lass."

After an afternoon of soft closeness and conversation, the three of you would usually take this time to head to the bedroom and fuck the missing parties' brain's out, to catch them up on everything they've missed—but the atmosphere is so different, knowing whatever Simon has been planning is just waiting for you upstairs.

When Simon nods in the direction of the stairs, you both obediently rush to your feet, heading upstairs as he leads the way.

"Johnny, be a good boy and go take a shower for me." Simon's voice is a stern command as he reaches the landing and stops Johnny from entering the bedroom. "I'll come and get you when I need you, yeah?"

"Yes, sir." Johnny nods, his eyes widening as they connect with yours.

Separating the two of you isn't a good sign for what's to come, and your stomach flips with fear as you're led into the bedroom wordlessly.

"Simon?" You ask, voice hesitant he starts to grab some of the items he's prepared. The whispered name doesn't get a response, so you try again. "...Sir?"

Simon stops dead in his tracks, turning to you with that expression, the one that tells you his slipping into his dom mindset—head whirring with his plans, with considerations for all of your safety and welcome, and with anticipation for what's to come. "On the bed, now. Clothes off."

You freeze for a moment, swallowing thickly before you rush to throw up every garment you're wearing—they're hastily discarded on the floor, only to be collected and folded when Simon hits you with a stern look.

Once you're bare, you lay on the bed, uncertain of what's to come and yet trusting in the other man completely.

Simon repositions you as he wants you, turning you over on your stomach before pulling up your ass into the air.

The large object at the foot of the bed covered by the sheet hasn't escaped your attention. "What's that?"

Simon follows your gaze, to the covered mound. Silently, he pulls away the covering to reveal the contraption underneath.

A fucking machine.

"Wow, fuck. What are you planning?" You gasp, already squirming in anticipation.

Simon steals your focus, turning your head back into the bed. "You'll see."

His hands run over your naked behind, trailing down your legs before he gets to work gently attaching a spreader bar to your ankles—preparing you to be able to take the dildo attached to the machine. When he's done securing your ankles, he gets to work on securing your wrists together so you're truly helpless.

You squirm as you feel the lube drip onto your exposed holes, his finger working the slick into your pucker and preparing you. Your head spins, as you begin to anticipate the machine fucking your ass, until you feel the cold metal of a plug and Simon's hand holding your rear. He works slowly, opening you up on a finger or two until he can get the plug inside. With that done, he leans over, close to your head.

"Love you." He mumbles as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Safeword?"

"Red." You confirm, relishing in the feeling of being so safe with your boyfriend and dominant. "Love you too, Si."

"Good girl."

He gives you a once-over, checking everything is in place, before he moves away. Next, he gets to work on moving the machine, you can just see in your peripheral as you crane your neck that he's moving things around—and then you feel the tip poke at your entrance, positioned so carefully so as to not truly enter you.

"Fuck." You shiver with anticipation, trying to wiggle back onto it only to be met with strong hands stilling your hips.

You're already so needy, you're barely able to think of how the evening might unfold or what this will all lead to. Right now, you just want relief. "Are you gonna turn it on?"

"Not yet."

You crane your neck to watch as Simon leaves the room, leaving you exposed and anticipating.

The conversation between him and Johnny in the bathroom is muffled, barely audible over the blood pumping in your ears.

When they make it to the room, Johnny is being led by Simon, due to the silk wrapped around his eyes. Simon lays him face down on the bed next to you, pulling off his towel and leaving him exposed alongside you. Johnny's already rock hard in anticipation, his cock rubbing against the mattress.

"Why's he blindfolded?" You ask, brain trying to piece together what is happening, what Simon has in store.

Upon hearing your voice, Johnny's hand twitches, wanting to reach out to touch you but knowing instinctively he isn't allowed. Were it not for the blindfold, the two of you would at least be able to share meaningful looks.

"For the surprise." Simon mumbles, as he starts to gather lengths of rope to tie Johnny up with—by the looks of it, your boyfriend was going to be bound head to toe beside you.

"Oh, so I shouldn't ruin it?" You giggle, teasing Simon with the fact you could disobey and give the game away before he's ready.

Your words are met with a scoff, and you watch Simon scowl as he pauses. "Not unless you want to trade places with him."

As Simon gets to work tying Johnny's arms and legs, you realise very quickly that the last thing you want is to trade places with Johnny—at least you're seemingly in more of a position to get pleasure tonight, whereas it seems Johnny might get denied. You also realise that when the blindfold comes off, Johnny's going to be fucking furious.

"Am getting tied up, ooh." Johnny coos, his tone playful as his lips curl into a smirk.

You watch, fascinated, as Simon works deftly, securing the black rope over every inch of Johnny's gorgeous body.

"If it helps, Johnny, I'm a little restrained too—ow!" You don't get to finish your sentence, as Simon cuts you off with a sharp spank.

"What did I say?" He growls, attention turning to you for a moment to fix you with a steely glare.

You pout, but bite your tongue from giving any further hints—you know what's good for you, after all. "Sorry, I won't give anything away, sir. Promise." Hopefully, the groveling will keep you in Simon's good books.

"Yeah, could still be anything." Johnny comments, conspiring with you to keep you out of trouble—bless him. You had a feeling the two of you won't be so allied in a few minutes.

It becomes clearer to you with each second that this setup is one of Simon's games to play you against one another, and tonight you're the lucky one, rather than the punished. Of course, it's all only temporary, and in the spirit of everyone's enjoyment—outside of the bedroom, you all try your hardest to never create imbalances between you.

"Jokes on us, he's gonna tie us both up and leave us in here, so he can get some peace, Johnny." You joke, trying to keep the mood fairly light.

"'m getting close to it." Simon is back to grumbling, as he finishes up his binds on Johnny's limbs. "Safeword?"

"Red." Johnny confirms, his expression turning more serious.

Simon presses a kiss to his forehead before he gets to work on undoing the blindfold."Love you."

"Love you—" Johnny's words are cut off as his eyes flicker open, and he takes a second to crane his neck around to take in the scene beside him. "—bastard."

"Don't like what you see, Johnny?" Simon chuckles, low and full of mischief, as he walks toward the bottom of the bed, standing near the machine that is so close to working its way inside you.

"Fuck you." Johnny snarls, his eyes looking angered and desperate as he meets your gaze. He is, as you expected, furious.

And you hate that his reaction makes you leak—he wants you so bad, and he's being denied, completely at Simon's mercy.

You want to get fucked so bad, whether it's by Johnny or the machine or Simon, you don't care. But tonight, you know the only thing getting stuffed in your cunt is the dildo on the fuck machine. "Please, sir, please turn it on." The words rush out of your mouth before you can stop them, need coursing through your body.

There's a low growl from both men before Simon speaks first. "Tell Johnny how much you want it." His words are accompanied by him adjusting the dildo at your entrance, getting ready to grant your wish.

Johnny's eyes soften when you look to him, but the fury within is still evident. You hope he sees the softness in your eyes too, hope he can see how helpless you are right now under Simon's spell that is making you complicit.

"Johnny, want it so bad... fuck." You wiggle once more, trying to get any kind of relief. Johnny grits his teeth through the next part. "Tell him to turn it on for me, please."

Another growl from Johnny as he thrashes against the mattress, unable to really do anything at all. "These fucking ropes, as soon as I get—"

His sentence is interrupted by your moan, loud and uninhibited as the dildo breaches you, working itself in at a tortuously slow rhythm.

Simon is messing with the controls in your peripheral. "How's that?"

"Slow." You whine, desperate for more already. The machine picks up its pace, fucking into you more steadily as it strokes against your insides. "T-thank you."

Simon makes his way back to the side of the bed, standing behind Johnny as he taunts the man with his touch, stroking his face delicately as if to subdue and tame a wild animal.

"Is it better than him?" Simon asks, leaning into your field of vision.

You look up at him, mind hazy and unsure what response he wants. Does he want you to humiliate Johnny for him? Is he going to make you say you prefer the machine just to exert his power and control?

Simon senses your hesitation, your need for guidance in this moment, and his hand comes to stroke your face, much like he is already doing with Johnny. "Just looking for the truth, pet."

Your eyes flicker back to Johnny's, noticing the way they shine with something other than anger—fear and humiliation, as he waits for your response. Poor, sweet Johnny, already being broken down into submission by Simon.

"... No." You whisper truthfully, gaze fixed on Johnny, so you can catch his relief.

Simon tuts, walking back to the controls to turn them up as if to try and change your mind. "Shame."

The machine's pace increases, ramming the dildo into your cunt faster and faster and forcing the moans out from your pretty little mouth.

Johnny turns ferocious once again. "Yer not seriously gonna leave me here while a machine fucks ma girl instead of me?!" He pleads, desperate and mad and so confused, and yet still working his hips into the mattress for relief.

"Your girl?" Simon snarls, returning to tug at the roots of Johnny's hair until his head is floating off the bed.

Johnny swallows, winces at the sensation, and attempts to correct himself. "Our girl."

Simon throws his head down with little regard, as if he's disgusted to even have touched your other boyfriend.

"My girl." His voice is all growl, threatening and territorial as he crawls onto the bed, ignoring Johnny and his need in favour of yours. "Here's how this is gonna go, Johnny. You're gonna be a good boy and stay there."

You hear the cap of the lube open, and slick sounds as Simon lubes up his cock—both you and Johnny are breathless in anticipation.

Simon's fingers then work the plug out of you, and you know exactly what is coming next. You're about to get double penetrated, while Johnny lays there and watches, powerless to stop it. He's wanted both men to take you at once for so long, only to be denied.

Now it was going to happen without him.

You feel Simon nudge his cock at your pucker, spreading around the lube there and chuckling at Johnny's livid reaction.

"You're gonna stay there, and me this machine are gonna fuck her better than you ever could."

#simon ghost riley x reader #soap mactavish x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #ghoap x reader #call of duty x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #call of duty fanfiction #call of duty fanfic #kinktober #soap x ghost x reader

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copper-16 · 3 months

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You Can Do This

Mapi for the life of her, cannot find Bagheera. The cat is in a place where the Spaniard and Norwegian least expect her to be.

(a/n: this is a mix between fluff and just a little bit of angst that is easily soothed. This is kind of introducing a theme about Mapi's specific struggles with becoming a parent, that is a topic I want to talk about and explore more in future stories about these three. Also, wanted to write some Bagheera/Elena content for @acornsquish, ofc :)

Mapi really, really hated waking up her wife when she did not need to.

Ingrid was notoriously grumpy in the mornings, especially before she had her coffee, so the thought of getting the Norwegian up and knowing that she would likely be annoyed with Mapi for the rest of the day was not an enticing thought for the brunette.

But the Spaniard also didn’t know what to do, because for the life of her she cannot find Bagheera anywhere.

Mapi prided herself on knowing the cat well. She had been here before Ingrid, before Elena, and she had been the Spaniard’s ever since she was just a tiny kitten. The defender loved the cat with her life, and she was sure that she knew her well enough to know all of her hiding spots.

The nook behind their kitchen table, behind the big armchair in the living room, under the TV in their bedroom.

So when Mapi got up this morning to take Bagheera to the vet and hadn’t been able to find her, she had checked all of those hiding spots first. She was sure that the cat was somewhere in one of those, simply hiding from the crying from Elena that would start up soon enough when she awoke.

The poor cat tolerated the baby, but she wasn’t exactly a huge fan of her either. Mapi and Ingrid were careful to keep the two relatively separated, not wanting Elena to accidentally pull at Bagheera’s tail or something like that.

And for the most part, the cat stayed away without having to be told. She wasn’t a huge baby person, evidently, and Mapi couldn’t really blame her. She hadn’t exactly been bringing a bunch of babies home in the past, to be fair.

But Elena wasn’t leaving, and neither was Bagheera, so the two learned to coexist peacefully, away from one another.

Bagheera wasn’t in her cat tower, or in the nook behind the kitchen table, or by the armchair, or their bedroom. In fact, Mapi couldn’t begin to find the cat in the whole damn apartment.

As the time of the cat’s vet appointment drew nearer, Mapi finally broke down, deciding that she needed to wake Ingrid up to help her look.

“Ingrid, Ingrid!” Mapi whispered harshly, slightly shaking the Norwegian’s leg from her spot at the foot of the bed.

“Mmm, go back to sleep Maria,” Ingrid mumbled sleepily, turning back into her pillow. Mapi swallowed thickly, looking around as though the cat would suddenly appear, and then squeezing her wife’s leg harder when she didn’t.

“Ingrid!” She tried again, and apparently her voice was panicked enough that she got the dark haired woman up, the Norwegian blinking several times before looking up at her wife, who appeared more than a little frazzled.

“What? Is something wrong?” Ingrid was suddenly very awake, wondering if there was something amiss with the baby. The next words out of her wife’s mouth are not, however, what she expects, given how panicked the Spaniard is.

“The cat is missing!” Mapi hissed, and the dark haired woman’s whole face scrunched in confusion.

“The cat is what?” Ingrid repeats, her words slightly slow as she struggles to follow the brunettes train of thought.

“The cat is missing!” Mapi echoes, looking around again.

“Mapi, she’s a cat. She’s not missing, she’s somewhere in this apartment,” Ingrid reasoned with far too much sureness for someone who wasn’t abreast of the current situation.

“No, I’m telling you! I’ve looked in all of her usual spots, and she’s not anywhere! You need to help me look, I have to take her to the vet,” Mapi insisted, not waiting for Ingrid’s answer before she walked out of their room, her steps hurried but quiet, well aware that their six month old baby was still very much asleep.

Ingrid let out a heavy sigh before she slipped out of bed, running a comb through her hair and brushing her teeth before she joined her wife in her quest to find their cat.

Together, the two Barcelona players scoured the living room and kitchen, trying to find the black cat. When they didn’t find her there, they moved into the dining room, and then their bedroom. It was Ingrid who finally decided that they would check the one place that they were sure Bagheera wouldn’t be in.

Elena’s room.

The baby was six months old, and entirely the light of their lives.

Bagheera’s life? Not so much.

But Ingrid drags her wife down the hallway, despite the Spaniard’s insistence that there is no way Bagheera would be caught dead in there.

The Norwegian pays her no mind, pushing the door open and walking into the room. She looks around, at the changing table, the rocking chair they have in her room, in the closet.

But it’s Mapi who finds the cat first, her jaw flopping open in shock.

“Ingrid,” she whispers urgently, moving toward the crib. And sure enough, there was Elena sleeping peacefully, with Bagheera wrapped around her. The black cat looks completely content and happy, more than willing to just sleep with the baby. Elena’s little fist is resting on the cat’s belly, and her face is turned toward Bagheera, even in sleep.

The entire cat’s body is curled around their baby, her body wrapped around the baby’s head, her head laid gently on the mattress.

Even the cat’s tail is laid over the baby’s body, resting lightly against her little belly. It’s the cutest thing Mapi’s ever seen in her entire life, and she quickly takes her phone out to snap a picture as Ingrid joins her at the crib side.

“Who knew,” Ingrid hums softly, her voice affectionate at the sight in front of her. The two appeared entirely enraptured with one another, and Mapi felt bad about disrupting their peace.

“I should take Bagheera, her appointment is in a bit and I don’t want us to miss it,” Mapi said forlornly, but she reached down to grab the black cat regardless, knowing that they really did need to go to the appointment.

Bagheera limply allowed herself to be lifted, her eyes opening as her owner lifted her from the crib she had been occupying. She allowed herself to be maneuvered with little fuss, but the disruption was less than ideal for Elena, apparently.

The baby began to fuss almost immediately, missing the comforting presence of the cat that had come to be a common presence in her crib at night, unbeknownst to her mothers. The little baby reached out for the cat instantly, looking for fur and warmth. Mapi placed the cat on the ground before she returned to the baby, her face knitted in concern at the clear unhappiness on her daughter's face.

The Spaniard looked over at her wife with big, worried eyes. She made no move to reach for Elena, despite the fact that she was now crying.

“Ingrid,” she prompted, looking down at the baby with an expression akin to fear. The Norwegian softened, knowing why Mapi was so concerned.

Ingrid had been the one to deliver her, and subsequently the one who stayed home with Elena the first few months of her life. Becoming a mother had been natural to Ingrid, and she was quite good at it. She knew how to soothe, and swaddle, she had since she was a young girl. The Norwegian had slipped into the role of mother seamlessly, unlike Mapi.

The Spaniard had not grown up around babies at all, really. It wasn’t something she was accustomed to or used to, and Elena was practically the first baby she had ever handled, apart from the odd ten minutes when she had been passed a baby who belonged to a distant relative at a family reunion or wedding.

Throughout Ingrid’s pregnancy, Mapi had spent more than her fair share of fretting about what her relationship with her daughter would look like. Would she be close to her, would she come to understand what her baby needed, would they bond. She wasn’t the one to carry her child, but that didn’t make her love Elena any less, right? It didn’t make her any less hers, did it?

“You are her mother too, Mapi,” Ingrid reminded the center back, not because she was chastising her, but because sometimes those were the words the defender needed to hear.

She was ashamed to admit it, but it had been six months and she still wasn’t sure that she felt connected with her baby. When Elena cried she didn’t know what to do like Ingrid did, she just panicked. The baby didn’t look like her, or feel like hers. She saw so much of Ingrid in her daughter, and she loved that very fact, but she also ached to feel close to her. It felt like she was playing pretend, like she was a fraud.

But she wasn’t, and Ingrid was always there to remind her of that fact.

“I am going to get changed and take Bagheera to the vet. Why don’t you spend some time with her this morning?” Ingrid suggested, noting the panic that immediately flashed across her wifes face. She placed a comforting hand on Mapi’s shoulder, her words sure as she spoke once again.

“You can do this Mapi. She is a baby, not a nuclear bomb. Hold her, check her diaper, feed her and snuggle with her. I know you know how to do that, and you can do this. I believe in you,” Ingrid promised and it took her a moment but Mapi nodded eventually, her face still a little worried, but holding more confidence now after the pep talk from her wife.

The center back went to get a bottle prepared while Ingrid changed, getting Bagheera into her carrier before she returned to the kitchen, back to her wife.

“If anything goes really wrong, you can always call me,” the Norwegian soothed, kissing the Spaniard sweetly before she slipped out the door with their cat, leaving Mapi alone with their daughter.

With renewed determination, the brunette went back into Elena’s room. She quickly changed the baby’s diaper before giving her a bottle. But even after that, and being burped, the little baby was still fussy.

Mapi bounced her gently, unsure of what to do. The baby just wouldn’t settle, and she found herself beginning to panic, not knowing what the next step was in trying to calm her.

“Okay, what would Ingrid do? What would your Mama do, mi sol?” Mapi asks the little baby, receiving nothing but a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a cry. She holds Elena tightly to herself, feeling on the verge of tears, the overwhelming feeling in her gut being one of failure.

This was her daughter, and she could not make her feel better? Could she not soothe her own child?

She felt like a rotten parent. The brunette looks down at the little baby, at the tear tracks that run down her cheeks, at the wetness of her little eyes as she stares up at the defender. She feels a renewed sense of determination to make the baby feel better. It hurt her heart to see her upset, and she wouldn’t stop trying to make her happier until she had exhausted all of her options.

“Come on,” Mapi decides, walking out of Elena’s room and back into her own, sitting down on the large bed. She carefully places Elena on her back on the bed, ignoring the shrill shriek that she receives in response, in favor of first stripping her own shirt, and then her daughter out of her little onesie.

Mapi lays back against the bed, sitting up against the headboard. She settles Elena on her chest, and is genuinely shocked by the speed at which the little baby settles, melting into her mother as her cries subside almost instantly. The baby's body is warm against her own, and her little limbs relax until she is completely limp and cuddled against the Spaniard.

The brunette brings her hand up to rub soothingly over the baby's back, and Elena lets out a relieved puff of air at the feeling. Mapi feels herself exhale a breath she hadn’t realized that she was holding as her daughter snuggled into her.

Elena waves one of her arms, making a little grabby fist at Mapi’s other hand that was not currently on her back, and the Spaniard brings it up, allowing her daughter to grasp her pointer finger in her tiny fist, holding it tightly to her chubby body.

“I’ve got you, mi sol,” Mapi promises, her voice thick as she drops her head to place a kiss to the crown of Elena’s head. As much as she is worried about bonding with her baby, she knows that there is no shortage of love that she feels for her daughter.

She would happily go to the ends of the earth for her little girl, no matter what it took. She can’t imagine not loving Elena, not having her in her life. And it’s moments like these, with her daughter completely relaxed into her chest, completely content, that remind Mapi that she can do this.

Progress is not linear, and neither is being a parent. At the end of the day she loves Elena, and she would do anything for her safety and happiness.

And that is enough.

#mapi leon #ingrid engen #ingrid x mapi x daughter #barcelona femeni #woso

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repulsiveliquidation · 5 months

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Too Dangerous

Ona Batlle x Reader [SMUT! rough.] Mafia and Football, can the two worlds coexist?

two part series, part two is in the making.

i had to use the new gifs im sorry, they’re not mine!

“I expected it to be dropped off by noon today, Michael.”

“I-I was five minutes late! There was t-traffic!”

“That’s not my fucking problem. I said noon, I want fucking noon!!”

Your hand slaps across his face, eyes seething with anger. You chuckle darkly, your fist forming tight before you punch his face repeatedly. His face slices open from the ring you were wearing, you hold yourself back from leaving another bruising blow on his mangled face. You put your hand out and a wet towel slips into it which you use to wipe your knuckles off.

Your right-hand man, George checks his pulse, nodding at you.

“He’ll be alright.”

“Of course he will, I didn’t even hit him that hard.”

“What do you want me to do with him?”

“Send him home with another shipment for tomorrow and see if he’s learned his lesson.”

You turn on your heel and throw the towel somewhere. The mansion is big with four wings; the east wing is reserved for activities such as this. You’ve two bodyguards that follow you around everywhere, your head of security insists that you can never be too careful.

“Pat, James, give me a fucking minute to breathe yeah? I think I can handle any moron that tries to jump me in my own house.”

“Yes ma’am,” James says gruffly, walking away with Pat to hang out in the security room.

Stepping into the west atrium, you hear your favorite sound in the world. You hear your girlfriend laughing at something when you also hear the chef telling her one of his serially bad jokes.

