hello! call me Lye ✦ she/her ✦ 27 ✦ I dabble in writing and graphic design
this blog is anti-censorship, NSFW & strictly 18+ only, do not interact if you're a minor - I will block you.
primarily post the band Ghost, COD, heavy music, & all things devilishly gothic 🥀
masterlist ✦ my edits ✦ my AO3
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i do think, the very thing i love most about the papas is what i’m supposed to love least. how very flawed they are! there is no denying, ever. we know primo is an absolute lunatic, that he is doomerist, that he believes in the end of humanity. we know secondo is a sad, bitter, broken man, that he is indulgent, that he is self-destructive. we know that terzo is charismatic, bordering manipulative, too idealistic, too ambitious, proud, broken in his very own ways.
and then there is copia. a hater from the moment we met him, insulting terzo, insulting his father. he is angry, he is jealous, he is, at times, way too full of himself, he dislikes his father but he also acts like his father, he repeatedly gets stepped on and yet his first instinct is to step on his brother. he cannot let go, he wants the spotlight for himself because he has nowhere else he belongs. he curses, stutters, grumbles like a child, he doesn't do what he's not in the mood for, he works hard but only when he wants to, he does not handle his grief well, he ignores what he cannot face.
and i love it. i LOVE it. i love all of them. we have enough perfect characters, i want them in all their flawed beauty.
Hello Ibi ♥️ The Ghost fandom still has a hold on me I fear and I come bearing a cute Secondo question for youuu. How do you think he is first thing in the morning? Is he an early bird or do you think prefers to sleep in?
I feel like he is such a cuddler, always pulling his partner close to his chest. If he’s the little spoon he’ll press his face against his partner’s tiddies or if they don’t have any, he’ll hide his face against their shoulder
ahhhhh!! welcome back, friedrich!! and you come bearing such beautiful gifts for me ♡♡
i personally think he is someone dealing with insomnia and disrupted sleep and therefore, he is often up way too early (and late)! in his wilder times he used to sleep in helped by the exhaustion of long nights and didn't like the dreaded mornings after but he's definitely more of a morning person in his retirement. he likes a solid morning routine (he's a creature of habit to me), taking his time to make a hearty breakfast, perhaps even going on a morning run, though his knees don't quite like that anymore and it's more of a nice steady walk these days.
he loves spending his mornings with his partner, you're so right, when he does finally sleep he struggles with waking up and can get a little grumpy and those tired cuddle sessions in the morning bring out an especially soft side of him. he woke up feeling alone, abandoned and hollow for so many years that he'll never get tired of his domestic morning routine. loves to make breakfast for you, often in bed, good coffe, a fresh croissant he sometimes sneaks from the kitchens. unhurried mornings are a big indulgence he can afford now and he makes use of that.
some manondo thoughts (my oc ship) under the cut just because <3
sooo, in my fic this is quite a bit of a topic actually because manon is someone who needs a lot of sleep (she is indeed very cat-like) and she doesn't like him being up early and not being able to wake up with him. she also often finds him awake at night, overthinking, and he's just very restless and doesn't want to wake her during those early mornings or late nights where he can't fall asleep. but they compromise eventually and their schedules converge a little, she coaxes him to wake her when he needs comfort and he gets a little better at accepting that over time. plus, manon is dealing with her own anxietes and often he finds comfort in being able to comfort her. i am a sucker for them i'm sorry <3 their mornings together are sacred!!!
☞ content: 1.2k words, secondo x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, non-explicit handjob, to be safe this is still 18+
He finds himself reaching for you.
It’s a subconscious thing, always, until he catches himself and pulls away. Secondo is handling retirement as well as he can, he thinks. A few years in now he’s dedicated time to his hobbies, to travelling, the occasional private night club visit, his daily reading, trying out new recipes.
Fucking. Yes, that as well. When he feels like it.
It could be his age that makes him spend more and more nights alone. He’s trying not to think about his body too much but it is true that he craves it less. The offers are rarer, too. He is not Papa anymore, the myth busted, and he’s become more and more reclusive, never invites anyone back.
More likely, it is the dread that every shared night leaves him with that makes him abstain. He’s acutely aware that no touch has meaning, that every compliment is a transaction, that he fucks just to fuck. The ache of loneliness is not as easy to ignore with less alcohol, a less busy schedule, less opportunity to keep the adrenaline high and the mind far away from the ultimate crash of reality.
He has too much time to think about it now.
But it is not like that with you.
What kind of relationship you have, really, is something he can’t think on too much or he has to admit that he does not understand. When he’s home you stop by to bring him his weekly groceries, no doubt an order of his brother, and he finds himself dragging out conversations he never knew he started. He’s invited you multiple times to dine with him, to show you how