“What’s brown and sticky?”

“What?”

“A stick!”

It’s a stupid joke but Ona is too nice not to laugh wholeheartedly at it. You walk in and she hears you, leaving the conversation to jump into your arms. It had been days since she last saw you, you were on a business trip and she had shoots to do after training.

“Hi baby girl,” you say, catching her when she jumps up into your arms.

“Hi…,” she whispers, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, darling. The boys pick you up on time?”

“Sí, they were waiting for me when I walked out and saw your text. I think Martin drove my car here for me too.”

“Good, I told him to. Are you hungry? Gio would be more than happy to whip something up for us. Approved from your diet of course.”

“Mm, I am a little hungry.” You gently put her down, she presses her lips to yours and controls a searing kiss for a while. Your hands find her small waist, pulling her into you before she pulls away.

“Okay, I’m not so hungry anymore.”

It's your turn to laugh, pecking her forehead.

“You’re something baby. Come on, let’s get you fed.”

Ona requests Spanish breakfast for dinner, and Gio goes a little crazy when fulfilling her request. There are plates upon plates of food, the smell making everyone’s stomachs growl with hunger. You sit at the head of the table, Ona deciding to scoot in and settle herself in your lap. Your hand slips around her hips as she leans back into your chest.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“I have a concern, can we talk after dinner?”

She pulls back and looks down at you, eyes looking a little worried. You nod, rubbing the small of her back softly.

“Of course, baby. I’ll get a bottle of champagne chilled, we can relax by the pool and have a little swim, how’s that sound?”

"Suena perfecto, bebé.”

She looked a little more relieved then, she moved to get off your lap and into her usual chair on your right. You grasp her waist a little tighter as she tries to stand, whispering only to her.

“Stay.”

The voice used insinuates obedience, she nods and begins to pile her plate high. She digs in, feeding you off her plate.

“Gio, these tostadas are divine,” you say as Ona feeds you another bite.

“Gracias! My mother would kill me if she knew I was selling her sacred recipes online.”

“Oh, could you slip a Boërl in the chiller Gio? Ona and I want a bottle to have by the pool tonight.”

“Already have, madame, it’ll be ready when you are.”

“Perfect, feed the boys will you? Lord knows they’ll never let a speckle of your cooking go to waste,” you say, pushing your chair back and helping Ona to her feet before standing yourself. You take her hand and walk towards the bedroom, climbing the quartz stairs with a little pep in your step.

The entire dinner consisted of being one, fed by Ona, and two, wracking your brain as to why she wanted to talk to you about something that was concerning her. Was it the club, or did something happen? Was there someone bothering her at the facility, a stalker I needed to get rid of? Did she want to break up with you? You’ve been together for 4 years, maybe she was bored of all the secrecy and the vows of not making your work interfere with her life when you made a mistake when we started dating.

You called her over in the morning a year ago on her day off, forgetting that she was coming soon after. You had a money laundering prick who scammed little old ladies come in and you had to “deal with it,” she walked right into the east wing where a newbie security detail moronically brought her to me.

She stood and watched you break a man's ribs, and jaw, then proceeded to cut a few fingers off to find in a bucket of others to have sewn back on. Only when there was a loud gagging sound and a flash of brown hair did you realize who was watching.

She ran to the closest bathroom and threw up, yelling at you to go away. After coaxing her to open the door, she pushed herself as far as she could away from you; she was scared. You had never let her into this part of your work, scared for this very reason. She had seen a side of you that you kept well hidden, reserved for people who fucked with you. It took her days to even look at me, let alone be in the same room as you. You had made it crystal clear that what you did was not for her to know, but for her to enjoy the wealth that came with it. She had a vague idea, and was warned severely of the consequences, should she be inclined to speak to people who could end it all. But as time went on, you knew she was not one to betray you; she had turned into one of the most loyal people in my world, someone you would gladly lay you life down for.

“I’ve got you a present,” you say, pulling her into our bedroom.

“What is it this time? You spoil me way too much.”

“It’s not another car, I promise. It’s little, fitting for tonight.”

You pull out a brand-new swimsuit, one that leaves anyone who would see her in a minute jealous that she was all yours.

“Oh bebita, it’s gorgeous.”

“Put it on, I’ve been dreaming of you in it since I bought it.”

She hops into the bathroom to change, as you pull on a swimsuit yourself. It’s plain black, and if the night goes to plan, will end up next to a lawn chair in about 30 minutes.

She walks out shyly, hands behind her back, standing in all her muscular glory.

“Fuck, it is so much better than I imagined. C’mere.”

She timidly walks over, wrapping her arms around your neck. She leans in and kisses you, lips soft and tasted like cherry. You kissed back, humming softly into her mouth. She pulled away, hands softly stroking the back of your neck.

“I love you,” she whispers, “and thank you. It’s so pretty.”

“Just like you, my girl.”

She blushes again, grabbing your hand and running down to the pool outside. She lets go of your hand and dives in, coming up and swimming to the edge. She rests her arms on the side, taking the glass of champagne from you with a soft “thank you, amor.”

You sit by the edge, feet dipped into the cold water. Sipping on the expensive alcohol, she suddenly pushes herself out of the pool and sits beside you. Remembering why you were here in the first place, she finishes her glass and you immediately fill it up again. The bubbly wine gives her liquid courage, and she feels brave enough to admit her troubles and not let her brain convince her that she’s overreacting.

“I think someone’s been following me.”

You stop drinking, head slowly turning to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been this car I’ve been seeing for weeks. At first, I thought it was just a new staff member or something but I saw it in the parking lot when I was grocery shopping the other night and I thought it was a new fan or something but now I think it’s someone because of you.”

“How long? Do not lie to me.”

“2 months.”

“Fucking hell Ona.”

Your brain immediately goes into protective mode, coming up with all the ways to find the fucker and cut him into a million pieces. You run your hand down your face.

“I want a detailed description for George tomorrow. I’ll increase your security, and put George on your team. You will not go anywhere without him, I will make sure you get to training and whatever on time. I’ll have a word with Jonatan too, see if my men can hang around to protect you and the girls if necessary until I fucking kill the bastard.”

“That’s too much baby,” she begins to negotiate but you stop her, hand raised in front of her face.

“No, not when it comes to you, darling. You only get the best, if the girls get to enjoy that too on my dime, so be it.”

She sets her glass to the side and surges forward, pressing her lips desperately on yours. You kiss back, cupping her face gently. Ona pulls away and grins, before slipping back into the pool. You’re about to jump in when she grabs your hands and pulls you in. You squeal in surprise, coming up with a cheeky grin on your face.

“You’re in big trouble, baby girl.”

“What if I want to be?” Oh, bold Ona. Very bold, my love.

“Then you won’t be opposed to being punished, hm?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You pulled me into the water, and you didn’t tell me about your stalker for two months. You’re lucky he didn’t do anything.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to be wrong.”

“I’m not mad, my love. I’m so proud of you for being brave and coming to me. Let me worry about it now, yeah?”

“Okay.”

You pull her in for a kiss, hands roaming her body. You won’t lie, the swimsuit she had on was a massive turn-on and if we weren’t about to fuck in the pool, you was sure as hell going to devour her before bed.

“You look way too fucking good in that two-piece not to be ravishingly worshipped, my darling.”

She blushes, kissing you hard. Ona pulls your hands around to her ass, which you squeeze hard and draw a deep moan from her. Your hands pull at her cheeks, fingers rubbing gently at her asshole and folds. You maneuver her around to the edge again, picking her up easily to sit. She leans back, as your fingers pull her bottoms to the side and bury your face in her folds. She’s soaking wet, arousal thick and delicious.

She whimpers for you, strong hands tangled in your wet locks. Your tongue darts into her, throwing her legs over your shoulders before pulling her closer to the edge. You're practically holding her hips up, lips suckling at her clit hard. Ona moans loudly, back arching off the ground.

“Please!” she moans, fingers tightening in your hair as her legs squeeze at your head deliciously. You slip two fingers into her, pumping in and out of her slick pussy hard. They press up into her sweet spot, fingertips rubbing circles over it to get her to come faster. She huffed and puffed, face contorting into all kinds of pleasure. She makes eye contact and cries out your name, coming hard and fast. Ona pants, licking her dry lips.

“A la mierda esto, if you don’t fuck me right now, I will die.”

“Picked out a new strap for you to be split open on, mi amor.”

“puta madre!”

“Yeah, this one’s pretty fuckin’ big huh?”

“Feels s-so good!”

Your hips pound into Ona, swimsuits abandoned at the foot of the bed. She’s on her front, trying her best to push her ass back on you as you fuck her from behind. She tries to keep up, knees buckling every time the new strap finds a new erogenous spot she never knew she had. It was significantly bigger than she had ever taken, with three prior orgasms and a fingering of a lifetime, she was finally open enough to take the head. Coming once again was the key to taking the whole thing, Ona looked absolutely wrecked when speared on it.

“You’re so fucking hot baby, taking my cock so well princess,” you cooed, hands turning her onto her back as your fingers rubbed her clit that you just spat on. She was sensitive beyond words, her speech slurred, and was barely babbling, hyper-focused on her pending sixth orgasm for the night.

“Are you gonna cum, my sweet?” you whispered into her ear, leaning over her as your hips did not slow down one bit. Hands pressed her legs wide open, harness dragging over her clit with each powerful thrust.

“Yes, yes!” she croaked out, head nodding hard and fast as she cried tears of frustration and sexual arousal.

You spat on her hot clit again, fingers rubbing messily at her folds as you sped up even more. She screamed, orgasm ripping through her hard. She was convulsing and begging for you to not stop, the aftershocks making her beg again, this time for you to stop.

You chuckle and do, pulling out and pulling the harness off. She tucked in your chest immediately, cradled, and kissed softly.

“You took that so well, darling.”

“Can we take a bath together please?”

You pick her up, heading into the huge en suite. She sits pretty on the counter, feet dangling as you start a hot bath. You help her in, climbing in behind her as she settles back against your chest. Her eyes close, pulling your arms around her middle. Your lips press against her shoulders, sucking softly at her skin. She hums, biting her lip gently.

“Can we do one more?” you ask her, grinning against her ear, hand already caressing the inside of her thighs.

“Amor…” she whines, body jolting in surprise when your fingers gently rub at her sore folds.

“Just one more baby girl, then we’ll go to bed.”

Your fingers, long and thick, fill her pussy with unsurprising ease. They drag slow and taut, mulling her pleasure like an aged wine. She whines, legs opening wider in the water as your fingers slip in deeper. She grasps your forearm, grinding carefully into your hand.

“Already so close, mi vida? I can feel you clenching around me hm?”

“You feel just…so full…”

“Come for me baby, you’ve done exceptionally all night, love.”

She comes with a cry of your name, going boneless in your arms. You finger her through the aftershocks, her whines dying in her throat.

All dried and tucked in bed, Ona suddenly presses herself up on top of you. She looks down with fear in her eyes.

“When you find him,” she takes a deep breath, “You’re not going to kill him are you?”

Your hands brush up on her thighs, thumbs softly rubbing her hips.

“It depends on what choice he gives me, darling. What I do with him is none of your concern.” Your tone is final, and she doesn’t argue, instead scooting down and resting her head on your chest.

"Buenas noches, mi amor".

“Good night, my beautiful girl.”

“I’ll see you at the game. You won’t be late, right?”

“No, my love. George will take you; I have some business to attend to first. I’ve also spoken to security at the stadium, my men are there as an extra precaution looking for the description you gave us. It’ll be a little stuffy for the girls, I apologize.”

“Can you come and explain the situation to the girls with me?” Ona asks with wide eyes, wrapping her arms around your neck. Your hands hold her hips, gently pulling her into yours.

“Of course, bebita. Anything you want.”

She walks out of the house with three more security guards than she’s used to, shoved into a huge van with tinted windows that she couldn’t even see out of and instructions to not engage with fans for today.

“But, they’re here to see us! I can’t just ignore them!” Ona argues, determined to put her foot down.

“I’m sorry ma’am, we have to be safe,” George informs her, looking back from the front seat.

“No, I will not do it. The fans have nothing to do with it, you don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m calling Y/N,” she says firmly, dialing your number.

“Amor?”

“Missing me so soon, princesa?”

“Why am I not allowed to meet with the fans today?”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“Can you tell George that please?”

She hands the phone over, deciphering the conversation you two were having, grinning when she heard she had her way.

He hands her phone back with a slightly annoyed look.

“No one gets a shirt signed until I’ve determined they don’t look funny.”

“Chicas! Why the hell are there so many men in suits outside?” Patri yells out as she enters the changing room. Most of the girls nodded and began to talk amongst themselves. Suddenly, the door is opened and you walk in, the door locking behind you.

“Hola girls, hi baby,” you announce, Ona running up to you for a hug and a kiss. You spin her around and put her down before you shrug your coat off.

You greet everyone else with hugs and kisses before Alexia pipes up and enquires about why you’re here.

“Board members don’t usually visit their teams before an easy game,” she questioned, hands on her hips dramatically.

You’ve owned a sizable chunk of Barcelona for years, something your father passed down to you along with his “business” when he died 7 years ago. It was how you met Ona, having been a close friend of Alexia��s when she introduced you two at a Spain international friendly when you had visited to see Alexia play. It was love at first sight, at least for you. No one could ever compare to her.

“Sorry girls, this one’s my doing. We have a situation, I’m handling it. It’ll be this way for a while until it’s resolved.”

“Is this about that guy that’s been hovering around the facility for weeks now?” Caro asks, and the whole team begins to nod.

“Is there something I’m missing here?”

You look at Ona, then at Alexia. Alexia opens her mouth to speak when Ona lifts her hand.

“All of us have been stalked bebé. It’s the same guy,” she says, some of the girls discussing his description, and it was becoming clear that it was the same guy that Ona was talking about.

Your eyes change and you run a hand down your face. Just as you’re about to call George, he does.

“Ma’am, I have the information you asked for.”

“I do too although I have a feeling you’re going to tell me something I already know, you go first.”

The girls listen in, the room is silent except for your voice and George’s muffled one.

“He’s more than just Ona’s stalker, he’s been following all the girls.”

“Well, it looks like we’re both on the same page.”

“How did you know to check?”

“A hunch. You better have more than that for me.”

El Clasico goes as smoothly as it could, with Barça getting an easy win over Real. You’re in the stands, phone pressed to your ear. Ona and Aitana walk over to sign autographs and such, you wave and go back to talking to George on the phone. Ona gets close enough to hear you, sighing when you move away and walk into the tunnel without her.

Aitana notices, asking her friend if everything is alright. Ona shrugs, signing another fan t-shirt.

“Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”

You’ve made your way into the changing room as the girls slowly filter in. You look at little angry but smile at Ona when she walks in with Aitana.

George continues on the phone.

“He’s got a few favorites. Besides Ona, he’s been frequenting Alexia, Aitana, Lucy, and, this one was a surprise, Ingrid.”

You pull your phone from your ear, looking at the girls whose names were listed.

“Ona, Ingrid, Alexia, Aitana and Lucy. With me.”

Mapi gives Ingrid a look but lets her go, the five girls following you out to an empty physio room. They’re silent, looking at each other with great concern.

You keep talking to George.

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“He isn’t here, is he?”

“No ma’am, we’ve searched every nook and cranny.”

“The house is the safest for them right now.”

“I agree.”

“I’ll call you back in a minute.”

Click.

“Do not panic,” you start, walking into the room towards the girls. “As George said earlier, he’s been stalking everyone. But he’s followed you five more.”

"¡Oh, Dios mío!"

“What the fuck?”

“What does that mean?”

“You four will stay with Ona and me until we find the bastard.”

“The maids have your rooms ready. You’ve each got your own, the kitchen is through there, the gym is beside the theater, we’re having dinner by the pool on your left and I wouldn’t go near the east wing if I were you.”

“Sí, gracias,” Alexia says, grabbing her bags and taking the closest room to her. The others follow while Ona sticks around.

“I’m worried for them, bebé.”

“I am too, they’ve just been put into a world that they did not sign up for and it’s all my fault.”

“It comes with the job, amor. These stalkers aren’t something new.”

“I know but, for him to be this close to home makes it a reality I am scared to face.”

She wraps her arms around your neck, caressing the soft hair on your nape. Ona leans in and kisses you chastely, thumbs rubbing your ears softly.

“I know you will do everything possible to keep us safe, bebita. We trust you.”

“Sí, we all do,” Aitana says softly and you both turn to look at her, surprised to see all of them standing there; you hadn’t heard them come in.

“We may not know what you do Y/N, but we know enough that nowhere else is safe but here.”

“We’ve got extra guys on the ground, I called in a favor from an old friend of mine and we’ve gotten access to all the camera footage in the stadium that Barcelona has refused to give me. If he’s here, we’ll find him.” You tell the team at training one day, fear of him getting bolder and bolder had spread to the whole team now. Everyone was on edge, scared to go home even; you had arranged for an Airbnb for the rest of the team with the highest security you could buy, even then it didn’t feel like it would be safe till the asshole was found.

A couple of weeks had gone by and every time we got close to catching him, he managed to slip away. It was getting increasingly frustrating, the girls were getting more and more anxious about him potentially getting away with it.

There was a cryptic note on our car last week after training, with pictures of Ona and Ingrid at the park with Zeus, my dog. The letter inside said, “I know your every move before you make it, give up your search and give her to me and maybe I’ll leave the rest alone.”

The picture showed Ona circled in red. There were also five bullets in the envelope; five bullets that belonged to your gun. You knew it did because a. they were a specific size handmade for you and b. your initials were stamped on each case, hidden within the shell upon further inspection.

“George, what the fuck, are you out of your mind?! We’re not using my girlfriend as bait!” You yell, slamming your hand into the table. George sighs, shaking his head.

“Boss, please-”

“We are NOT using her as bait, George!”

“Who?”

Both your heads whip towards the sound of the voice; Ona stands in the door frame of your office in the east wing. She’s not supposed to be here.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” George starts but you raise and hand and point at the door then at him.

“Out,” you tell him before looking at Ona, “Hello, love.”

She sighs and steps aside for George to leave; he closes the door behind him.

“George is right, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I wanted to see you,” she reached out for your hand but she looked a little hesitant, “ever since you’ve been looking for this guy, you’ve been obsessed and so stressed. It’s wearing you out, bebita.”

“I have to find him, Ona. I have to protect you, protect the girls.”

“But you’ve been neglecting me.”

Her tone was sad and dejected, one that pained you to your core. You had been ignoring her, ignoring her needs. She was here and yet you were always in your office or out somewhere working. This guy had taken over your life for a while and you didn’t see the damage he was doing within.

#woso x reader #woso soccer #woso imagine #woso fanfics #fc barca femeni #ona batlle #ona batlle smut #ona batlle x reader #ona batlle imagine #woso smut #woso

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cooliestghouliest · 5 months

Text

PUTTY, chapter one

(chapter one), (chapter two), (chapter three)

PAIRING: virgin!Eddie/former cheerleader!Reader

SUMMARY: Eddie has a little brother. Eddie’s little brother has a babysitter.

SERIES TAGS and C/W’s: mutual pining, experienced!Reader, inexperienced!Eddie but he’s eager to learn, mostly sub!Eddie, insecurities and self doubt, narcissistic and/or absent parents, jealousy, mean basketball players, hurt/comfort, they smoke weed, eventual smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), uniform kink, dirty talk, foot jobs, hand jobs, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), public sex, sex toys, unprotected PiV. more to be added as this progresses!!!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k+

A/N: hi, my friends!!! this is a rewrite/repost and has been edited for a (hopefully) smoother, more enjoyable read. fun fact that this was one of the first Stranger Things fanfics i ever wrote. it was originally titled She Was Straight From Hell, But You Could Never Tell, and featured Eddie alongside an OC. i’ve changed it to be reader-insert, because that seems to be more in my writing wheelhouse nowadays. this fic will be multiple parts — it begins with backstory, but will eventually branch off into a universe of little smutty ficlets where Reader will corrupt virgin!Eddie as much as humanely possible.

—

Eddie hadn't known about the existence of his little brother until two months ago, when Al Munson showed up in the middle of the night with a small child in tow. Eddie didn't even know his dad was out of prison again, and yet here he was, in the flesh, a little boy with a mop of black curls resembling Eddie's own cradled in his leather jacket-clad arms.

Al was lucky Wayne was working or else this family reunion would have gone south fast.

While Wayne wasn't Al's biggest fan, Al was Eddie's dad, and Eddie would always hold onto as many moments with his father as he could get, no matter how sparse, and no matter how much of a self-serving piece of shit asshole Al Munson truly was.

But Eddie didn’t see it like that. Eddie saw it like this: His dad lived a hard life. His dad struggled with addictions. His dad lost a wife, just as Eddie had lost a mother. His dad tried his best with what he had.

Deep down, Eddie knew these were all just sorry excuses, but he kept that truth tucked away, not wanting to deal with the reality that Al truly only cared about himself.

He already had one dead parent. If he cut his dad out of his life, he’d basically have two.

"When'd you get out?" Eddie asked, stepping aside so Al could enter. His eyes followed the child, brows furrowed. The trailer was always Al's first stop on his freedom tour and the older man had always brought some sort of baggage along with him -- never a little kid, though. What the hell kind of trouble had his dad gotten into this time?

"Few days ago," Al replied, heading for the living room. He placed the sleeping child down on the worn sofa, then straightened and faced Eddie. "Listen, son, you gotta do me a favor. I'm not out long this time. I might've robbed an ATM or two last night. I'm kinda on the lam."

Al didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish at his wrongdoing.

Eddie was used to this. Even when Al was a free man, he was never a free man for long. He didn't think his dad knew how to coexist among non-inmate citizens. Eddie didn't think his dad even wanted to. Prison was a creature comfort for the elder Munson. Eddie wasn't necessarily mad at that fact. He was happy when Al was locked up, because then at least he knew where his dad was. Otherwise, Eddie worried his father would eventually get himself into a situation he wouldn't be able to get out of, and Eddie would really never see him again.

Eddie was also used to Al showing up after months and months, sometimes even years and years, such as now, always asking for favors.

"Who is that?" Eddie asked, pointing towards the couch, not being able to ignore the other human in the room any longer.

"Yeah, that's kinda what I need your help with.” Al rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, no way to do this other than to just say it. That there's your little brother, Eddie. His name's Oliver. And I need you and Wayne to look after him while I'm gone."

"My... what..." Eddie stammered, face scrunching up. He expected Al to burst out laughing and admit he was just fucking around, and that this tiny sleeping stranger was actually just the kid of a fellow convict buddy. Maybe it was said convict buddy’s turn to rob ATMs tonight, leaving Al the babysitter. Irresponsible. Unlikely. And, turns out, untrue.

With Al's silence, Eddie knew his dad’s admission wasn't a joke.

Eddie was beyond confused now.

"Dad, how... you've been in prison for six years!"

"Conjugal visits," Al answered with a bit of a smug shrug.

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "What the fuck? Wayne can't afford another kid that's not even his... and I'm in school still, I can't watch him... this isn't... I don't know how..."

But Al was already making his way to the door.

"I know you'll figure it out. I can always count on you, my boy," Al prided, tone cheery as if the favor he'd just asked of Eddie was to give him a quick ride somewhere or find an old family recipe.

Al wasn't acting like he was ditching another Munson offspring off on his older brother. He was treating this like an issue of minor importance, just a little speed bump on an otherwise flat road.

Al Munson was not an upstanding person. Never had been, never would be. Because of this, Eddie shouldn't have been surprised or appalled, but here he was, standing with his mouth agape. Surprised. Appalled.

His dad was out the door with a lighthearted, "See ya 'round, son," and Eddie was left speechless in the middle of the living room.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne got over the new addition to the Munson household fairly quickly.

While he'd been livid at first, calling up all of Al's old friends he'd still had the numbers of to try and find out where his dumb shit of a younger brother was, Wayne eventually became resigned to the idea that he now had another little boy to rear and mold.

What else could he do?

Wayne took care of his kin, especially if they were innocent bystanders and had no say in being born in the first place. He'd raised Eddie, and although he knew the boy had his struggles, he didn't think he'd done too bad of a job.

Eddie never went hungry, always had clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in, and Wayne was the one who haggled Eddie's van down to a reasonable price so the boy could pay for it with his lunch box salary.

Wayne knew about the weed and the pills, but so long as Eddie stayed smart about where he was selling and who he was selling to, he didn't much mind Eddie's unconventional line of work. It helped his nephew stay somewhat social, and Wayne knew how important that would be for Eddie's future. If the boy was nothing but a lone recluse his whole life, he'd probably end up just like Al. Nobody wanted that.

Eddie was just about grown now. Sure, he was rearing twenty and still in his senior year of high school, but Wayne had an inkling that '86 would be Eddie's year.

Wayne had always thought about selling the trailer and buying an RV with retirement money once Eddie was out on his own. He wanted to travel the country for the remainder of his life.

The idea that he'd have to raise up another wild Munson for the next fifteen or so years caused a knot to form in his stomach.

Would Wayne even be around for that much longer? He may have been relatively healthy, and he was only in his mid 60's, but Wayne wasn't an idiot. He knew anything could happen at any time.

Wayne knew he needed help this time around. He figured he could count on Eddie here and there, but Eddie needed to focus on school this year if he planned on finally walking the stage. Because of this, Wayne decided to enlist the help of someone on the outside. Someone with experience.

So, he posted an ad in the Hawkins Post, looking for a full-time nanny for a five-year-old boy to start as soon as possible, and waited for a response.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne didn't have to wait long.

Two mornings following the job post, shortly after he'd returned home from work, he heard a knock on the trailer door.

When he answered, he saw a pretty young thing standing on the front stoop.

"Hi!" you greeted, then immediately began to ramble. "Are you Mr. Munson? I hope it's okay I just showed up... there wasn't a number listed, only an address, and I didn't know if you wanted me to write a response and mail it, but the ad seemed maybe a little urgent, so I thought, hey, what's the harm in just... showing... up..."

You trailed off, feeling silly for word vomiting during your first impression. He was watching you with a small smile, eyes flickering with what looked like amusement, especially as your cheeks began to color to the soft red of embarrassment.

Listing no number on the ad was intentional. He hadn't owned a rotary phone in about ten years, after having tried to cut back on bills, and he knew not just anyone would make the trek to Forest Hills for a potential job offer. He’d figured only committed applicants that wouldn't waste his time would follow through.

"I have a lot of experience," you continued on at his silence, almost as if you couldn't help it, compelled to divulge all the information you could in the first three minutes of meeting. Wayne found it endearing. "I used to babysit for three different families when I was in high school. And I have two little sisters. My mom and dad worked a lot growing up, so I spent a lot of time with them. Didn't get paid, but... I made sure they didn't die or anything..."

From their brief interaction thus far, Wayne knew he succeeded in his method of weeding out flakes. You were obviously serious about the position. He felt he was a decent judge of character, and he'd learned in life that sometimes over-explaining was synonymous with caring.

"Sorry," you said, forcing out a little laugh. "I guess I could have just introduced myself. You didn't really need to know all that." You shot your hand out, giving your name. "I'm here about the nannying gig. Um, obviously. That is, if I didn't already scare you off."

Wayne took your hand in both of his own, shaking it. He placated you with a grin. "It's a lot harder than that to scare off a Munson, sweetheart. Let's go inside and meet Olly."

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Although Oliver Munson was only five, he had a spectacular vocabulary and a limitless imagination. Wayne knew the boy was a little charmer, quite like how Eddie was when he allowed himself to be, when the teenager wasn't drowning himself in existential teenage angst and nonsense.

You fell under Olly's spell almost instantly.

And it seemed the little boy had fallen under yours as well.

Oliver didn't stop talking to you while you were there, and didn't stop talking about you after you’d left, asking when you’d be back and if next time you could take him to the trailer park's playground and maybe you two could watch G.I. Joe or He-Man together afterward.

Wayne had taken your number down before you’d left and had told you he'd be in touch soon.

Later that evening, after Eddie had gotten back from his club meeting at school, Wayne took the trip into downtown Hawkins to use the payphone and ask you if you wouldn't mind starting as early as tomorrow.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

You were far from struggling for money.

Your father was a sought-after criminal prosecutor for the entirety of Indiana. Your mother was a real estate agent for high profile clientele who came from old family money; her father was CEO of a day trading business, and his father before him had been the same.

Although you likely would have never had to work a day in your life and could live a comfortable existence off of inheritance alone, handouts and the humdrum of an All-Play-and-No-Work lifestyle was never a dream of yours. That sounded so cookie cutter, so monotonous, so boring.

You liked to feel a sense of accomplishment. You liked setting goals and reaching them. You didn't want to freeload off of money that was gained from the capitalistic professions your parents were a part of. You wanted to be in control of your own finances and be the author of your own future, not have it already be etched into stone simply by being just another rich kid from Hawkins, à la the likes of the Carver's or the Cunningham's or the Harrington's.

You were ecstatic when you got the call from Wayne, asking you if you’d be willing to start the following day. He left for work at 2PM, so you’d have to be there before then, and would need to plan on staying until Wayne's nephew got home around six.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you felt a bit nervous, but the job itself wasn't the reason why that writhing feeling accompanied your excitement.

You had more than ten years of babysitting experience under your belt, and you were eager to get back into a job you actually enjoyed as opposed to trying out different careers to see what stuck and what didn't. Having graduated the spring before, you’d been taking an off year to save up money by working odd jobs around Hawkins to be able to buy your own apartment.

You’d worked as a florist for a few weeks, but it turned out your thumb was pitch black instead of green.

You worked as the personal assistant for a group of lawyers from a local law firm, but it turned out they just needed office eye candy and not someone to actually get any sort of work done.

You worked as a veterinary assistant, but it turned out the job was much more than just petting cats and dogs. You couldn't handle it when a sick animal would come in and there would be nothing anyone could do. Your heart broke more at that clinic than it had your entire life.

You were in between jobs when you’d decided to peruse the classified section of the Hawkins post. There, in the shortest blurb on the page, was a listing for a needed nanny, a full-time position offering negotiable pay.

The next bit was where the excitement wavered.

The listing was published by a Wayne Munson of the Forest Hills trailer park.

That had to be Eddie Munson's uncle. There was no way there were two separate Munson families living in the only trailer park in Kerley County.

You couldn't believe that you’d stumbled across this ad, that the geeky metalhead you’d crushed on since your freshman year of high school had a little brother you could be the potential nanny of.

You were two years younger than Eddie, but that hadn't stopped you from losing periods of time to daydreams about the way the wind ruffled his wild mess of curls on breezy days or the way his band tee sleeves always clung perfectly to the soft muscles of his biceps or the way his cheeks dimpled when he teased the other boys he sat with at lunch.

You’d always wanted to introduce yourself, but you didn't run in the same crowds -- you being on the cheer team and Eddie blasting Black Sabbath in the parking lot after his Hellfire meetings. You could never muster the courage. He seemed so carefree, so full of life, so effortlessly funny. Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend, had spoken to him once or twice and had told you how different he was than what other people said about him. He wasn't scary or mean or threatening, and instead was warm and silly and genuine.

But you knew how the people you spent your time around treated people like him. You knew your group of "friends" referred to him as a freak, a Satan worshipper, and did everything in their power to try to bully him into becoming a shell of himself. Thankfully, he never did -- it was almost as if Eddie absorbed the hatefulness and spent it tenfold by mocking the hilarity of the jock hierarchy that ruled the school, as well as using it to strengthen his own ability to embrace every misfit that walked the halls of Hawkins High.

You never introduced yourself because you were afraid he’d think you had an ulterior motive, that you’d be trying to talk to him as a joke or a prank. You knew the company you kept. You were sure Jason Carver had once or twice suggested you do just that, lead Eddie on and make a fool of him in front of the whole school.

You figured it'd be best to just stay away.

But now, you thought finding this ad was possibly a sign from the universe.

Maybe you were getting a second chance.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Eddie was running late.

He was supposed to be back home half an hour ago to relieve whoever Olly's new babysitter was of her duties, but the campaign had taken a shocking turn and Hellfire couldn't disband until it had commenced.

The night finally ended with Will's character decapitating Dustin's, and Eddie had to thwart an actual attack when Dustin leapt across the game table at Will in a bout of rage. Dustin was small but mighty, and Eddie had to physically wrestle the boy off of Will's neck, threatening to banish Dustin from the next few campaigns if he didn’t chill out. Henderson had huffed and puffed but had admitted defeat and apologized to Will for the attempted murder.

By the time Eddie arrived back to the trailer park, the sun had almost set. He pulled his van into his parking spot to the right of the trailer and shut it off. Stepping out, he swung his backpack over his shoulder, but came to a halt when he heard Olly's scream sound from behind the trailer.

Dropping his bag and beginning to run toward the noise, Eddie's heart fell to his stomach. Horrible images of what could possibly be pulling that sound from his little brother pervaded Eddie's mind. He had an overactive imagination to begin with, and something like this verbal cue only egged it on. "Olly!" he shouted, panic raising his voice. "Olly, are you okay?! What’s going on, where are --"

Eddie came to a halt when he found the boy in the backyard with a huge smile spread across his small, sweaty face. Olly had a fake crown on, one made of twigs and leaves, and he was carrying one of the biggest sticks Eddie had ever seen. He had a blanket tucked into the back of his shirt, the cloth a makeshift cape. A thin piece of metal, probably from one of the cars Wayne and Eddie sometimes worked on, was wrapped around his center, acting as armor.

Olly had just been playing.

Letting out a heavy breath of relief, Eddie noticed your frame just off to the side. His eyes started from the ground up, noting the shiny red Docs donning your feet, moving up bare legs that were covered mid-thigh by a short black skater dress, one that hugged your curves in a way that had Eddie’s mouth going dry.

By the time he reached your face, your eyes were wide with amusement.

You’d been watching as he slowly drank you in. He didn't mean to ogle. He had to shake his head a few times to clear it, and when he did so, the face before him started looking more and more familiar.

"Wait," he started, head tilting. He spoke your name, tone riddled with confusion. "From high school?"

You were about to answer when Oliver cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to be ignored or to have his playtime interrupted any longer. You looked down at the boy, who pointed up to his head at his crown. You got the gist -- Olly wanted the game to continue. You could indulge him. You’d been doing it all day, and honestly you’d been having the most fun you’d had in a while.

You turned your attention back to Eddie, fixing your posture and jutting your chin out slightly. "I don't know who that is," you began, voice lilting. "I am Princess Guinevere of Kerley County and this here,” you brought your gaze back down to Oliver, “is my most loyal servant, Sir Olly of Castle Munson."

Eddie couldn't help the grin that broke out over his face at your announcement. He then took a moment to fully take in the rest of your appearance. You, too, had on a makeshift crown, this one made up of cherry blossoms and daisies. You had a flowing blanket tucked into the back of your dress, cascading down your back like a veil.

No fucking way were you, last year's cheerleading captain and prom queen, standing in his backyard playing fucking knights and princesses with his little brother. No fucking way.

Olly broke the silence by shouting out, "Hey, Eddie! Who are you gonna be?"

Eddie tore his eyes from you to focus on his brother. He pursed his lips to one side in thought, trying to come up with a character. He was usually quick on his feet when it came to creative play, but he had just spent the last three hours DM'ing a month-long DnD campaign. His brain felt shot. He was pulled from his introspective reverie by your soft, suggestive voice — no, sorry — the soft, suggestive voice of Princess Guinevere.

"Wanna be my dragon, Eddie?" you asked.

Eddie wasn't exactly sure why that made his breath catch in his throat.

He nodded dumbly, silent, then forced himself to speak because he didn't want to look totally lame in front of a Princess. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be your dragon."

You graced him with a smile before Oliver's tiny but booming voice cut through the air of the darkening night. "HEY! Dragons don't talk!" the boy stomped his foot and hit his stick against the muddy ground in annoyance.

A laugh bubbled from your throat and Eddie grinned, jumping into a wide-legged stance before outstretching his arms, tilting his head back, and roaring.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x you #stranger things

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amalthiaph · 22 days

Text

I took an interest in The Bad Batch around the tailend of S2. It's not news to Tumblr that I almost slept on this show. And I cannot thank Caleb Dume enough for being the reason why I pressed the play button for this one. While I haven't been around for most of its active run, and I wish I had been, the last year has been among the best months of my life.

This show challenged my morals, and taught me lessons that I will forever take with me.

Tech taught me to embrace and take pride in who I am. I now think that I am not something that needs to be cured. I needed to be understood and accepted. He taught me that we deserved to be loved and be allowed to live the way we want to (as long as we are not causing harm to ourselves or to others).

Hunter taught me that at the end of the day, we're all still humans. We make mistakes. We fail. But we can learn from them, and we can strive to be better. And I should also take care of my hair bec I cannot accept that a man in a galactic war have better hair than me (Okay, did you honestly think I'm gonna be serious this entire essay?)

Crosshair taught me that at the end of the day, we really are still humans. Sometimes, we make choices that not everyone will understand or agree to. Sometimes, we don't even understand our own choices. But we can learn from them, and we can strive to be better. And that I should also go to therapy bec istg my hand shakes like hell I always need to rely on a pen stabilizer when doing my artworks.

Wrecker taught me that in this world where we can be anything, always choose to be kind. He is a great man who would always be there for everyone, and I hope that one day, I can be that person too. He is afraid of heights, but he climbs and go on high places anyway. Like him, I should also start conquering my fears. Dear Wrecker, I did try conquering my fear of heights last March 9 but I can't. I will try again.

Echo taught me to always fight for the greater good. Almost two years ago, me and a group of people campaigned for a great tomorrow. With pink flags and pink balloons, we worked on our little thing I like to call our rebellion. Sadly, we lost. At times, I am thinking of just giving up bec that's democracy and I cannot go against the people's decision, but characters like Echo and the rest of Rogue One taught me that nothing should ever stop me for fighting for the people's rights and that my love for my fellow citizens should always come first before hatred.

And lastly, Omega taught me to be curious, or more likely to not be ashamed for being curious. Learn about the world. Learn about lots of things. We never know when we need it. While I could say be good at strategy and win 30 grand on card games, nahhh, I'm not that smart.

I also learned to reevalutate myself as an artist. This show taught me integrity. I had ranted about this lately but these characters challenged me in terms of art. I knew that the creators aren't best at proper representation. While I could draw them as they are in the show, I choose to stand for what is right, and represent them as properly as my skills could. In the more technical side, I became good at drawing armors. And this little Actors AU Draw Series taught me to be responsible; I tried my very best to create and post them on time. This increased my productivity.

But enough about me.

There's something I realized two nights ago; we, the fandom, are Bad Batchers ourselves. We can consider ourselves a family, but not one of us is the same and we're all interesting, and capable in our own unique ways. We can have our own opinion and stand about something and still coexist. Like our favorite charactera, we embrace and celebrate our differences.

This show may end. No more Bad Batch Eves, no more cryptic tweets that cause us to hyperventilate, no more Bad Batch Wednesdays but it will live on, through us.

I know there will be a day where we decrease in number, one by one, little by little, but still, the show will live on through our actions, our opinions, our choices we make after May 1, 2024 because I know that all of us were changed in some ways by these characters and this show.

To the crew, your cryptic tweets caused me sleepless nights, but thank you so, so much. It is through your hardwork that we had this wonderful show. Thank you for making every second of the past year so worthwhile and enjoyable for me and for everyone.

However this show will end, whether happy or sad, I am glad it happened. However short my time was with them, I am happy I had been here. However short my time with everyone in the fandom was or if some of you leave one day, still, thank you so much for being part of my life; I am so happy I met all of you.

To Clone Force 99, thank you. I've never loved anything like this before. May the Force be with you.

#the bad batch #tbb s3 #tbb #star wars #amalthia cried while writing this

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hina-hina · 1 year

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If you're still doing requests could we get HC's of Ghost or Soap who've fallen in love with fem!reader whos a selective mute and a new recruit to the 141? Perhaps theyre even the sweetest person he's ever met and it's instant heart eyes?

I myself rarely talk and I've found it gets a lot of stares from people, men especially which is weird but warranted I suppose?

Hello friend, this is sooo cute!! (❤´艸｀❤) I'm so sorry people did that to you just because you don't speak. Just like anyone, your worthy of love and deserve to be treated kindly! Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy it!!!

|| Ghost + Soap With a Selective Mute S/O ||

Warnings: Military!Reader,

Female!Reader // Romantic

Can't believe i didn't use this gif when it was actually Christmas, shame on me

|| Ghost

So, I 100% see Ghost as the type of guy to be like "I don't care what you do as long as you can get the job done"

So he feels quite indifferent to the fact your selectively mute

But whenever he starts to get to know you more? He is gone

He starts to notice you silently doing small things for him without ever expecting anything in return

Which isn't something he is very used to

Things like you bringing him tea (made the british way because he won't drink it otherwise), helping him with his gear, etc.

You even once repaired his mask for him

He would set about learning sign language for you (If that's something you use)

And of course he struggled and got frustrated but it was all worth it for the look on your face when he says "thank you" in sign language

He also is quite the biggest fan of your company because he too is a man of few words

You two enjoy just sitting in each others presence, just coexisting without the need to show out for the other

It's very comfortable

If you ever felt comfortable enough to speak with him, he would be in awe

Honestly, you start to feel anxious because he is just staring at you blankly

After you prompting, he would eventually clear his throat, thankful that his mask hides his rising flush

"Your voice is.... very pretty..."

How can you help but to lean up and press a kiss to his masked cheek?

|| Soap

He would be a little questioning at first

But after a sharp look from Price, he immediately fixes his expression

He would quickly see why you were just as capable as anyone else on the force when he sees you in action

Absolutely loves how sweet you are despite everything you go through day to day

He is so thankful when you do things for him

Would also try to learn sign language if it's something you use, even though his attempts come out a bit uncoordinated

He is very protective of you and will quickly glare and ward others off if they look at you weird

He introduces you to his journal and encourages you to have one as well

Finds himself pondering what your voice sounds like often

He has a whole spread in his journal with sketches of you and notes on what he thinks you sound like

He would never push you to talk however

If you did decide to talk, he is all smiles

"Quite the voice ya have there, Hen. Pure dead brilliant."

Could barely stop himself from kissing you when he sees your bashful smile

Thankfully, you beat him to it

As always, thank you for all the support, whether it be likes, reblogs or replies! I'm thankful for everyone of you and I'm glad you enjoy what I like! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

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princessanonymous · 4 months

Text

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

15. 𝓐𝔀𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮

Time took its course. Days turned into weeks and those turned into months. (Y/n)'s outbursts became few and far between and Dorian liked to think their relationship was growing closer. She retreated less from him and talked to him more often. She was progressively starting to act more comfortably, like the little bright girl he had met in that forest all these months ago.

Dorian thought fondly of the little moments they spent together. Her nightmares were becoming less frequent, but every time she had one, the girl came to him for comfort. They played chess and, while the vampire was still winning against the girl, she was a fast learner and was getting better at it.

(Y/n)'s etiquette was something he was very proud of. They had gone to two other balls and the girl had behaved impeccably. Dorian had received a lot of comments about how the child acted the part of a future vampire very well; that she was a good fit to be amongst their elite society. He relished at those compliments, a proudness only a parent could feel growing in him.

Additionally, he grew more cautious, understanding he had underestimated her wits. He had ensured that she had less contact with the servant. The unfortunate events on that night could not repeat themselves. He wouldn't allow it. The vampire was however positive that they were unlikely to repeat themselves as he had had an enlightening conversation with the child. One that hopefully crushed these foolish ideas out of her head.

· • —– ٠ ⏳ ٠ —– • ·

"I am so relieved you have given up on the silly idea of leaving, doll," Dorian had told her one night as they were both spending time together in the living room.

(Y/n) looked up, but didn't say anything. The vampire, nonchalantly engrossed in the pages of his book, continued his discourse with an air of detached sophistication. "Considering your circumstances, it's not as though you possess anything to return to," he declared, a smirk playing upon his lips, casting a shadow of cruelty. One that was necessary to educate her; she wouldn’t learn otherwise. "You have nothing to go back to. What would you do on your own ?"

She averted her eyes uncomfortably, her shoulders responding with a subtle shrug. "I don't know," she admitted in a soft whisper, her uncertainty palpable.

A chuckle escaped Dorian's lips. "Nothing," he corrected with a pointed emphasis. "But, I am here, which is why there is nothing good in leaving."

· • —– ٠ ⌛️ ٠ —– • ·

(Y/n) knew it. The child knew leaving would be fruitless and foolish. Dorian found comfort in the knowledge that she relied on him, the assurance of her presence intertwining with his sense of control over the situation. She had to understand who was the caretaker here.

Despite the apparent tranquility of their coexistence, the veneer of familial harmony in the household couldn't fully mask the palpable void that lingered within. It was as if an essential piece of their collective puzzle was conspicuously absent, leaving Dorian with an unshakable sense of incompleteness. As the days unfolded and (Y/n) became increasingly amenable to the idea of establishing connections, Dorian seized upon the opportune moment that presented itself. A subtle shift in the familial dynamic paved the way for him to contemplate the reintroduction of that elusive missing piece into their lives. He had been away long enough by now. 72 years of slumber must have taught him a lesson.

"(Y/n), dear," called out the vampire as he entered the library. He had recently bought books for the girl to read and she was spending more time in their library.

She looked up from her armchair, curiosity etched across her features. "Yes?" she inquired.

"Come with me, starshine. I have something to show you," he announced with an air of gleeful anticipation.

She straightened, tension briefly evident in the set of her shoulders, yet she followed him nonetheless, her steps echoing through the dimly lit corridor. As they approached the basement door, she edged closer to him, her unease palpable, and she hesitated for a moment, the uncertainty etched across her face. She shook her head.

"I didn't do anything," she promised with a brittle voice, her words hanging in the air like delicate glass on the verge of shattering. Her eyes pleaded for understanding. Despite the conviction in her voice, there was a vulnerability that betrayed the turmoil within.

He gave her an understanding look, his eyes softening with empathy, acknowledging her discomfort with this place. He recognized that her fear stemmed from the anticipation of potential punishment. After all, the first time she had been allowed in that basement was to be reprimanded. However, he sought to convey that this time would be different.

"I know, dear," he reassured, his comforting touch guiding her forward. "Trust me, I merely want you to meet someone."

She trembled, a palpable shiver coursing through her frame, yet his firm grip on her trembling hand compelled her to follow him nonetheless, even if it was against her wishes. Her steps were hesitant, but they arrived at the room at the back of the corridor and Dorian used the key to unlock the door.

He turned to his child and passed a hand through her hair tenderly. "Wait here for me until I tell you to enter, starshine," he instructed. He smiled when she nodded dutifully. Dorian opened the door and closed it behind him.

The room, untouched since his last visit, held Killian in a state of slumber. Dorian approached him, placing a hand on the lifeless figure's chest. With a sigh, he declared, "I believe we are ready."

He withdrew the wooden stake, an artifact designed to neutralize their kind, and the body, once inert, sprang back to life. The vampire, now released from the temporary paralysis, slowly rose. He gasped out for breath, the sound echoing in the cold silence of the tomb as he stood up from the casket.

He scanned the room, his eyes adjusting to the muted light, and a sense of disorientation lingered. It however disappeared mere instants later when Killian's eyes shot on Dorian as he put his hands on his chest where the wound that had disappeared by now had been. Sensing an opportunity, the dark-haired vampire seized the moment. With a swift and fluid motion, he retrieved the wooden stake discarded in the earlier struggle. The blond vampire realized the imminent threat. He could feel the energy coursing through the blessed weapon, a reminder of the danger it posed. Fortunately, he sidestepped it with ease as the other had been weakened by the stasis he had been put in.

As the recently awakened vampire raised the stake for a second strike, determination etched on his features, Dorian managed to summon a surge of strength. In a swift and calculated move, he intercepted the descending weapon, his hand closing around it just inches away from his own chest. He found himself cornered against the cold wall, his back pressed against the ancient stones. The impact sent a shiver through his undead form, but the immediate danger was averted.

"Welcome back, darling," Dorian greeted, his voice a mixture of defiance and wry amusement, still struggling against the wooden stake the other was pushing dangerously close to his chest.

"Dorian," the other responded, his tone dripping with a dark edge. "You stabbed me."

He glared at the remark, his previous smiling exterior disappearing in mere seconds. "You wanted to leave," he snapped back to justify himself. "I had to do something to make you understand."

"I will leave," Killian declared adamantly. The dark-haired vampire, unmoved by Dorian's explanation, maintained his grip on the stake, the tip hovering dangerously close to the point of no return. "I will leave, and you will not stop—"

"We have a daughter," Dorian interjected hastily, his words slicing through the tension like a sudden gust of wind.

Instantly, the other paused at the words uttered. Seizing the moment, Dorian acted with agility. The pause granted him the opportunity to disarm his adversary effortlessly. With a swift and calculated move, he deftly knocked the stake from Killian's grasp, sending it clattering across the stone floor.

"What are you on about?" The other asked with narrowed eyes, the fiery being temporarily quelled. Killian, known for his aggression, typically combined actions and words seamlessly.

There existed an unspoken agreement between the two, a delicate balance ensuring that their clashes never escalated to true harm. Dorian had, however, shattered this agreement the day he pierced his lover's chest with the blessed stake—a memory he preferred not to dwell upon. Despite such incidents, a mutual understanding persisted: they wouldn't inflict genuine harm on each other. And while the memory of the quarrel leading to Dorian’s slumber often hung wavy on his mind, he justified his action; Killian hadn’t been genuinely hurt. That had all been temporary; Dorian hadn’t done anything wrong.

"A child. I brought in a child," the blonde reiterated, approaching his partner. Clasping both hands, he offered a smile. "Our child."

Killian's face remained closed off, his stare unyielding. "If she is anything like you, I do not wish to see this girl," he sneered coldly. "I will not raise a child with you."

He looked away for a second dissimulating the hurt he felt at that. "At least, let me introduce the both of you." Before the other could respond, he opened the door and let (Y/n) in. "This is (Y/n)," he introduced. "Doll, this is your—"

"Killian Ambrose-Hart," he introduced sharply, his eyes shining a bright red as his gaze focused on the girl. "She's human."

Dorian stepped between the two, placing an arm on his child's shoulder. With Killian having not fed for decades, the vampire was uncertain of what he might do in his current state of hunger. Who knew what he could do to the human with the hunger he must feel right now.

"She will be turned following her twelfth birthday," he declared with unwavering conviction.

Killian, outraged, furrowed his brow. "On her—you won't," he insisted, pointing accusingly.

He had known Killian wouldn't have liked that. There was a reason why children couldn't be turned before they turned twelve, after all. Following the turning, the body completely stopped aging. It was the same for the person's mind. Children turned before their twelfth birthday were called immortal children. They could not grow physically and neither could they age mentally. The immortal child would therefore lack the self control of an older vampire and become a creature only driven by hunger ; a danger for their world. A liability that was meant to be put down. Turning a child was therefore not allowed and punished by other vampires.

"I can and will," he retorted. "She will be old enough by that point and—"

(Y/n) would be turned after she reached twelve years old. At twelve, it was deemed that individuals had generally developed sufficient self-control. Though turning someone so young was rare, it was permissible. Some at that age were still too uncontrollable, but Dorian was sure it wouldn’t be the case for his fledgling. And even if it was, he wouldn’t care; the mere idea of a member of their vampiric society touching even a single strand of hair on her head would unleash the formidable force of Dorian.

"You cannot curse her to such an existence," Killian tried to reason with him. "What will we do with an uncontrollable beast?"

Dorian would have been happy at the slip — 'We' meant that he felt involved in the child's existence — but his eyes darkened at the way he referred to her. He turned to the girl who seemed frightened by the presence of the other. "Why don't you go to your room, dear," he suggested lightly. "Killian and I are going to have a grown up conversation. Close the door behind you."

She left diligently and as she closed the door, he gave the newly awakened vampire a dangerous look. "Do not," he sneered, "call her a beast ever again. She is well-behaved, and we will ensure her safety once she is turned."

Their argument persisted through the night and into the early hours as the sun ascended in the sky. That wasn't anything new for them—Killian always rambled about how the 'curse of vampirism was something he didn't wish on anybody else'. Or how 'selfish and conniving Dorian had been to doom him to such a fate,' acting like a martyr. If anything, the older vampire should be the one complaining. Killian was too focused on making a tragedy out of his existence to care about anyone else. As always, the two only stopped when both of them had exhausted each other enough and then left it at that.

"I will go hunting," Killian declared, exasperation evident in the pinch of his nose.

"At this hour of the day?" Dorian questioned, both baffled and frustrated.

"Had you not started this complete mess, I would have been able to do so earlier," the dark-haired vampire countered.

"Oh, so all of this is my fault?" Dorian challenged. "Typical of you."

"Typical?" Killian repeated with outrage. "What do you mean, 'typical'?"

"Always trying to put the blame on someone, aren’t you, darling?" Dorian snapped back sardonically.

"Don't you try to put this on me," he threatened angrily. "This is all your doing!"

"This is ridiculous!" the blond exclaimed, flinging his hands in the air spitefully. "Utterly ridiculous; you are ridiculous!"

And like that, another session of arguing began.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere vampire #yandere father #obsession #yandere #vampire #platonic #x reader #female reader #reader insert #child reader #yandere x reader #fanfic #unhealthy relationships #toxic relationship #They are lovers your honor #but they shouldn't be XD

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coffeeghoulie · 4 days

Text

Mushy May Day 19: Confessions

Aether doesn't know much about fire or water courtship rituals. Ifrit's there to knock some sense into his head.

Thank you to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and thank you to @ghuleh-recs for the divider

this one is a doozy, I wrote this in pretty much one sitting yesterday and it's like four pages? turns out i have a lot of dewther feelings. Contains some (resolved) miscommunication, water/fire hybrid Dew, the first time I've ever written Ifrit, and some of my fire ghoul lore

Aether is, admittedly, not used to other ghouls. Quintessence packs run small, a tight-knit family group at the largest. But this is something else. Ghouls of every element, even some hybrids, all of them mostly cooperating and coexisting as a larger pack than Aether's ever known. He spends a lot of his first few months close to Omega's side, seeking comfort in his fellow quintessence ghoul.

There's one ghoul, however, who's intrigued him from the moment he was pulled from the summoning circle. Quite literally too. There had been hands on his wrists, pulling. One had been Omega, hands that felt familiar even as a stranger. But then the other wrist, fingers almost dainty, barely able to wrap all the way around.

He had looked up, and if the summoning had knocked the breath from his now-corporeal lungs, Aether found it impossible to breathe.

There was a water ghoul standing above him, silver, pin-straight hair falling over his shoulders, almost obscuring the teal gills that line his neck. He's slight, and was staring with wide, bright blue eyes down at him, a hazy lavender coloring his cheeks.

Aether had swallowed hard, tried to shut his mouth because he knew he was staring. But the water ghoul was staring too, and Aether was helped to his feet by the others. Omega had asked his name, draped a purple, starry blanket around his wide shoulders, and with one more glance at the water ghoul, had lead him from the summoning chambers.

He sees him around the pack den, standing alongside a water ghoulette and a fire ghoul who's almost as broad as Aether himself. He learns his name is Dewdrop, that Mist is teaching him bass so he can go along with the Ghost Project to support the third Emeritus brother when they leave on tour again. He watches the way Dew's fingers fly over the fretboard, the way steam curls from his gills when he's stuck on something frustrating. Dew's beautiful, and Aether feels eyes on his back when he's pretending not to stare himself.

They dance around each other for weeks, sharing glances and brushed touches between the den and the practice room, the uniform fittings and Masses.

And then things start to change. Dew actually starts approaching him, asking to practice together, rhythm guitar and bass. Aether's a little too quick to agree, anything to spend a little more time with the little ghoul he's way too infatuated with.

Aether still remembers the first time Dew cornered him after practice, grabbing his hand and unfurling his fingers, intense eye contact as he pressed something hard and smooth into his palm, closing his fingers around it before darting off after Mist. The ghoulette had glanced between the two of them, a smile that was a little too smug and knowing for Aether's taste on her lips.

He looked down into his palm, finding a pretty piece of stone, so dark it's almost black, glittering with quartz all throughout, worn down smooth by water. Aether furrowed his brow, turning the pebble over in his fingers, before taking it back to his room, setting it on a shelf above his desk.

The pebble quickly became part of a collection, various colors and shapes decorating just about every surface in his bedroom. They're all beautiful, and Aether finds himself turning them over in his hands, wondering why Dew's only giving them to him, not sharing them with the rest of the pack.

This continues, even as the Ghost Project sets out to tour. Dew keeps giving him little gifts, pressing them into his hand. The first time they get to stay overnight at a hotel, instead of cramming themselves into tiny bunks on the bus, he and Dew are assigned together. Or maybe, Dew bat his lashes at Terzo and got him to reassign keys. If he did, Dew will never tell. Regardless, they head up the elevator together, bags slung over their shoulders.

Aether slips the keycard into the lock, pushing open the door to a room with two queen beds. Altogether, not a bad hotel room, but he's nearly dead on his feet after that night's Ritual.

"May I make you a nest, Aether?" Dew asks, setting his bag down on the hotel dresser, beginning to rifle through it for a clean set of clothes.

Aether yawns, jaw popping with the force of it. "That sounds great," he says earnestly. "How about I strip my bed and we use both sets of bedding? Make it extra comfortable."

Aether just barely catches the way Dew's eyes light up like neon signs at his words, and the little ghoul nods eagerly. "Go shower, and I'll get it taken care of."

"Thank you, waterlily," Aether says, unable to stop himself from tucking a strand of silver hair behind Dew's finned ear, watching fascinated as that lavender blush spills over the ridge of his nose, the sharp lines of his cheeks.

Aether rushes through his shower, exhaustion bone-deep. He doesn't know how Omega did it for so long. His body aches to flop down into a nest, and he's honestly excited to not have to sleep alone.

He gets out of the shower, roughly toweling off and changing in his haste. Aether steps out of the bathroom, the mirror foggy with steam, and watches curiously as Dew weaves sheets and blankets and pillows together methodically. Eventually, Dew seems satisfied with his work, curling up in the pile of bedding, patting the mattress next to him.

"Come on, big guy, get in here," he demands, but his finned tail is wagging behind him, mussing up the blankets.

He chuckles, climbing into the nest next to Dew, who's quick to curl up against his side, purring like a storm. It's very comfortable, and Aether's happy to have an armful of ghoul, the two of them quickly succumbing to sleep.

The habit keeps, Dew worming his way into Aether's bunk on the bus, insisting they're roomed together for each hotel night.

Dew gets clingier after they start sharing a bed. Aether's not complaining, not by any means, but Dew's always been a little aloof, a stoic little thing. He's close physically, but Aether can feel the way his friend is beginning to drift away mentally, even as they sleep pressed together from torso to tailtip.

It takes a couple of weeks before Ifrit raises an eyebrow as he takes note of their sleeping arrangements, the way Dew's plastered to Aether's side for what feels like every waking moment, every unconscious one too.

He pulls Aether aside backstage one night, and Aether goes willingly. "What's up, big guy?" he asks.

Ifrit scratches at his undercut, his shoulder length hair tied back so he can shove it into the balaclava later tonight. "Aeth. Aether. What do you know about fire ghoul courting rituals?"

Aether's brow furrows hard, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's a little out of nowhere," he sputters. "I mean, nothing, really. I mean, are you asking?"

Ifrit throws his head back in a laugh. "No, I'm not asking for myself, if that's what you're putting down. Me and Zeph are good, not looking for a third quite yet," he chuckles, clapping Aether's shoulder before his expression turns serious, a rare occurrence for the fire ghoul. "Okay, how about this. What do you know about water ghoul courting?"

"Courting?" He can feel the blush spilling across his cheeks as a face flashes in his mind out of his control. Silver hair, teal fins, bright blue eyes. Aether swallows hard, meeting Ifrit's expectant gaze. "Nothing. I barely met any water ghouls in the Pit, wasn't really in a position to learn that part of their culture."

Ifrit nods to himself, taking a deep breath through his nose. He settles both of his hands on Aether's shoulders, leveling him with a look. "Aether, I'm gonna be blunt and I need you not to freak out on me. Dew thinks you're courting him, and he's trying to court you back."

Aether's heart stops, trying to form words but just sputtering. "I didn't- I'm not- How?"

"He's not just water. He's a fire hybrid. I don't know too much about the water courting, but I'd be willing to bet he's been giving you stones?"

Aether blinks dumbly at him. "Yeah, he has. They're all over my room in the den."

"Yep, that'll be it, I think. But the part I know more about are fire rituals. Did he offer to make you a hearth?"

"Dew's never mentioned anything about a hearth, Frit," Aether says, feeling the warmth of his palms as they hold his shoulders still. "I don't know what that is."

"It's a courting nest, Aeth," Ifrit sighs again. "Did Dew offer to make you a nest?"

He blinks up at Ifrit, realization beginning to dawn on him. "He did."

"And you offered your bedding in response, didn't you?"

"I- I did. I offered to strip the other hotel bed to make a nest with," he says, suddenly finding the skin around his glamoured nails incredibly interesting.

"Aether, listen to me," Ifrit says, tipping Aether's chin up to make him make eye contact. "You need to talk to Dew. Tonight. Clear this all up. He's upset because, to him, you reciprocated his intent and now you're giving him the cold shoulder."

Aether opens his mouth to reply, but then there's a call of a half an hour until places. They glance at each other, nowhere near ready, panic filling both of their eyes. "Talk to him," Ifrit stresses as they part, scrambling to the dressing room.

The Ritual, all things considered, goes fine. Aether knows that Dew knows he's looking at him, sees the glint of blue eyes behind the silver mask that obscures the rest of his features. He can't look away. Aether hits his marks, plays his part, but he's staring at Dew, with everything Ifrit told him swirling though his mind like his quintessence.

They step off stage, the ghouls all filing back to the dressing room, sweaty and exhausted. "Dew," Aether says, just loud enough to be heard. The water ghoul whips back, eyes shining through his mask.

"Aether?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose, trying to steel himself. It smells like metal, the mask humid with his breath even through the balaclava. "I need to talk to you. Could we find somewhere quiet?"

Dew blinks, the rest of his expression hidden, but Aether, in tune with these kinds of things, can almost smell the apprehension. "Sure. What about?"

"Just-" Aether stops himself. "Not here, come with me?" He holds out his hand, still so strange looking under human skin. Dew's chest heaves as he breathes, considering, before placing his hand in Aether's.

Aether finds an empty room, dark and quiet, herding Dew inside before shutting the door behind them. He finds the light switch, old fluorescents flickering to life. Aether reaches up, grabbing the chin of his mask and pulling it up and off of his head, shoving his balaclava down.

Dew's quick to follow, and once his face is revealed, Aether gets a good look at the almost nervous expression written there, on the most beautiful ghoul he's ever seen, even soaking wet and ruffled. Locks of silver hair stick to his forehead with sweat, and he aches to reach out to tuck them back in place. "Aether?"

His shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath, stepping heavily into Dew's space, guiding him to stumble quickly backward until his back hits the wall. Dew's expression hardens, but Aether can taste the undercurrent of fear of being cornered by a much bigger ghoul, caged in by his big arms.

"Hey, Dewdrop," he whispers, voice as gentle as he can make it. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Dew's brow furrows, staring up at him. "You didn't know wh- umph!"

He gets cut off by Aether's mouth on his, the bigger ghoul lunging down to catch Dew's lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. The smaller ghoul squawks in surprise, before melting completely into it. His arms come up and wrap around his neck, clinging to him, human nails digging into his shoulders even through the cassock.

They part, vessels aching for air, eyes wide as they stare at each other. Dew starts laughing incredulously, narrow chest heaving. "You're fucking kidding, Aether, thought you were leading me on."

Aether leans in, pressing his forehead to Dew's. "I didn't know you were trying to court me. I didn't know I had accepted a hearth."

"I mean," Dew stammers, that lilac blush flooding his cheeks again. "If you didn't actually want me to court you, you can forget it happened, I can-"

"Dewdrop," Aether whispers, taking the point of his chin carefully in his fingers, making him meet his gaze. "What about the last five minutes says I don't want this?"

He shrugs, still pinned to the wall. Instead of answering, Dew tangles his spindly fingers in his mohawk, pulling him down into another kiss. And Aether is happy to indulge him.

#this one is like. double the length of the majority of my fics for this month #damn #anyways idk how i feel about how i wrote ifrit #it's time for me to write honeymoon phase dewther lmao #and if the tenses are all fucked up you didn’t see anything #mushy may 2024 #dot's writing #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfiction #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #dewther

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jaunefleurwrites · 1 year

Text

In the shadows of human society, the world of ayakashi thrived in the early Showa of Tokyo. At the apex of this hidden realm stood the Shigemura and Furihara clans, embroiled in a longstanding and savage conflict that left destruction in its wake. However, an opportunity for peace arose as the leaders of the clans struck a deal— a marriage alliance between their young heirs of both factions would bring an end to the hostile conflict and turmoil. The stakes were high, and the stakes were perilous, but the promise of peace hung in the balance.

You stand now as the destined leader of the Furihara clan, molded from your youth to rule with absolute authority and unwavering conviction. You were bred for power, honed for greatness, and born to conquer. Your strength is unparalleled, your tongue is sharp, and you command with an unwavering desire for victory.

Your betrothed was kept hidden in the human realm, away from the tumultuous power struggle within the Shigemura clan until the right time to bring them back to their rightful place. And when that long-awaited day finally dawned, you brazenly snatched them with unbridled force from their mundane existence, igniting a mutual dislike between the two of you.

There's no denying the mutual disdain between you and your betrothed, but that doesn't matter, they are irrelevant in the face of duty. You're both pawns in a greater game, and you'll do whatever it takes to ensure your victory.

Perhaps with time, you will learn to coexist without clawing at each other's throats and stand united. But for now, that day seems distant.

DEMO TBA | PINTEREST

Customizable: race, gender, clothes, personality traits, etc

Story-set moral standards

Choose what kind of weapons you use

More features to add

Nagi Shigemura lived a simple life, completely unaware of their true identity as the heir to an ayakashi clan. Oblivious to their supernatural heritage, Nagi spent their days working at a small izakaya. It wasn't until you, against their will, revealed their true nature that Nagi's life took an unexpected turn.

You grew up in a world where strength and dominance were highly valued. Possessing immense power and abilities, you were molded to be a ruthless enforcer, feared, and respected by both your enemies and your allies. With a strong sense of duty to your clan, you're single-minded in your pursuit of power and control. You have always been one to prioritize your own desires and aspirations above all, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve your goals. This often leads you down morally dubious paths, willing to manipulate and exploit others to further your own agenda.

NOTES: Ballad of the Damned is an interactive game that centers around a romantic narrative, drawing inspiration from Japanese mythology, and sets on the Early Showa Period. Due to its content involving blood and gore, body horror, politics, homophobia, cannibalism, alcohol and drug substance, as well as kidnapping, it is only recommended for aged 18 years and above.

#ballad of the damned #botd #interactive fiction #twine #twine if #WIP intro

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theeoriginals · 6 months

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klaus or elijah (your choice) x former flame!reader 👀

all i want | elijah mikaelson

+ Ohhh I loved your cat and mouse one! Could you please make a calm housewife/mom of the friend group type of girl and Elijah falling for her in a kind of best friend to lovers situation? Idk I just think it would fit cause elijah’s very family oriented and I see him falling for a dear old time friend too? Idk so uhm yeah. Feel free to refuse ofc!

elijah mikaelson x vampire!reader (no y/n)

author's notes; combining these requests :) hope that's ok!!

warnings; vague references to past violence but nothing insane. exes to friends to lovers, just plotless fluff, with an extra side of fluff. yes elijah is extremely charming, yes he can't make eye contact with a pretty girl. duality of man.

It’s an unspoken thing, what lingers between them still. Unspoken in the sense that they don’t talk about it, but everyone else does.

It always shocks people to learn that the oldest vampires on Earth are ridiculous, catty gossips. Elijah doesn’t know why it’s such a surprise. Living as long as they all have, you’ve got to keep things interesting, otherwise immortality becomes mind-numbing. He supposes that it just doesn’t measure up to their reputation for being ruthless animals, which isn’t unfounded. It’s just not the only thing they could be classified as.

Ruthless monsters that defend each other to the death at the end of the day, no matter how many times they’ve stabbed each other in the backs, certainly. Childish gossips that like to start rumors and rewrite history when they get a little bored, definitely. The two identifiers can coexist, and very much do.

And this thing, this unspoken thing that is unspoken for a multitude of reasons but none more so than the simple fact that even as long as they’ve known each other it’s still fragile, and something could break it with ease, is only unspoken to Elijah.

His brothers and sisters, however, like to do nothing but talk about it.

“Well, she’s almost here,” Rebekah rolls her eyes, but it’s just for the fact that her older brother is going to be a lovesick idiot the entire time the girl is here, and it really takes away from Rebekah’s own quality time with her. “No wonder Elijah’s been bumbling around like a fool all day.”

Klaus chuckles, and the two of them dutifully ignore the glare their brother sends them. “Do you think she sent him a letter to announce her arrival? Elijah always loves things like that,”

Rebekah’s blue eyes light up. “Oh, yes! I wonder if she sprayed it with her perfume– us ladies used to do that with a suitor back in the day,” She fans a hand towards her face, closing her eyes at the small breeze it creates. “They don’t text or call, of course, it takes all of the personality out of it. And god knows Elijah’s all personality,”

Klaus laughs again, and the two finally glance across the room to where Elijah’s leaning against a wall, glaring at them with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I hate you both,” He says, earning another round of laughter from them. “And stop going through my things, Rebekah. Those letters are none of your business.”

The blonde girl pushes her lips out in a pout. “But I get so bored, Elijah. You can’t be mad at me for entertaining myself,”

“I fear he just hates fun, dear sister,” Klaus says, feigning a wistful tone. “He doesn’t approve of my methods of entertainment either.”

“That’s because your methods of entertainment always end in a bloodbath,” Elijah says accusingly, earning a shrug from the hybrid. “You’re both immature. A thousand years old, still acting like children.”

Their faces twist in offense in unison, and Elijah distantly thinks that even though they’re not even fully related, let alone the same age even in their vampiric years, they were twins put on this Earth to terrorize him and ensure that he never knew peace.

Before they can begin their outcries of dramatized offense, and Elijah can continue to lightheartedly mock them, a voice comes from the hall, echoing fondly.

“Must you two always tease your brother?” The smile is obvious in her voice as she walks into the room, and the three of them snap their gazes towards the woman in surprise. “He’s a delicate soul, you know. His poor heart can’t handle too many jokes,”

Elijah recovers quickly, rolling his eyes, though he can’t (and won’t) stop the smile from growing on his face as she meets Rebekah for a hug. “Oh, wonderful. That’s just what they need. Encouragement.”

She chuckles at his poorly-feigned exasperation, and the sound settles in his ears like a morning dove’s song. She releases Rebekah from the hug and leans down to where Klaus is stretched out in a chair with his feet kicked up on the table, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of the compound, she sighs wistfully. “I can’t believe this place looks the same as when you bought it,” She shakes her head in slight disbelief.

Klaus shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “When we first returned, there was some… cleaning up to do, but it’s maintained its shape wonderfully.”

If she catches onto his double entendre, she doesn’t say anything, just nods in understanding. That’s something Elijah has always liked about her– she lets things go unsaid. She’s always had the ability to connect with him and his siblings in a way that most others can’t, and even when Elijah is at his worst, she’s been that olive branch that he can grab onto to bring him back to himself. Always so understanding and level. It’s a wonder that she still associates with any of them, given their penchant for chaos.

Finally, she turns her attention onto him, and in its entirety he feels breathless. Even after decades of knowing one another, it’s never gotten easier to hide his ardor for her. He knows she can still read him as easily as she could thirty years ago, too.

“Elijah,” She says his name better than he’s ever heard it, with a tilt to her head and a fondness in her voice that makes him feel more alive than anything else he’s found in his centuries on this planet.

She crosses the room to where he’s at, because he froze in his spot as soon as he heard her voice, and wraps her arms around him like she’s never been more relieved to see him.

It’s another thing he’s always liked about her. She’s never stopped loving him. He knows that. Lives with it everyday.

Regrets a lot of things, too.

He says her name back as gently as he can, like she’ll break in his arms. He wonders if she thinks of all the times she has broken in his arms, and then he tells himself there’s no way she’s forgotten it, because he hasn’t. And that is something that is theirs and theirs alone.

She pulls away and he misses her touch the moment she goes because it feels rarer and rarer with each day that passes. Every time she leaves, he fears it’s the last time he’ll see her.

He doesn’t want to ruin her visit with these thoughts. Even though he knows she’d offer him endless comfort, he doesn’t want her to worry about him for a second.

She turns to face them, clapping her hands together with a smile. “Well, then. What’s first on the agenda?”

──────

Something that comes with living as long as Elijah has is learning that some things about yourself you’ll just never be able to change. Such things like being a vampire in itself, having a firm hand when it comes to doing business with people. He’s been told he’s somewhat of a snake, and he’s well aware of his silver tongued ways, and it’s something he knows he can’t change, and hasn’t ever wanted to.

One thing that has yet to fall under that category of acceptance is his jealousy.

In his defense, he’s never jealous when he thinks he should be. He’s never been jealous of his siblings, spare for a few embarrassing months spent around the doppelgängers, but Elijah has never had to envy someone for something they had because if he wanted it that bad, he could just take it.

But this. This he knows is jealousy, pure and unbridled, and nauseating, if he’s feeling that correctly.

This is the jealousy that he’s seen destroy entire regimes. This is the jealousy that has driven his family to madness at times.

And of course, she’s at the center of it all. Of course she is. There would be no other way he could feel this so strongly if she was not involved in it somehow.

She’s the source of a lot of jealousy, he knows. He’s jealous of the carefree relationships his siblings get to have with her because they don’t have to be burdened with the feelings of the past that are most definitely still there. They don’t have to worry if they looked at her lips for too long, or if they held her a little too gentle to be considered entirely friendly. They don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing, stepping past that line they so carefully drew in the sand for everyone’s sake.

These are the consequences of his actions, he knows. It doesn’t make it any easier to deal with, though. It might make it worse.

Watching his siblings drink freely as the band played on was nothing unfamiliar. Patrons had long since joined in on the fun, and he’s sure there’s a crowd outside looking in on the celebration of unknown origins.

At the center of it all, she is there, standing on a table with a crowd of adoring admirers surrounding her as she swayed and moved to the music. He would swear there’s a light shining on her, just for her, projecting her shadow above everyone like some sort of angel. He thinks she has every right to be worshiped.

And the reason he’s so maddeningly, bitingly jealous is because he is the reason that he’s not the one dancing with her. He can’t be the one to dance with her, and he can’t be the one that makes her laugh like she is because he’s the one that said they shouldn’t be together. He is the one who broke her heart, and he doesn’t deserve an ounce of the kindness she still shows.

So all he can do is sip his drink at the bar and watch as she pulls his sister, sweet, dangerous, devastatingly insecure Rebekah, up onto the table with her and shares her spotlight with her. Making his sister light up like she does with no one else. Earning another round of cheers from Klaus and Kol as they watch on, demanding another round of drinks for everyone in an odd show of generosity.

She brings out the best in his siblings. In him.

It makes him burn bright inside. Boiling, hot to the touch. He knows then and there that there’s a reason he’s seen something as trivial as jealousy take down the most powerful of men. Love is such a dangerous thing to get involved in in the first place, but finding someone, finding the woman who makes you feel like you could conquer the world is something else entirely. It bypasses dangerous and heads straight into fatal.

Because she makes you feel like you could conquer the whole world, but the second you lose her, it all means nothing. You’ll tear it all down if it means she won’t be there, too.

And the worst part of it all is the only reason he feels like this is because he is the one that ruined it. Blamed his family, blamed his parents, blamed everything else but his own fears for the reason they couldn’t be together. The distance, the timing. Whatever he could grasp, he pulled it out of his pocket and gave it to her on a silver platter, served with a distant coldness he’d long since perfect, and never wanted to use on her in the first place.

He had so much time under his belt, but he was such a child. So helpless it bordered on criminal, all because he fell in love and he didn’t know what to do with it.

It’s embarrassing more than anything else.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off of her since she started dancing. Hadn’t stopped listening since he heard her first laugh. Didn’t want to miss a single second, just in case.

For the first time all night, he blinked and turned his head away from her and threw the rest of his drink back like it was water.

He could allow himself a bit more wallowing. Just a bit.

──────

“Well, Rebekah’s safe in bed. I even got her in pajamas, believe it or not,” Her voice carries even in its whisper, and he looks up from his lap as she enters the small living space, hands clasped in front of her as she takes a seat in the chair beside him. “Original vampire or not, I doubt she’ll feel very good in the morning.”

Elijah hummed, thinking of his dear sister and how even if she’d healed a thousand times over, she’d still find a way to complain. He adored it.

“What about you?”

He raises a brow, lips twisting confusedly. “What about me?”

She gestures towards his slightly slumped form on the couch pointedly. He follows her direction, looking at his rumpled suit, and the white button up he’d undone the top four buttons off, at least. He feels momentarily embarrassed at his state of disarray but he simply huffs out a laugh, lifting his gaze to meet hers again.

“I’m a mess,” He shrugs, earning a quiet laugh out of her. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with our drinking tonight.”

“I can’t disagree, unfortunately,”

He hides the way his grin threatens to split his face behind his face, rubbing along his scruffy jawline as he looks at her. The longer he lingers, the more she avoids his gaze.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Elijah,” She intones, such a familiar adoration in her voice that it nearly makes him sick. He doesn’t deserve it. “You’ve been so quiet tonight. What’s on your mind?”

“You,”

Her eyes widen in shock at his quick, candid answer, and he has to hide his own surprise at how quick the word had shot out of his mouth.

“Me? What about me?”

“Everything,” He sighs, shifting his long legs so he could turn towards her and give her his full attention. “I’ve missed you.”

“Oh,” She breathes out, looking slightly bashful. “Well, I always miss you. I wouldn’t ever leave if I didn’t–”

She stops herself, covering her mouth with her hand as a sheepish look crosses her face. He knows she wants him to move past her slip up, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

“If you didn’t, what?” He leans forward, looking at her imploringly. “Why do you stay away so long?”

She takes a moment to collect herself, picking at the skin around her nails half-heartedly, like it’s not really bothering her, she just doesn’t want to be so open right now. He’d feel worse about pushing her if he didn’t feel like his heart was leaping out of his throat.

“Well, I didn’t think you wanted me around that much,” She says quietly, gesturing towards him.

He rears back like she’s slapped him.

“How could you ever think such a thing?” He whispers her name, a distant veil of horror laced in his tone. Fear, really.

“You said,” She says, face furrowing in confusion. “All those years ago– you said that there was no reason for me to stay here with you in New Orleans. So, I– I left. And I travel all the time until I come back here for as long as you’ll let me.”

Elijah feels something gripping his chest and it feels remarkably like his heart is breaking.

His voice breaks on her name and he leans forward again, reaching into her space to grab her hands in his. Allowing himself this piece of her that he simply doesn’t deserve.

“I never,” He stops, breathing out harshly. “I never wanted you to leave. I just–”

He stops again, squeezes her hands, and then steels himself because this is the least he owes her.

“You deserved more than to be stuck here with my family,” He starts slowly. “I never– I never wanted you to leave. Every time you walk out of those doors, I want to chase you down and make you stay. You have to believe me when I say that I only ever wanted you to be happy, and you wouldn’t have found that stuck here in the mess we had made back then.”

There’s a poignant silence that settles as she processes his words, and he holds the ragged breath that builds in his chest when she begins to drag her thumbs along the backs of his hands, smoothing at the skin there. Ever so gentle.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to be here with you and your family,” She says, shaking her head like she’s scolding him, even though her tone is anything but. “Being here makes me happier than any place I’ve traveled to. And I’m– I’m truly grateful that you had my best interest in mind, Elijah, but you have to understand,”

She trails off and an incredulous laugh leaves her lips as she smiles at him. “I’ve loved you my entire life. And my heart used to break every day knowing that I’d only have a short time with you. When I turned, I was so– I was so happy because I suddenly had the rest of time to be with you. And you… you broke my heart, Elijah. You truly did,”

She presses her thumbs into his skin firmly, just a pressure point to punctuate her words. “But I have never stopped loving you. And every time I walked out of those doors and left you behind, my heart broke again. You wouldn’t have ever had to make me stay. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Elijah’s breath stalls in his chest, and lets it out slowly, shakily. There’s a distant string of hope he lets himself pull on, just this once. Because she let him.

He meets her gaze and smiles softly, just for her. “Will you stay, then? I’m– I’m asking you, truly. Will you stay?”

She nods before he even finishes speaking and laughs quietly, the sound just for him. “Of course I will, Elijah. I’ll stay as long as you want me to,”

“Forever,”

“Forever, then. I’ll stay forever.”

#elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries fanfiction #kol mikaelson #the originals #fic recs #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson fanfiction #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikaelson fluff #the originals fanfiction

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nervousd · 11 months

Text

Chapter Three— Unexpected visitors

→ Infatuation | m.list

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#SYNOPSIS— The dead come back to visit

#WARNING(S)— This is a dark fic, implications of abandonment, implications of being a bad mother, child abandonment, implications of discrimination, implications of physical abuse, yandere, unhealthy obsession, possessive, prey/hunter dynamics, scent kink, creepy behavior, throat usage?/does that even make sense?, forced kissing, noncon kissing???)) quaritch goes feral, unwanted touching

#CHARACTER(S)— Recom! colonel Miles Quaritch

#NOTE— so I lied— the good stuff will definitely be on the next chapter. I’m also planning to make a Drabble to make up for it

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Quaritch extended out his palm towards the diagram ❝ The target is pretty much this whole island group— ❞ he was cut of by Spider ducking beneath his large frame, he glanced down at his son smiling briefly, ❝— Never been up there, you know those waters doc. What kind of indigenous we got? ❞ Scoresby gestured towards the man on the opposite side of the diagram. The doc was startled out of his own thinking, hesitating briefly as he glanced at the blue Recom looking at him with piercing yellow eyes ❝ Well— uh we got metkayina mostly some Ta’unui maybe fifty villages— ❞

Having enough of his rambiling, Quaritch cut off him with a puzzled face, ❝ uh you are who?❞ he didn’t need to know what specific species of na’vi there was— all he needed to know where was the nearest village nearby to get stated on his mission ❝ Oh I’m uh Doctor Ian Garvin, a marine biologist ❞ he extended out his palm for a handshake but was ultimately ignored by Quaritch, he dropped down his hand in embarrassment, ❝ Fifty villages— a hundred villages. I don’t care we’ll search them all ❞ Scoresby scoffed, and snapped back with an obnoxious tone ❝ I hunt Tulkun, that’s what I’m rigged for that’s all my guys do. I’ve got quotas to meet ❞

A rotten wry smile split Quaritch face, he showed a smile with far too many teeth— teeth to sharp his lips curled up. He looked like a happy predator with upturned lips, ❝ I’ll be nice once than I won’t ❞ Behind him, Lyle lifted his respiratory mask taking a sip of carbon. His yellow eyes gleamed, as he watched the interaction between the two of them. Scoresby pursed his lips, not expecting to be threatened in his own ship, ❝ Oh if you can’t get out of it, get into it. All crew to stations! ❞

—

It was difficult being the only human among the na’vi, unable to fully understand the ways of being‘ One of the people ‘ as they say. But they were welcoming to say the least— a bit skittish but nothing you can do about it. Had it not been for Jake sully— Toruk Makto as they call him; you would of never been accepted into the Ta’unui clan. You weren’t ‘ one of the people ‘ just a human coexisting with them. It was difficult at first, finding yourself frustrated with them— and yourself. It was a horrible decision to leave the forest but if you didn’t than you would be stuck with him— burden by the responsibility of being a mother. So you packed your things and left—

Gone the next day leaving no trace behind but a few personal belongings. It was heartless— to abandon a child but you couldn’t bare to look at it. Finding bile crawling up your throat whenever you ever so glanced at it. But that was years ago and you can only find yourself wanting to learn about their life now— only a little. You come up with your own conclusions, that’s he’s fine— doing much better now that you were gone. Has a happy family that gives him all the affection and care he needs— anything to lesson the guilt of abandoning him.

You were startled out of your thoughts as a blue hand appeared in your vision. You jumped like a feral cat, whisking around as your eyes caught culprit of a sheepish male na’vi. ❝Jesus Christ— must you always do this to me? ❞ The male na’vi blinked, cocking his head to the side as he stared at you with wide eyes, ❝ I do not understand this sky people talk— what is this Jesus Christ? ❞ You shook your head, waving your hand in dismissal ❝ Dont worry about it— Sky people nonsense and all that. Your English has gotten good ❞ at your compliment, the male puffed up his chest in pride. You scoff at his flared ego— ever since you’ve been here this male na’vi was always by your side, claiming he was curious about the sky people.

He’s become your student— only for a short while. You’ve been teaching him English for quite some and was surprised to see him learn the language very quick. It brought a sense of peace towards you— familiarity. It’s as if you were back in the past with Grace helping her at the school. A wave of nostalgia hit you, often times you missed the moments you had with everyone. You smiled briefly, the past would always sneak upon you leaving nothing but a longing to see everyone. But you had made your bed— choosing to leave and abandon everyone. Now you must lay in your choices. ❝ You are friends with Toruk Makto, no? ❞

Confused by the sudden interest in an old friend, you nodded, ❝ Yeah— Jake sully, what’s the sudden interest in him? ❞ he hesitated briefly, ❝ He is residing in a metkayina clan— not far from here— there has been talk of war following him ❝ Your lips pursed in response, brows furrowing. ❝ That is odd— not something he would do. Who knows maybe he just wanted a vacation? ❞ He looked at you with wide eyes, ❝ You are certain of this? ❞ You hesitated briefly, you weren’t— Jake would of never fled the Omaticaya— especially Neytiri, seeing as how she loved her home and would even die for her people. This wasn’t something they would do— not unless they were running from something— or someone.

But no one could posses such a threat that would cause Jake to flee— and if they did, we’ll they were dead. But you couldn’t cause panic— ❝ I’m sure, who knows maybe it’s for diplomat reasons ❞ He seemed satisfied with your answer and bided you goodbye. You were back to being alone— busying yourself to your own devices. But worry seemed to overshadow your thoughts— worming their way inside your mind. If Jake was here than what of the boy you gave birth to? Jake didn’t adopt him— no the boy had foster parents that took care of him along with other human children that were left behind. But Jake promised— he promised to watch over him. Did Jake bring him here to the ocean clans? Or did he leave him back at the Omaticaya?

Worry gnawed at your gut— you couldn’t bare to risk seeing the boy. Your stomach churned in disgust— you were cut off by a horn being blasted through the air— your stomach dropped. Through the years residing in the clan not once has the horn been used. Distant cries were heard thought the beach and a loud rumbling sound swallowed their petrified cries. You scrambled towards the noise, terror sticking at your nerves as a large ship came into view, ❝ Oh fuck— fuck! ❞ you scrambled backwards running towards your small hut. You gathered your necessity items, shoving the basic necessities in a small bag.

None of this made sense— they shouldn’t be here, not once had they come near the islands. They were often seen out in the open waters hunting tulkun. This was different— had they come here to threaten or kill the na’vi residing in this island? Peace was not on the table so the like hold of the other two options happening were possible. You flinched at the loud cries coming from the na’vi and the curses of your mother tongue being shouted out. If they caught you— there was no doubt you might be publicly executed for betraying your race.

And so you hid— lost in the wildlife of Pandora you seeked shelter behind a trunk covered by bushes. Your breaths came out labored, you peeked from a small opening seeing the na’vi being rounded up on the clearing. You leaned forward trying to get a better view unaware of the footsteps behind you. You let out a scream as a hand tugged you up from your hiding place. You struggled immediately, clawing at the hands that held onto you— ❝ Stay still—! I got a traitor here! ❞ your attacker dragged you towards the clearing, gun pressing against your back.

You tripped over your own feet a couple of times as you were dragged to the clearing. Countless of na’vi were forced to kneel onto the sand with guns and tasers threatening to cause harm. There were avatars among them humans, dressed in full camo gear with weapons strapped towards their vest. The color drained from your face as you made eye contact with piercing yellow eyes, ❝ What the actual fuck— ❞ you were starting to panic, kicking your feet and acting like a mad woman— you were unsure of what to do but your brain screamed at you to run.

In front of you was the man you once thought was dead— no you were certain he was dead. His skeleton was out in the forest decomposing on itself. Yet, here he was, breathing and certainly alive. He was back from the dead and this time he came back blue. Beside him was a human boy wearing na’vi clothes, he was covered in blue stripes. A flicker of recognition sparkled in your eyes— your breath hitched at your throat, ❝no— no! ❞ you shook your head refusing to accept the truth. A newfound strength courses through your body.

You elbowed the guy on the ribs making a run for it, ❝ Don’t shoot! I need her alive! ❞ a familiar voice ran along the clearing— it was him. Colonel Miles Quaritch was back from the dead and came back bigger, stronger and faster in the body of a na’vi—a species he hated with a passion. But how was that even possible? You wouldn’t stay to find out— you had to leave— to hide

❝ Get back here! ❞ He roared out, the sheer volume and grit of his voice caused the ends of your hairs to stand up. He launched himself to your pursuit, screaming out in rage. He was hot on your tail, commanding you stop running but it only caused you to pump your legs faster. Soon enough you heard him right behind you— you glanced back a mistake you realized as he ran at you in a primal way. Hands and feet— claws out for a grip against the terrain he pounced on you. ❝C’mere! ❞ You ducked out the way, barley missing his grasp but not without paying the price of your shirt being torn by his claws. You slammed yourself against a trunk barley missing his claws. You scrambled back to your feet leaving him in the dust.

❝ Stop running! ❞ he screamed out, ❝ you’re suppose to be with me— You’re mine— mine! ❞ Sharp canines gritted against each other and bared into a sneer, his brows were furrowed and yellow eyes were wide like saucers— he looked insane as if he submitted himself to his primal instincts. He was fixated on getting you; even going as far as his abandoning his gun— anything that slowed him down. A shaky sigh left his lips as he gripped the garment of your torn blouse— he inhaled deeply pressing it against his nose. He swears he could taste your scent on his tongue. It’s yours— and you’re here with him.

He exhaled shaky, pocketing the torn piece of clothing inside his pocket. He glanced back up finding you no where in his sight. His ears flattened against his skull, tail laying limp, ❝Don’t be mean now honey— ❞ his voice drawled out, the smirk wiping off his face seeing as there was no indication to where you could possibly be. He scouted out the area in a frenzy coming to a halt as a thud behind him makes him turn around in a swift. He rushes over to the sound pushing away the wildlife , ❝ Gotcha! ❞ his excitement died down when all he found was a small animal cowering in fear. He let out a hiss of frustration, tail whipping around as his anxiety clawed at him.

Panic rose as he searched every creek he could find— which way did you go? His frustration bubbled in his chest, ❝ If you don’t come out right now I swear I’ll paint that ass red and blue! ❞ He looked left and right, running in circles looking for any sign or indication to where you could possibly be. Meanwhile, you had ran as far as you could ending up near your shack. You stoped to catch your breath, heart beating against your chest in an erratic way. You bended over placing your hand on your knees— you had lost him for now. But what can you do before he catches up to you again? For how long can you evade his grasp? Leaving the island would be impossible. This was a hopeless scenario for you— there was no way to flee and running was the only option. You could hide in your shack but wouldn’t that be the first place they would check?

You couldn’t give up now, standing straight you began to plot your next move. Hiding was a no go— you need small places somewhere a na’vi can’t fit in. You could hear the distant scream of your name out in the woods, your head whipped to the sound. Tripping over your own steps you decided to push more distance away from him. You knew exactly where to go— you’ve known this island for years. He doesn’t, all that matters is making sure he doesn’t catch up to you before you get there. Soon enough you heard a branch break beside you— you don’t have time to register the force that impacted you.

You feel like you’re flying through the air— unable to grasp what’s going on. He’s grabbing you and wrestling you beneath him— a coarse laugh came from him, his canines glistened from the copious amount of times of running his tongue over them— unable to swallow his exceeding amount of saliva. His tail thumped behind him in excitement, ❝ I got you, sweetheart— you’re mine now ❞ his chuckles were hoarse, shoulders shaking as deep rumbles came within his chest.

He pressed his nose against the juncture of your nape, curling himself to your size. You froze— did he just sniff you? He’s panting, whole body trembling. ❝ You done teasing me? You and I have some unfinished business to get to. How about we finish that family that we started? Give the brat a couple of siblings while you and I get to be acquainted once again ❞ You shook your head frantically, the thought of having another child with him disgust you. Tears slid down your cheeks freely, you wanted to scream and cry out. This was a nightmare come to life. You let out a squeal as you felt his palm reach down and grabbed a handful of your ass, groping and squeezing the flesh. He rained down numerous kisses on your neck, nipping and lapping at your flesh. You were frozen in place— He was terrifying, and too fucking big. His whole body encased yours. Quaritch looked at you, pupils blown wide—. Your attempts to trash away from his grip was useless against his strength and size. He was overwhelming— you could only see and feel him. Both of his massive biceps were placed beside you, lowering his chest towards back.

Back when he was human he always towered over you but now as a na’vi? He was huge— it was like you were his own personal human doll. You could hear shuffling behind you— you were manhandled as if you were nothing but cargo. You were face to face with him. His biceps kept you locked in his embrace, lowering himself towards you. He was starved for you— relishing every touch he could get from you. You however— we’re frightened and did everything possible to get away from his embrace. You wiggled and kicked helplessly under his strong grip— his arms tightened around you like a snake coiling around it’s prey. It only just hit how strong and big his was.

He hugged you even closer— if it was even possible to do so. Pressing your body against his, he let out a deep low moan making you let out a squeak as you felt his canines drag across your flesh. He leaned down again— seeing his face dip towards yours; you turned your face to the side avoiding his lips from touching yours. His lips skimmed over your cheeks— a low animalistic snarl escaped from him. His fingers dug into your jaws and wrenched your face to look back at him. ❝ You will not take this from me, girl— I have waited so long to have you ❞

His lips pressed against yours in a messy kiss, he pressed his tongue against your mouth. Claws prodding your jaw to open up as he swallowed your mouth whole. Tears streamed down your cheeks— He doesn’t get to have you— you weren’t his. You wish you could tell him this but all you can squeak out are muffled sobs. Quaritch was overjoyed— a sense of peace came flowing to him. You were back in his arms, exactly where he wanted you. Nothing can stop him now— not even the order he was given from his predecessor— you were meant to be his— human or na’vi doesn’t matter.

Your attempts to break away from the kiss were futile against his overwhelming strength. He deepened the kiss, tongue lashing at ever crook and crane he could find. Tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you felt his tongue slither down your throat. Your fist slammed against his chest seeing black dots prick at the corner of your vision. Feeling you go limp in his arms caused him to draw back from your mouth. His hold on you however remained— a string of saliva connected both of your lips. Face running red, you stared at him unable to fully wrap your head on just what happened

He stared back down at you, completely unfazed. As if this was the most natural thing to do ❝ What? Cat got your tongue, hmm Princess? ❞ , you shook your head to the side a couple of times; mumbling out incoherent words. His ears however managed to hear you every well, ❝ You’re not him— how are you even alive? You died— ❞ you babbled out— pawing against his chest pathetically, pushing and slapping with your weak strength. A mistake you were quick to realize as he slammed you back to the ground caging you in his arms, ❝ Just relax, princes I’ll explain it to ya— you see I’m a clone of that old man. He’s deceased— he was weak ❞ he hissed, ❝ I’m better— I’m stronger and I am going to take what is rightfully mine; starting with you ❞

Small wheezes came from you, you looked at him as if he was absurd ❝ I don’t belong to you— ❞ his fingers curled around your throat ❝ Watch it— clearly you’re attitude has been left unchecked for quite a long time. Don’t worry sweetheart, daddy will fix that ❞ His palm pressed against your back bringing you upwards to him, he coaxed you to his lap; tail wrapping around your arm. His palms groped your flesh, touching every place he could. His hands fiddled with your blouse, scrunching up the piece of fabric you called blouse tearing it off. You’re breast bounced from the impact— you curled inward to protect your modesty. His fingers itched to grab hold of your breast— lips curling up at your refusal. However, a static voice coming from his earpiece caused him to pause his actions. You couldnt catch what they were saying but you doubted it was anything good. His yellow eyes gleamed, ❝ Let’s get you back home— where you belong ❞

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her-satanic-wiles · 4 months

Text

Masterlist ⛧ Lost in Translation Masterlist ⛧ Ao3

Words: 12.4k.

Reading Time: 50 min.

Warnings: begging, cock warming, creampie, cunnilingus, dry humping, fingering, hair pulling, marking, mentions of masturbation, mild pain kink, mild salirophilia, moderately underprepared penetration (but no pain), multiple scenes, nipple play, penetrative sex, praise kink, so much whimpering omfg, unprotected sex (cover the bone to slide it home, bro), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex

Taglist: @zombiesnips-blog @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @ellenokumura @thew0man @sodoswitchimage @the-real-eggplany @deathmimedream @love-is-all-you-need-13 @kadedoesthings @rosyerato @xshadylady @popiaswife @perpetratorwithaquill @punkiy50 @onlyhereforghost @kaijukimchi @copiaspet622

As the newly appointed Cardinal Copia struggles with the weight of a looming prophecy, a resilient scholar challenges the narrative, uncovering a conspiracy that reaches beyond the walls of the Ministry. The emergence of a forbidden love ignites a rebellion against a power-hungry Sister, whose thirst for control threatens to reshape the very foundations of the Church. Will the revelation of those schemes lead to liberation or plunge the Ministry into chaos?

Previous Part ⛧ Next Part

🔞 MDNI 🔞

One moment you were in the peace and tranquility of the Ministry’s library, the next you were in the Ministry’s personal plane getting ready to land in Heathrow Airport, with Cardinal Copia by your side. The flight from Rome to London was wonderfully short, ticking in at just two and a half hours long. Plenty of time for you to go over the notes you made at school on Hebrew, more specifically the ancient Hebrew that you required in order to translate Abrahamic texts to Ministry-standard levels.

Ancient Hebrew was much more difficult for you to learn, given that it was an entirely different alphabet to the one you were used to. The script used during ancient times, particularly during the First Temple period, had a more pictographic nature, not entirely unlike Ancient Egyptian. During the 1st century CE, the Hebrew language was undergoing a significant transformation and coexisted with other languages in the region. Biblical Hebrew was more akin to modern day Hebrew which allowed you some crossovers in your day-to-day studies, but it was still very different in most aspects.

The Ministry, as it was open to everyone from all walks of life, held so much diversity between its unhallowed walls, it was beautiful. There were languages spoken from all over the world, but in order to unify everyone and make communication easier, Italian was the main language, followed by Latin, then English, then other denominations. The Church revelled in the chaos created by such a diverse cast of characters - and for a long time allowed everyone to just play the conversation by ear. In essence, you’d watch someone open their mouth and pray to Lucifer that they were about to speak in a language that you understood. It wasn’t until Mama Ardens II reigned in the late 15th Century that she introduced the official language of Italian. This was challenged by some members of the clergy as it was “too Catholic”, but there was a reason her name was Ardens and she shut the clergy up pretty quickly.

During the flight, you could feel the weight of the Cardinal’s eyes upon you, burning through you like Hellfire upon the skin of the worst sinners. The majority of the time, you’d catch him looking at your papers, as if he was refamiliarising himself with Ancient Hebrew too. But there was the odd occasion when your eyes locked with his, and he panicked and turned away, pretending as though he was looking at something else behind you. The act itself made you so, very aware of your appearance. What could he possibly be staring at? And why? You found yourself wiping something from your face just to be sure you didn’t have anything on it.

“Scusi, Sorella.” The Cardinal said, interrupting your studying with a gloved tap to your shoulder. You looked at him, the haze of the ancient world fading with each passing second. “This is Hebrew, sì?”

You stared at him blankly for a second before answering. “Yes, Your Dark Eminence.”

He nodded. “It looks like Ancient Phoenician.”

“You know Ancient Phoenician?”

“A little. I went through a phase in my teens where I wanted to be different. Everyone else knew Latin and Greek, I wanted Latin and Phoenician.”

You laughed. “I think everyone goes through that phase when they’re a teen.”

“Probably. The alphabets are the same, no?”

“No, actually. They’re very similar, but they’re not copies of one another. What modern historians refer to as the “Paleo-Hebrew” alphabet was used by some of Abraham’s children. The Phoenician alphabet and the Paleo-Hebrew alphabet were pretty much the same alphabet, despite possible tiny differences in the letterforms, but every language spoken by the Canaanites shared this alphabet. Even the Arameans made use of it. It wasn’t invented by the Phoenicians or even by Abraham’s children. Most likely it was a group of early, unnamed Canaanites that we’ve no evidence for… yet.”

“Does it function the same way?”

“I don’t know enough about Ancient Phoenician to tell you either way, but,” you picked up your sheet of paper that helped translate the Hebrew to the Latin alphabet and handed it to the Cardinal, “you’re more than welcome to figure that out for yourself.”

He perused the sheet in front of him for a short while, getting to grips with the look of it. Every now and then, little hums of understanding would spill involuntarily from his lips, each one making your heart soar with adoration.

The world’s impressions of the Cardinal often exaggerated his behaviour. He demonstrated a sweetness that spoke to his true nature, far from the menacing figure many had imagined.

The Cardinal was an introverted man who took comfort in his own company, just like you. Even though he was capable of being an ambiverted position when called for, it was obvious that he valued solitude over social interactions. It felt as though he was choosing to be alone, and it went beyond simple preference to suggest a deeper, complex side to his nature.

The truth, sadly, appeared to be a little grimmer. Sister Aisha, who was known for her direct and sometimes sarcastic comments, did not hold back when she called the Cardinal “a creepy old man.” And made no attempts to hide any contempt she held for him, but she was one of many who felt exactly the same way.

The daily peeks into his life revealed an odd habit: a Ghoul snatching his meals from the kitchens and slipping them into his office. His life of isolation not only shielded him from the Ministry’s scrutiny but also added to the mysterious atmosphere that enveloped him.

People often treated their future leader with a certain amount of condescension, either not realising his potential or brushing it off completely. They were unable to see his character’s depth and his hidden strength. It was as if they only saw the surface—a man who didn’t fit the Ministry’s stereotypical image of power.

You would see the eye rolling, the dismissive gestures, and the sporadic scoffs aimed at him. The insensitive treatment looked to be the result of ignorance, an inability to realise the importance hidden behind his modest demeanour. The Cardinal had to deal with the disdainful attitudes of those around him in his earlier days, while others in similar positions might have commanded immediate respect.

But there was something about him which you saw that others missed. You had a gut feeling that there was more to this modest person than first appeared. Feeling sympathy for the Cardinal and believing he deserved better than the casual remarks and sidelong looks, you watched the irritating treatment take place.

The Ministry had no idea that hiding beneath that seemingly ordinary man was the potential for a strong leader. The future Cardinal Copia would eventually triumph over the criticism and unpleasant treatment, demonstrating that genuine strength frequently hides in a person’s depths, ready to be revealed when the time was right.

And a different Cardinal showed up in those moments when he wasn’t burdened by the duties of leadership and he allowed himself to converse. His kindness came through; his soft-spoken manner revealed the fragility beneath the surface of power. It became clear that the Cardinal was a complicated person who was oversimplified in the eyes of the world to be a stoic, unapproachable figure.

Being in the background gave you the opportunity to observe the Church’s internal drama, the shenanigans, and the power struggles without taking an active part in them. It was a position of quiet strength, where your biggest advantage became your understanding and awareness of the inner workings of the Ministry.

The Cardinal’s lack of notice meant freedom from unnecessary attention. You could spend your time reading the ancient books, exploring the archaic library, and performing your tasks without having to deal with the spotlight. The shadows offered a certain safety, a place where you could pursue your curiosity without being distracted by people.

In quieter moments, among the centuries-old books and dimly lit hallways of the Ministry, there was a faint longing, a yearning for a relationship that went beyond the pages of forbidden knowledge. There were times when you wished the Cardinal would give you that elusive, uneven smile, even though you cherished the safety of anonymity and the cover of darkness.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you dreamed that the Cardinal would acknowledge you in a way that went beyond the standard Ministry exchanges. You yearned for some small act that displayed a great deal in the calm language of desire, something that would bring back memories of old-fashioned chivalry.

You imagined a moment when the Cardinal, freed from the restraints of rank, would hold your hand with a tenderness suiting the moment. You’d read about such actions in the romance books that lined the library’s shelves: a gentleman’s kiss upon a lady’s hand, as a sign of affection and a modest declaration of a relationship that went beyond the everyday.

However, these moments remained unattainable since the intricate web of the Cardinal’s ascent to importance and the manipulations of the Ministry. The reality of your job as an archivist at the Ministry’s library clashed regularly with the dreams that danced in the corners of your mind. Your dreams were tucked between the shelves like a bookmark between book pages.

It was enough to send previous incarnations of yourself into a near-coma of shock to learn that the Cardinal was not only aware of your existence but actively seeking your aid for a mission to London. A storm of emotions mixed disbelief and excitement at the thought that your unnoticed presence had attracted the attention of the Church’s leader. It seemed like a strange transition from being a quiet observer to a major role in a clandestine mission—a story arc that went against the expectations of the once-quiet guardian.

As the jet streaked through the sky, carrying you and the Cardinal into to the fascinating depths of London, you found yourself suddenly drawn away from your usual scholarly pursuits. Rather than immersing yourself in the ancient Hebrew texts that waited for you in the city, you were chatting with the Cardinal informally, like you were the closest, lifelong friends that could ever be.

You were sitting side by side in the cramped plane, and you pulled out a notebook with Hebrew idioms and symbols in it. The aircraft’s steady hum provided a unique setting for this unusual classroom, where the Cardinal—who wasn’t exactly famed for his mysterious charm—became a passionate learner.

You patiently explained the complexities of the old Hebrew language to the Cardinal. As you clarified their meanings and intricacies, the characters—each bearing a history and resonance from millennia ago—took on new life. With a mixture of passion and nervousness the Cardinal tried to imitate the characters in his trademark clumsy charm. That was to say, he got things wrong… a lot.

The unexpected language lesson had led to a moment of shared laughter, a welcome respite from the weight of ancient texts and scholarly pursuits. After one particularly amusing mistake, the laughter gradually subsided, giving way to a comfortable silence. In that quietude, an unspoken connection lingered in the air.

As you glanced over your notes, the Cardinal’s gaze shifted, and when you looked up, you found his eyes fixed upon you. The atmosphere seemed to shift, charged with a subtle energy that transcended the boundaries of mere camaraderie. His gaze, softer and more contemplative than before, held an unspoken sentiment that eluded easy definition.

His eyes traced the contours of your face with a newfound tenderness, and there was a momentary pause, as if time itself had hesitated to acknowledge the shift in dynamics. A gentle intensity lingered in the air, and his gaze descended to your lips with a soft, unspoken longing.

Unaware of the subtle shift in the Cardinal’s demeanour, you continued to meet his eyes with an easygoing smile. The shared laughter had forged a connection, and the silence that followed seemed to amplify the unspoken nuances lingering between you.

For the Cardinal, the moment held a depth of emotion that he struggled to articulate. His eyes conveyed a silent contemplation, and in that fleeting silence, there was a desire—subtle, yet palpable. The notion of a kiss hovered in the unspoken spaces between you, a sentiment that had yet to find expression in words.

As the plane continued its journey toward London, the Cardinal’s gaze remained soft, a reflection of the newfound connection forged in the unexpected intimacy of the language lesson. Little did you know that this unspoken exchange would linger as a subtle undercurrent, shaping the course of the journey that awaited you in the heart of the ancient city.

The announcement of the impending landing interrupted the quiet exchange between you and the Cardinal. With a shared understanding, and an awkward clearing of the Cardinal’s throat, you both began the task of clearing away the notes, neatly organizing the scattered papers that documented your linguistic exploration. The air hostess moved through the cabin, her voice announcing the approaching descent and the estimated time until landing.

As the plane touched down in London, the anticipation of the journey ahead resonated in the air. Your bags, along with the majority of the Cardinal’s Ghouls—Swiss, Aurora, Cirrus, and Phantom, as you noted—were efficiently handled and transported to the hotel. The remaining Ghouls accompanied you and the Cardinal, ready to delve into the mysteries held within the Crimson Archives.

Exiting the airport, the chill of the London air greeted you, a stark contrast to the climate you had left behind. The Ghouls maintained an eerie silence as they efficiently guided you and the Cardinal toward the awaiting vehicle. The journey to the Crimson Archives unfolded, the city’s landmarks passing by in a blur of history and modernity.

The Crimson Archives, a repository of knowledge and secrets, awaited your exploration. The Cardinal, his curiosity undiminished, glanced toward you with a glint of excitement in his eyes. The Ghouls, ever vigilant, maintained a discreet presence, their loyalty to the Cardinal evident in every step.

As you approached the entrance, the imposing facade of the archives loomed overhead, a testament to the weight of the knowledge contained within its walls. The building itself was designed in the typical Edwardian Baroque fashion, a classic from the 1600s that had made its way all across Europe to decorate the streets of the well-to-do, adding a sense of grandeur. The white exterior was profanely white, as though someone was out with a toothbrush every single day, cleaning the brickwork and repainting it to hide any and all blemishes.

The monochromatic exterior was interrupted only by the double-doored entrance, a vivid splash of red staining the wood. The crimson hue, reminiscent of dried blood, served as a stark reminder that beyond those doors lay the repository of forbidden knowledge—the Crimson Archives.

As you approached the entrance, the weight of anticipation hung in the air. The Ghouls, their presence silent and imposing, flanked you and the Cardinal, their loyalty a reassuring presence. The red doors creaked open, inviting you to step into the enigmatic world that awaited beyond.

Crossing the threshold, you entered a realm where time seemed to stand still. The interior, bathed in a muted light that filtered through stained glass windows, exuded an air of reverence. The scent of ancient parchment and weathered leather permeated the air, as if the very essence of knowledge clung to the surroundings.

Rows of towering bookshelves lined the expansive space, each shelf bearing the weight of countless tomes. Dust motes danced in the filtered sunlight, adding a touch of magic to the ambiance. The hallowed halls echoed with the whispers of the past, inviting you to unravel the secrets concealed within the carefully preserved volumes.

As you and the Cardinal ventured deeper into the Crimson Archives, the architectural beauty and the solemnity of the surroundings intensified. The knowledge held within these walls spanned centuries, and the building itself stood as a testament to the reverence bestowed upon the pursuit of wisdom.

Every step further into the archives felt like a journey through time, a pilgrimage into the mysteries that lay dormant, waiting to be unearthed. The building, with its timeless design and meticulous preservation, stood as a guardian of the secrets you sought, a silent witness to the ebb and flow of history that had left its mark on every page within.

The interior of the Crimson Archives continued the theme of elegant austerity with a predominantly monochromatic palette. An airy atmosphere that encircled the room in a timeless hug, was created by the towering bookshelves’ shadows dancing across the white walls.

The black accents, whether in the form of wrought-iron railings or the dark frames of portraits lining the walls, added a touch of sophistication to the otherwise pristine interior. The interplay of light and dark accentuated the architectural details, casting a mysterious allure that beckoned those who dared to explore further.

Crimson red, the color that lent the archives its name, punctuated the surroundings like droplets of blood against a canvas of parchment. The rich hue adorned draperies that framed arched windows, lending a warm contrast to the cool tones dominating the space. Plush rugs underfoot absorbed the echo of footsteps, muffling sound and enhancing the sense of reverence.

Wooden furnishings, stained with a reddish tint, added to the overall warmth of the archives. The bookshelves, meticulously organized and towering towards the ceiling, featured rich, dark wood that cradled the weight of centuries-old knowledge. Each shelf, each tome, seemed to radiate history, promising a journey through time with every page turned.

The two of you stood before the unattended front desk, the absence of any library staff adding an extra layer of mystery to the already cryptic atmosphere. The desk, pristine and uncluttered, awaited the presence of a librarian or archivist to assist in navigating the vast sea of knowledge housed within the Crimson Archives.

All was vacant save for the single silver bell that guarded the area. Gleaming like a beacon in the poorly lit surroundings, its smooth surface reflected the surrounding light. Beside it was a plain note with a clear instruction in exquisite script, “Ring for assistance.”

“What kind of cult have we walked into?” You asked, taking in your surroundings.

The Cardinal noticed your unease, and rested his hand on your shoulder. “This sounds like the beginning of a very bad joke, no? Two Satanists walk into a cult’s archives…”

You chuckled, feeling a little calmer. As you reached for the bell, a faint sense of anticipation hung in the air. The Cardinal observed with a mix of curiosity and amusement, perhaps intrigued by the prospect of unraveling the secrets within the hallowed halls of the Crimson Archives. With a gentle tap of your finger against the silver surface, a melodious chime echoed through the silence, resonating with the reverence of ages past.

The sound lingered for a moment before dissipating into the air, leaving a quiet expectancy in its wake. The hushed whispers of pages turning and the distant creak of aging wood filled the void, creating an ambiance that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the written word.

Eventually, a Lord Worthington waddled forward, his ample belly preceding him. He was indeed bald, with a shiny forehead that reflected the overhead lights. His round face was flushed, and beads of perspiration adorned his bald pate. Despite his portly appearance, there was an air of joviality about him. He sported a finely groomed, gray mustache that curled at the ends, giving him a somewhat eccentric air. Lord Worthington was the founder of the Crimson Archives - essentially a personal collection of ancient artifacts and texts belonging to a man with too much money in his bank account.

“Your Dark Eminence!” he exclaimed, extending a plump hand towards the Cardinal. His fingers were adorned with several ornate rings, and he wore a cream-colored waistcoat that strained against the girth of his belly. Each word he spoke seemed to be accompanied by a cough, as if his excitement and his respiratory system were engaged in a perpetual tug-of-war. Lord Worthington’s eyes twinkled with a mix of reverence and genuine enthusiasm as he quickly shook the Cardinal’s hand, hard enough to shake his entire body. “It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here at the Crimson Archives, sir! What a delightful encounter. I suppose you’re here for that Eden book, yes?”

“Sì. If you could take us to it, that would be helpful.”

Lord Worthington beamed, his excitement undeterred by the Cardinal’s succinct response. “Of course, Your Dark Eminence! Right this way!”

He led you and Cardinal Copia, and by extension, the Ghouls, through the labyrinthine corridors of the Crimson Archives. The air was heavy with the scent of aged paper, and the occasional cough from Lord Worthington punctuated the quiet rustle of unseen activity. You couldn’t help but marvel at the vastness of the collection and the meticulously organized shelves that seemed to stretch into infinity.

After what felt like a journey through time itself with the Lord talking to you both about the history of the archives, Lord Worthington stopped before a particularly ornate set of double doors. The crimson theme persisted here, with intricate patterns etched into the dark wood. He produced a set of antique keys, each one adorned with a different emblem, and selected the appropriate one to unlock the doors.

“Here we are, Your Dark Eminence, Sister,” he announced, ushering you into a room that seemed plucked from a forgotten era. The smell of aged parchment was more pronounced here, and the room was illuminated by the warm glow of antique chandeliers. Ornate bookshelves lined the walls, each one crammed with dusty tomes that bore the weight of centuries.

“In this chamber, we keep some of our most prized possessions. May I present to you, Eden’s Veiled Chronicles,” Lord Worthington gestured towards a display case in the center of the room. Inside, under the protective gaze of glass, rested an ancient manuscript bound in cracked leather and adorned with faded symbols.

The Cardinal’s eyes lit up with anticipation. “May we…?” he began, gesturing towards the display case.

“Of course, Your Eminence! Feel free to examine it as closely as you’d like. It’s an honor to have you here,” Lord Worthington responded, his voice filled with genuine reverence.

As you delicately extracted the Chronicles from its protective casing, a sense of reverence settled in the air. The ancient manuscript, veiled in the passage of time, revealed itself in all its glory.

The cover, made of cracked leather with an otherworldly patina, cradled the secrets within. Faded symbols, once vibrant, adorned the surface, telling a story of eras long past. The leather, though aged, retained a certain suppleness, a testament to the craftsmanship of a bygone age.

Upon opening the cover, the parchment pages unfolded like the petals of a timeworn flower. The script, a dance of ink on the vellum, told the tale of Eden’s secrets. The language was fluid, an intricate dance of ancient Hebrew, and the illustrations, though faded, spoke of a world unseen.

The Chronicles bore the marks of countless hands that had touched its pages over the centuries. Annotations in different hands adorned the margins, an ongoing conversation across the ages. Fragments of commentary in Latin, Aramaic, and even Phoenician wove together a tapestry of understanding and interpretation.

The illustrations, a blend of artistic expression and symbolic representation, depicted scenes from the Garden of Eden not commonly known. Angels, serpents, and enigmatic figures danced across the pages, each stroke of ink telling a story lost to common narratives.

As you turned the pages with the utmost care, the scent of ancient wisdom, a mixture of parchment and the faintest whisper of long-gone eras, wafted through the air. The Chronicles seemed to exhale the secrets it held, secrets waiting to be unveiled to those who sought knowledge beyond the veil of conventional understanding.

The Cardinal leaned in, his eyes tracing the ancient words and symbols with a mixture of awe and curiosity. In order to get as close as possible, you felt his hand on the small of your back, then his fingertips dancing towards your waist, pulling you closer to him. Ordinarily, this would infuriate you, but as it was the Cardinal’s hand clutching onto your body, you found your cheeks flushing. Lord Worthington watched, his coughs momentarily silenced in the presence of such historical significance.

“It’s extraordinary.” The Cardinal said, enthralled by its enigmatic histories that he was unable to decipher.

“It’s so well preserved, Your Dark Eminence,” you told him, equally magnitised, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How long do you think it would take you to translate it?”

“I couldn’t say - maybe a few months. But I’m so excited to get started. Look here,” you pointed to a passage that you were the only one able to understand, “it’s the story of Lilith and how she fell from Yhwh’s graces!”

“Straordinario! What’s the story?”

“Well, it starts how we’re used to reading it: created from Adam’s rib, refused to be subservient, was kicked out of Eden. But we never truly learned what happened to Her afterwards. There’s something in here about the Dark One finding Her, reviving Her with water, and taking Her to Hell with Him - but I’ll need my notes to understand the specifics. It sounds more like a love story than anything else. I’m so excited.”

You finally looked up at the Cardinal, whose eyes were fixated on your face again. His pupils were dilated significantly, as he stared at your face - eyes lingering a little to long on your lips. His hand, which was still around your waist, had tightened its grip and subconsciously pulled you closer to him. You could feel his rapid heartbeat through his cassock, feel the heat of his nervousness emanating from him like a radiator. You felt lured to lean in closer, to feel his warm breath on his cheek, to taste his lips that no doubt still tasted like the coffee he drank earlier. Your eyes were searching in his for something, anything - maybe even a bit of confidence to do what you’d been longing to do the moment you saw him. You did. You allowed your head to lean in just a tad. You were so close to him.

His breath.

His hand.

His -

A cough brought you out of whatever spell the Cardinal had put you under, and you both backed away from each other as quickly as you could. The Cardinal’s eyes were shifty and nervous, while your lips were caught between your teeth in disbelief. That was the closest you’d ever been to him, and the pull of something more was so unbearable it almost clouded your judgment.

You were about to kiss your boss’ boss’ boss, in an archive that didn’t belong to you, holding a 1500-year-old text about the creators of your faith. Your cheeks filled with embarrassment at the thought of Lord Worthington watching this happen right in front of him, and being the one to wheeze his way into breaking up the spectacle.

Naturally, a man who held a lot of money wouldn’t let something so valuable go out of the kindness of his heart. The British Aristocracy had no idea what kindness even meant - everything they did was for the good of their bank account. The Chronicles belonged in the Ministry and the Ministry’s archives. It was an important piece of religious history that needed to be with its siblings and on display for everyone to see, not just the obscenely rich. It took a lot of negotiating to get Lord Worthington to agree to a price that didn’t absolutely bankrupt the Church, with a little extra intimidation provided by Mountain in order to sweeten the deal. But, this important piece of history now belonged to the Ministry, the acquisition was finalised, and the next day you’d both be returning back to Rome.

The hotel, an opulent sanctuary nestled in the heart of London, exuded an air of grandeur that resonated with the city’s rich history. As you and the Cardinal entered the lavish establishment, the grand foyer unfolded before you in a symphony of elegance.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow that danced upon the intricately patterned carpets below. The walls adorned with historical tapestries whispered tales of the past, and the subdued lighting added a touch of mystique to the atmosphere.

The concierge, clad in a tailored uniform, greeted you with a courteous smile before he led the way through ornate corridors adorned with classical artwork, creating an ambiance that blended the contemporary with the timeless. You marveled at the seamless fusion of luxury and tradition, a setting befitting the dignitaries and scholars who sought refuge within its walls.

In the quiet solitude of your room, you took a moment to marvel at the view from the window. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a testament to London’s vibrant energy. The bed, adorned with plush linens, promised a night of restful repose.

You took off your veil, rolled up your habit’s sleeves, and combed your hair back from your face. Lying on the polished desk like a quiet oracle waiting to reveal its secrets was the text, a relic of antiquated wisdom, persuading you to get straight to work. Bathed in the soft light of well-placed lamps, the room filled you with the anticipation of discovery.

You didn’t realise that time had passed you by in all the hours you spent hunched over your desk. You only noticed it was dark outside when a gentle knock at the door pulled you out of your work, and you’d already translated the first two chapters. You stood and opened the door to reveal the Cardinal standing there, awkward as ever, holding a plastic bag in his gloved hands. “Ah, Sorella!” He greeted. He was about to say something when he saw your appearance. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he felt his mouth go dry. There was something so intoxicating about your dishevelled appearance and sleepy, work-tired eyes, he found it difficult to string even the simplest of sentences together. “Y-you had disappeared for a few hours, I assumed you had begun working on the text, sì?”

“Oh, yes, Your Dark Eminence. Sorry, I lost track of time.”

The Cardinal smiled. “I thought you might. And, call me Copia, please. Only if you want to, of course. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable. But I would prefer you to call me Copia.”

“Copia.” You said softly, feeling the name on the tip of your tongue and getting used to it. You opened the door. “Please, come in.”

“Ah, sì, grazie. I have brought, uh, Chinese food. I thought you might be hungry. I brought some for myself, too. I was, uh - I was hoping to join you. But, i-if you don’t want me to then I’ll get my stuff and go - nessun problema.”

“No, I’d like that… you to join me, I mean.”

Copia smiled and let out a soft and breathy laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You said, copying everything he just did without realising. For some reason, you felt nervous at this exchange. Your heart was light yet pulsating quickly in your chest as you set up the coffee table with the food.

“After dinner,” Copia began, “I was hoping to see what you’d completed so far. Is that okay?”

“Of course, Your Dark… Copia.”

Copia laughed at the way you corrected yourself.

Once the table was set up for dinner, the two of you began to tuck in on the feast. You didn’t realise until the first bite just how hungry you actually were.

The warmth of the Chinese food filled the room, accompanied by the quiet clinking of cutlery against porcelain. The atmosphere shifted from scholarly concentration to a more casual friendly conversation as you and Copia shared the simple pleasure of a shared meal. The fragrant aroma of the dishes mingled with the heady scent of ancient texts, creating an eclectic symphony that defined this unique moment in time.

Copia, despite his position as a Cardinal and leader of the dark congregation, displayed an endearing awkwardness. His genuine attempts at conversation and the occasional nervous laughter drew a smile from you, making the evening feel remarkably relaxed. It was a side of him that few were privileged to witness, and you found yourself appreciating the authenticity beneath the ceremonial robes.

As you both enjoyed the meal, conversation flowed effortlessly between bites of food and sips of tea. Copia’s inquiries about your progress with the translation prompted you to share the revelations from the Chronicles. The text, a silent witness to millennia, now whispered its secrets to those willing to listen.

After dinner, you guided Copia to the desk where your translation work awaited. The dim light cast a gentle glow on the pages, and as you began to explain the nuances of the ancient script, Copia listened with an attentiveness that transcended his usual awkwardness. His eyes, normally obscured by the dark recesses of Cardinal makeup, displayed a genuine curiosity that mirrored your own.

The Cardinal’s presence brought a new dimension to the room, and the collaborative effort to uncover the mysteries of the Chronicles continued. Together, you and Copia navigated the labyrinthine passages of ancient knowledge, forging a connection that transcended the formalities of your respective roles within the Ministry.

Copia leaned over the desk, his eyes scanning the carefully translated pages of Eden’s Veiled Chronicles. His expression shifted from curiosity to genuine admiration as he perused your meticulous work. The dim light accentuated the lines on his face, adding a touch of vulnerability to the Cardinal’s usual composed demeanour.

“Sorella, this is exceptional,” he exclaimed, his voice a blend of surprise and appreciation. “Your dedication to this translation is truly commendable. It’s not an easy task, and yet you’ve navigated the intricacies of the text with such finesse.”

A warmth spread through you, a mix of pride and the satisfaction of receiving acknowledgment from someone whose opinion carried weight within the Ministry. Copia’s genuine compliments were like rays of light breaking through the shadows of the ancient library.

“I… thank you, Copia,” you replied, a hint of bashfulness in your voice. “I’m just doing my part.”

He nodded, a genuine smile playing on his lips. “You’re more than just ‘doing your part.’ You’re preserving knowledge, bringing to light the hidden narratives of our beliefs. This text could hold secrets that reshape our understanding of our faith.”

The compliment, spoken with such earnestness, made you appreciate the significance of your work even more. The connection between you and Copia deepened, forged by a shared reverence for the knowledge contained within the Chronicles.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, a charged atmosphere swirling around you and Copia. His eyes, a captivating blend of intensity and vulnerability, met yours with an unspoken question. The uncharted territory of desire loomed between you, and the words hung in the air like a forbidden incantation.

“Sorella,” Copia began, his voice a soft murmur, “I want to kiss you. May I kiss you? If not, that’s okay, I’ll understand.”

Your heart fluttered, caught between the pulse of curiosity and the gravity of the moment. A gentle nod from you granted permission for a connection that transcended the scholarly pursuit of knowledge. Copia approached slowly, bridging the gap with a careful reverence.

His gloved hand brushed against your cheek, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. He leaned forward, and the warmth of his presence surrounded you, capturing the silent anticipation of the room. The kiss, tender yet laden with unspoken emotions, sealed a connection that reached beyond the confines of the Crimson Archives.

Time seemed to stand still as you shared that stolen moment, the world outside the hotel room fading away. Copia’s kiss held a delicate balance of longing and restraint, a testament to the complexity of emotions that bound you together. The quiet intimacy unfolded, painting a tapestry of shared desire and the unspoken connection that had blossomed amidst the ancient texts.

As the kiss lingered, a myriad of emotions played out in the silent spaces between breaths. It was a dance of vulnerability and acceptance, the uncharted territory explored with a shared understanding. When the moment finally released its hold, a soft whimper escaped Copia’s lips.

He tried to pull away for a moment, but you didn’t want to. Your hands pulled at his cassock pulling him impossibly closer, refusing to let him disappear too soon. A desperation filled you, a need that had been bubbling under the surface for years and years until it had spilled over between the walls of a beautiful, London hotel room. Copia’s whimper elicited your own, which in turn, did something to him that he hadn’t felt in years, something he thought he’d never feel again.

His own gloved hands tugged at your waist as his tongue slid into your mouth, welcoming him willingly. Warmth pooled in between your legs when he pushed you against the edge of the desk and trapped you between his plush body and the wood. You could feel him growing hard beneath his robes, his centre now flush with yours and rocking against you slightly. He didn’t realise what he was doing until he was mid thrust, and he pulled back from you as though you’d electrocuted him. “Sorella,” his voice was breathless and low, almost growly, “you have to tell me you don’t want this now. Otherwise I won’t stop until I’ve had you.”

The black of his top lips had been completely smudged off, originally from the grease of the Chinese food, but finished by the friction against your lips. His cheeks were flushed purely pink from the embarrassment of his desperation for you, but also from sheer want of your body against his.

“Please don’t stop.” Your voice matched his, except for the little whimper that punctuated the end of the sentence.

Immediately, he attached his lips to yours, a little rougher than before but no less enjoyable. You wrapped your arms around him like a koala clinging to a tree, eyes closing and whimpering at the feeling of Copia’s clothed cock grinding against your sensitive clit. You gripped onto him stiffly, hair standing on end as you felt his lips travel down to the corner of your mouth, then land on your neck and began to lick and kiss at the sensitive spot there.

Copia’s mind forced him to move, despite all the blood being rushed down south and making it difficult to think. He removed his right glove, and dipped his now bare hand under the skirt of your habit. Naked fingertips stroked against a naked thigh, and travelled all the way up to your panties, now soaked with your need for Copia. Those fingers hooked around the gusset of your panties and pulled them to the side, before running along your folds and gathering up your slick. You were dripping for him. So wet you coated his fingers as if he’d just put his fingers into a lake. He’d pulled his cock away from you momentarily so that he could check to see how ready you were for him, but found himself humping against your thigh in his need for pleasure.

“Mi dispiace, amore. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

You reached for his cassock and began undoing as many buttons necessary in order to free him. “Please,” you begged, your voice muffled by the kisses you were giving him, “give it to me. I need to feel you, Copia.”

As soon as he was free, he lined himself up and pushed inside. As soon as he entered you, you watched as his eyes rolled back and his mouth hung open. He was slow at first, aware of the fact that he hadn’t stretched you out before hand and curbing his need for you long enough to not hurt you. But even so, it was a battle against his body. Your nails dug into his clothed shoulders, gripping firmly at the pressure in your cunt, and relaxing around the intrusion. He felt divine, as though he were a puzzle piece slotting into the right place on the board. As though he were made specifically for you. He was long enough to hit your cervix when he’d bottomed out, and thick enough to stretch you, but none of it hurt.

As soon as he’d halfway, he stayed still, capturing your lips in another kiss and licking into your mouth like a starved man; borderline crazy and frantic with his actions. It took him a little while to get the wherewithal to speak, and once he did it was through a breathless and strained voice where he was clearly trying to not cum too soon. “Merda!” He hissed, feeling your tight, wet heat comfortably wrap him. “You are the reason men sin.”

The gravity of his words had you clenching around him, earning a delicious whimper to fall from his lips.

“Non fare così!” He exclaimed through pained laughter., dropping his head back to the crook of your neck. “I don’t want to cum too soon.”

“Copia, please.”

Copia pushed the remainder of his cock inside you, slamming home involuntarily and making both of you moan out in surprised pleasure. Your toes curled at the feeling of the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, and you teethed at his jaw.

His hips began pistoning in and out of you, each thrust slow and hard, driving into you with precision and force. His hands moved to your hips for leverage, creating just a little space between your bodies allowing him to fuck into you like you both needed. His cock filled you so nicely, your back arched and your shoulders rested against the cold wall, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you clutched onto his shoulders as though your life depended on it.

The noises Copia was making as he pumped into you were things you’d only heard in your fantasies under the cover of night when you were touching yourself, dreaming of this exact moment. His whimpers; the grunts and groans that escaped him along with the breathy moans and the strings of Italian expletives that made your cunt squeeze around him so impossibly good, dribbles of drool were beginning to spill from the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it, amore.” Copia said breathlessly as he continued to rail you. “St-stretching around my cock. You’re doing so well for me.”

The desk groaned beneath you from the force of Copia’s thrusts and the weight of you and all the desires the two of you harboured for one another. It smacked against the wall repetitively as Copia released all those pent-up feelings and poured them into your soul. His eyes travelled up and down your body, taking in the sinful sight of your clothed breasts bouncing beneath your habit. Your dishevelled appearance that had him blush when he first saw you now had him feral and dying for you with each thrust into the utopia that was your cunt. He could feel himself get more and more addicted to the feel of you. As long as you allowed him, he’d have you every single day.

“Wanted you for so long!” You hurried out, confessing your sins like you were in the booth in the Basilica di Lilith.

“Yeah?” Copia reached down and began playing with your clit. “Is this everything you wished for, amore?”

“Feels so good! Fuck!”

“Pretty little thing, taking my cock so well.” He leaned forward and began kissing and licking at your neck again, pressing himself as close to you as he could without hindering the movements of his fingers against your clit. His bare fingers stroking over your folds sent shivers down your spine. That coupled with the pounding he was giving you and you didn’t stand a chance. It was a matter of minutes before you came all over his cock, seconds if he moved just a little bit faster.

You suddenly became hyper aware of the papers below you, strewn about across the desk messily. Thankfully the Chronicles were safe on the other side of the desk, but your translations were at risk of flooding if you didn’t say something. But the words died in your throat when you tried to ask Copia to move. They couldn’t leave your mouth because the angle he was hitting you at was just so good, it left you gasping for air and loudly moaning into his ear.

“So beautiful.” Copia said, muffled by your skin. By now his words were slurred and his thrusts were erratic, his fingers the only appendage responding to their fullest capacity because your orgasm was on the line. “I want you to cum, amore. Cum on my cock. All over my fingers. You’re already so nice and wet for me. Let’s see if you can get wetter.”

“Fuck, Copia!”

“That’s it - say my name.”

“Copia!”

“Again, amore!”

“Fuck! Copia! I’m gonna cum!”

“That’s it. Such a good girl. Cum for me.”

The knot in your stomach finally snapped and you came harder than you had in Lucifer knew how long. Touching yourself to the thought of Copia turned out to be nothing like the real thing - the way his body slotted so perfectly between your legs was nothing short of a curse, because you knew now that nothing else would ever be the same. Nothing else would make you feel as good. No one else could ever take care of you the way he could. As you came around his cock, he talked you through it, planting kisses on your exposed skin and holding you close to him, all the while not letting his fingers rest until you pushed him away from you.

Then, it was his turn. With a strangled groan that poured into your mouth like the sweetest nectar, he emptied himself inside of you. He whimpered pathetically with each thrust, almost silenced by your tongue in his mouth. The hand that remained on your hip sturdy with its grip and clasped onto you to stop himself from tumbling over with the sheer force of his orgasm. Yeah, he could quickly get used to this.

After a few moments of staying where he was, kissing you just as passionately as he had moments before, he finally pulled away and rested his forehead onto yours.

“Ciao.” He said softly.

You rolled your eyes at the reference to the Black Mass so long ago, but your mouth shaped into a brilliant smile, with eyes that beamed to happily, Copia was almost blinded by them. “Ciao.” You responded, a giggle catching in your throat and distorting the word ever so softly.

“Ah, amore, we have a problem.”

Your stomach sank. “What?” You asked, preparing yourself for the worst.

“I came inside you.”

You sighed in relief. “Oh, it’s okay. The Ministry provides birth control for all those who want it - I wanted it.”

“Ah, sì. That I know. But… my cock is the only thing stopping my cum from escaping. And you’re sat on some papers.”

Your eyes widened, remembering your want to move locations just moments ago. Your mind went blank. “Shit! Oh, no, no, no!”

“It’s okay! There are tissues-”

“On the other side of the room!”

“Okay, I could pull out and-”

“Then your cum would get all over my translations!”

After some back and forth, it was decided that you would awkwardly lift and wiggle your hips so Copia could reach underneath you and pull the flimsy paper out from beneath you. Every time you did, you would accidentally clench down on his softening cock, and he would hiss or scream out in, what sounded like pain, but it was mostly just sensitivity. That, and he knew that one more clench from you would have him chubbing up inside you again, and he was too tired for round two. At least immediately, anyway.

Once you were both certain your hard work had been saved, Copia placed two gentle taps on your thigh. “See? No harm done. All is well.”

“I may have cried if my work was destroyed.”

Copia pulled out of you, causing both of you to whimper at the sensation. But, Copia placed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your cheek with his gloved hand. “I would never be the reason for your tears, amore.”

You leaned into his touch, but removed the glove before you did allowing you to feel his bare skin on yours. You placed a soft kiss to his hand, finding comfort and solace in his touch. You believed him. You knew he would never do anything to hurt you. “Grazie.”

Copia smiled, looking at you with pure adoration in his eyes. “Prego! Now, I think we should clean up, don’t you?”

You nodded and allowed Copia to help you off the desk and lead you into the bathroom.

You had never showered or cleaned up with another person after sex. Your conquests at the Ministry had usually been either ritual-based or so casual, your partner barely stayed after the fact. But Copia was leading you to the bathroom with his own hands, and turning on the water as hot as possible to get it nice and warm for you when you both were ready - and by Lucifer, did that man take care of you.

He started by brushing your hair, picking up each section gently and working out any knots in it until it was silky smooth and primed and ready for washing, all the while making low conversation with you, his tenor, nasally voice reverberating around the bathroom and bringing comfort to your ears as he worked away at your hair.

He then unzipped your habit, and helped you out of it, folding it neatly to place on the counter so that it would be ready for the next time you wanted to wear it - or pack it, he wasn’t sure.

Bras were tricky garments for Copia, usually when he was too horny to function and wanted access to his partner’s chest. But right now, he was able to take his time with the evil thing, and place soft kisses on your exposed skin to distract you from how long it was actually taking. But, once your breasts were freed, your bra joined your habit on the bathroom counter. He took a moment to appreciate your naked form, drinking in the way you looked completely bare to him. He tried not to stare too long, lest you become uncomfortable and ask that he left - which he would, but he didn’t want to.

You were stunning. So beautiful he almost wanted to put you in a museum and marvel at your work. You’d put Michelangelo’s work to shame if you were placed next to it. You would embarrass the classic artists of old with your beauty. He picked up your hand, “One day, amore, I will worship you so well it will make the gods jealous,” and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

He couldn’t be real - there was no way that a line like that came out of a man like him in your overpriced hotel bathroom filled with steam, so quickly after getting to know you. It was like he had come straight from the pages of a book, complete with all the right lines and gestures to make you fall in love with him.

The Cardinal’s words, a blend of poetic elegance and genuine emotion, painted a canvas of longing and passion spoken in one of the least romantic spots on Earth yet it had your heart racing violently in your chest. The weight of his gaze and the timbre of his voice wove a spell, binding you in a moment suspended in the tapestry of time.

His own clothes took less time to remove, as though he were that one particular scene of the movie Bruce Almighty, where his clothes are just ripped from him and he’s ready to do… well, whatever task one might need to do when naked. The sheer speed of the man, launching his cassock and robes all around the room and making you laugh with the absurdity of it. His salt and pepper hair, a mess from his hat and his Cardinal’s paints a small mess from the exertion of before.

You both got in the shower and washed away the mess of the day from each other’s bodies, lathering soap and rubbing it all over each other, removing each other’s paints and make up and washing each other’s hair. Copia took extra care around your vulva, making sure to clean you thoroughly but as gently as he possibly could so as not to cause you any pain. A thorough lover in all aspects - you wanted to keep him forever.

You dried yourselves off, being silly with the hairdryer before he gave you a gentle kiss and the two of you headed into the bedroom. He picked up his robes and was about to dress himself until you stopped him and told him to join you in bed.

As you and Copia curled up in the softness of the comfortable cushions, the room’s soothing glow from the bedside lamp created a peaceful cocoon. The blankets, a sanctuary of warmth, held the heat that radiated from your joined bodies. He gestured for you to lie on his chest, where your fingers danced and stroked over his hairy torso, drawing the lines of his tattooed “666” over his heart, his chubbiness acting as the ideal pillow. You had only ever seen it in the Ministry’s stained glass windows and, later, in stage replicas of the same stained glass during his performance in the Ghost Project. You didn’t think it was real, but there it was, faded from years of age and hidden partially beneath brown chest hair. The abs in his stained glass replica certainly weren’t real, but there was something about his jiggly tummy that made you happy.

In your hotel room, a soft calmness consumed the two of you, like your own private sanctuary. The authentic connection that formed between you and the Cardinal seemed to eclipse the problems of the day, the weight of your responsibilities, and the Ministry’s norms and regulations.

As you lay side by side, the vulnerability caused by the openness of the conversation and the tenderness of the dim light highlighting your faces. Copia’s comments resonated deeply with a man who had taken solace in the carefree moment’s simplicity, akin to the lines of a lovely song.

The Cardinal’s unbridled, sincere laughter permeated the room, a soft refrain that broke between the calm discussions and times of mutual delight. The walls that usually covered the complexity of your lives came down during this quiet talk, and you two were able to get to know each other on a level that would never have been possible. He was Copia Emeritus, the youngest son of a man who had once performed the same role as him, and an innocent boy who had grown up in a difficult environment. He was more than just the Cardinal and the Head of the Satanic Church. And you were able to lay your soul bare to a man who could understand your troubles in a way not many people could. A rare connection, but a real one.

The soft rustle of the blankets and the soothing rhythm of breathing created a lullaby of comfort,wrapping both of you in a gentle touch of the night. His arm wrapped around your naked body in a hug of protection, drawing you as near to him as he could, as if you were his own.

A fresh day looming over London, sincere conversation, warmth between you and Copia, and a bedroom filled with the soft murmuring of dreams were the small things that brought you comfort in life. With its gentle wings, the night captivated you both, trapping you in a dreamlike world and a soundless melody of hearts interwoven in the unholy.

The throb of excitement and the rush of unexpected intimacy blended with the ashes of dreams that twirled on the brink of awareness, and you fell asleep hardly comprehending the position you were in, but committing it to memory, nonetheless. In order to get a good night’s rest, you made sure to quell the fear that he’d be gone in the morning, and you’d come to the horror that this was all a dream - a fantasy your brain concocted to cope with the idea that you were so close to him.

The soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm embrace upon the room. As consciousness gently reclaimed its hold, you stirred, expecting to find Copia’s presence beside you. However, the realization that the bed was empty washed over you, accompanied by a subtle undercurrent of disappointment.

For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in—had the encounters with Copia been nothing more than the whimsical product of a dream? The vividness of the previous day’s events felt like a mirage, and a sense of yearning lingered in the room, echoing the emptiness left by his absence.

You sat up, the sheets cascading in gentle waves around you, and surveyed the room with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The memories of the shared Chinese dinner, the playful banter, and the intimacy of being cradled in Copia’s arms seemed almost too fantastical to be real.

As you rose from the bed, the lingering scent of Copia’s presence surrounded you, a subtle fragrance that whispered of the shared moments. A pang of longing accompanied the realization that, regardless of the dreamlike quality of the encounters, there was a void in the room that mirrored the absence of the Cardinal.

Attempting to dispel the lingering doubt, you moved through the room, still as naked as you were when you fell asleep the night before, half-expecting to find traces of him—the imprints of his presence, a forgotten belonging, anything that would validate the reality of the connection. The room, however, revealed no such evidence, leaving you in a state of quiet contemplation.

In the silence of the morning, you grappled with the uncertainty, a delicate dance between the threads of reality and the ephemeral nature of dreams. The longing for Copia’s company lingered, an echo of the intimate moments shared, and the room retained a faint resonance of the enchantment that had unfolded.

“Ciao, Sorella,” Copia greeted, his eyes brightening as he entered, the subtle rustling of the bakery bag in his hands adding a touch of mystery to the moment. The relief that washed over you was palpable, dispelling any lingering doubts about the reality of the connection forged the day before.

“Good morning, Copia,” you responded, a genuine smile gracing your lips as he approached. The aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, a delightful accompaniment to the morning sunlight that bathed the room. He hung the bag from his wrist and used his free hands to cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a passionate kiss before you had the chance to protest at your morning breath.

“I thought breakfast from a local bakery might make for a pleasant start to the day,” Copia explained, presenting the bag as if it held a treasure trove of delights. His demeanour, a blend of awkward charm and genuine warmth, echoed the sincerity of his actions. “I wanted to surprise you, but you’re out of bed.”

“I’m sorry… would you like me to get back in it?”

He nodded. “Sì. This isn’t my bed or yours, and we’re leaving in a few hours. Let’s be heathens and eat pastries under the duvet!”

As he began to unveil the contents of the bag, an array of pastries and bread emerged, each one tempting and inviting. The simple act of sharing breakfast became a moment of connection, a continuation of the unspoken understanding that had woven its way through the shared experiences of the previous day.

You climbed back into bed, watching your fully clothed Cardinal do the same - paints and all adorned on his face as though you hadn’t already seen his bareness the night before. He was chipper - even more so than before. It was nice to see him so relaxed.

The room filled with the comforting scent of fresh bakery delights, you and Copia began to enjoy the morning repast. The ambiance shifted, the initial uncertainty dissipating in the face of this shared moment of simplicity and warmth.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, a mixture of lighthearted banter and genuine interest in each other’s thoughts. As you nibbled on pastries and sipped coffee, the room seemed to come alive with the easy friendship that had developed between you and the Cardinal.

Breakfast finished slowly, lazily. Your time distracted with continuing your conversation from last night before you both fell asleep. The conversation only stilled when Copia returned to the bed, sitting atop the sheets and stroking the hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. Then, his lips were on yours.

He didn’t intend for the kiss to be anything but sweet and chaste, but soon enough, his body was positioning himself over yours and forcing you to lie back against the pillows, one hand propping him up over you, the other roaming over the sheets that covered your body. It was deep and delicious, and made your body tingle with want and your legs spread in anticipation, a silent plea for him to touch you again just as he had the night before.

When he’d removed the duvet from your body, a struggle considering he was on top of them, and had situated himself between your legs, he allowed his hands to wander all over your body as though they were trying to find a destination but kept getting lost. As more and more of your body became exposed to him, he allowed his lips to voyage across your curves, open mouthed kisses leaving trails of saliva in their wake as proof that they’d been there. Your breaths were heavy, allowing your breasts to rise and fall with the exertion. Your lips, kiss-swollen and tantalising, he just wanted to run his tongue over them and taste you in your entirety.

His lips fell upon your chest and worked their way down to your nipples. He tongued the left one, first - fingers pinching the right while he licked and sucked at the bud, groaning as if the taste of you was the most delectable dish he’d ever had the honour of eating.

“I wonder,” he began, lying on his stomach, his hands moving to your thighs and spreading your legs wide enough to slot himself between your thighs, “why Lord Lucifer kept you from me all this time?” He kissed your thigh. “Why he wasted my time on other conquests when the sweetest prize was right under my nose the whole time.”

He groaned at the sight of you; your glistening, taut heat spread and open for his personal viewing, ready and waiting for his tongue to ravish you as you deserved. He kissed up your thighs, and as he did so, you took the opportunity to pick up his hat and toss it across the room. This earned you a chuckle.

One of his fingers ran up and down your folds, catching on your clit once or twice and making you shiver and jolt with anticipation. Then, those fingers that had gathered your slick slipped into his mouth, and his eyes fluttered shut in delight. “Time to make good on my promise and make the gods jealous of you.” He told you, before diving into his newfound faith enthusiastically.

Your hands immediately flew to his hair, digits locking around his mouse-brown strands as your back arched against the wall and completely off the desk. Copia immediately went in, tongue swirling roughly around your sensitive clit and intermittently sucking at it to get those divine noises to spill from your lips. You had no thoughts of quietening yourself, not when his tongue felt like your whole world could collapse at any minute.

It didn’t take long for your hips to start bucking into his face, chasing the pleasure that he was generously giving you. His moustache scratched against your labia as his lips moved, occasionally hitting the right spots and having you clench around nothing. However his cock and his fingers felt last night, was nothing compared to the way he sucked your clit into his mouth, causing loud, uncontrollable moans to spill from your mouth into the cold morning air.

“Copia - fuck!” Your toes curled beneath you as you let out a scream, Copia still flicking his tongue quickly over your folds.

The heat inside the room rose rapidly, making it almost unbearable and causing a sheen of sweat to form on both of you. Copia trapped you in the position he so desperately wanted by firmly pressing your body down and wrapping your legs around his head. He used one arm to keep your hips pressed down while his fingers on the other were sucked into his mouth to wet them with his saliva before they were mercilessly pumped into you.

He adored the sounds you made the night before, but these sounds were entirely different. Brand new. They were boosting his ego and his confidence so much more, allowing him to get a little rougher with his ministrations, stretching you out to fit him beautifully, just as you had before.

Copia moaned as your fingers tugged at his hair, sending vibrations through your heat and throughout your cunt. The sounds that flooded the room were overshadowed by the sinful squelch your wetness made as his fingers worked up and down against that spot. Those fingers reached the parts of you that his tongue was unable to penetrate as he continued to lap at your folds. His fingers felt even better than his tongue, and that fucking moustache was going to send you to an early grave.

As he moved his face, all you could feel was the tickle of prickly hair brushing against your incredibly sensitive spot. You could feel his moustache every time he moved due to his erratic and fast his movements that had your back arching off the matress and your eyes tightly squeezing shut. You were a loud, sweaty mess completely at the mercy of Copia’s actions, and he was fully aware of his actions.

His tongue moved more quickly as you started hitting your high, and his fingers pumped harder, curling to find your favourite and most responsive spots. With his moustache, it didn’t take him long to bring you to your release. Before long, your back arched and you let out a scream as he continued to pump his fingers through your release. You clung to the bedding, needing something to vent your annoyance on. You felt filthy and unholy, Lucifer. It felt so damn good. Copia took his time caressing your folds and surrounding your cunt, savouring every last drop of your exhaled breath as you laboured to breathe. He was enamoured with you. He could never get enough of you.

“Così delizioso,” he told you, pulling back from your core, “could do this forever, amore.”

He crawled up the bed and locked his lips to yours in another desperate kiss, and you groaned at the taste of you on them. As he was on top of you, your hands began working at his robes to get him just as naked as you still were. You needed to feel his skin, needed him against your body otherwise something bad might happen. His robes were a fight and more frustrating than anything else, causing him to stand on the floor and remove everything as quickly as he could on his own, but the whole endeavour ended in a fit of giggles from the both of you as he dived back on top of you, fervently kissing you.

His cock dragged through your folds as he rubbed against you, giving himself just a little respite from the intense feeling and making you shiver with sensitivity below him. “So wet, amore. All for me, sì?”

“Yes, Copia.” You whispered, your breaths ragged and strained. “Only you.”

His cock jumped at the thought. Were you really considering giving yourself to him forever after only one night together? Were you so willing to belong to him so soon? He loved the thought - the idea that you were so enamoured by him that you just couldn’t refuse; that you didn’t want to refuse him.

“Amore, I could tell you all the things I love and adore about you and stuff your pretty cunt with my cock all day and night. You want that?”

“Yes!” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his cock kept rubbing against your clit, now sopping wet with your juices.

He moved his hips back and, without moving his hands, lined up with your entrance. “Do you want it, amore? Do you want my cock?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me how much.”

“So much, Copia, please. I want your cock to fill me up so fucking good. Please give it to m- oh, fuck!”

He pushed inside of you before you could even finish the sentence, apparently more needy for your cunt than he thought. There was a brief ache from his pounding last night, a twinge that had your eyebrows furrowing, but your mouth hanging open at the pleasure of the stretch.

His kisses traced the same areas they did the night before, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he tried to not cum too soon, especially with the way your cunt was fluttering against him. You were twitching, as if you were begging him to move or do something. But the way he was riled up combined with the way you felt was a terrible combination that would only end in him spoiling the fun before it had even got started. You were truly delectable in every sense of the word - an addiction forming with no hope of relief. Not that he would ever be willing to quit.

“Sathanas,” he whispered into your skin, “this cunt!”

He tested the waters, thrusting once, twice, then three times before deeming his body recovered enough from the initial invasion to pick up the pace and start taking what he needed from you.

“Ah!” Each time those noises fell from your lips was when he thrusted particularly deep inside you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix beautifully and forcing the involuntary sounds to escape.

Copia was draped over you, covering you entirely; pinning you against the mattress with his full weight. There was no way you could move, no way you could think independently of the pleasure that he was putting your body through. You just had to lie there and take it with your legs wrapped around his hips trying to keep him as deep as possible so he’d keep giving you the pleasure you were desperately craving.

“Amore, you’re doing so well,” he panted, “you’re so gorgeous all wet and screaming for me. Merda! Giving yourself to me like this. An honour.”

The position he was in on top of you, and the way he pinned you down with the whole weight of his body, meant that his pubic mound was grinding against your clit, stimulating you with each grind of his hips. Your nails dug into his back and ran down it, creating red welts that Copia knew he’d wear proudly for weeks until they disappeared entirely. The feeling of your nails digging into him did something that drove him to the brink of insanity, and he found himself moving much faster than before.

You were close to cumming, but so was he. A mere few thrusts away before he was cumming deep inside your tight, wet heat, losing himself in your body as he had the night before. You felt divine - like sin itself had come alive just to torment him. He couldn’t believe you’d been there all that time and he’d not noticed you until that Black Mass a mere month ago. Yet here he was, balls deep inside you a second time, fucking you within an inch of both of your lives and needing to just… bite.

“Cumming!” You yelled, your voice high-pitched and straight out of a porno.

“That’s it, amore. Just like that. Cum all over this cock.”

Your second orgasm, just as powerful as your first, had your legs locking around Copia’s hips and forcing him deeper, restricting his wriggle room and making him take the full attack of your fluttering cunt as you spasmed beneath him. Your toes curled, your body arched as much as Copia would allow it to, and your eyes screwed tightly shut from the force of it all.

This triggered his own orgasm, cumming deep inside you and gripping onto your body so firmly, he’d leave a bruise. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, mouth attached to the skin and muffled groans emanating from the area as his hips shook with his own force. His body responded similarly to yours - as in, it was completely out of control. It wasn’t until your legs unlocked him and you allowed him some freedom to pull away, he’d noticed the hickey he’d left on your neck.

“Amore,” he said breathlessly, “I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?”

“Not at all,” you replied, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

He poked the hickey - it only hurt a little, as a fresh bruise usually would.

Despite being free, he fell back on top of you, using your entire body as a pillow. He was too tired to move now - too comfortable, too happy. He couldn’t possibly think about the horror that was coming… having to leave this cozy room and soft bed, the warmth of your arms, to get on a cold plane where he’d have to pretend he wasn’t utterly enamoured (and horny) by your presence alone.

But reality called, and work awaited.

This time, however, he’d have you by his side, or even underneath him, whenever he wanted.

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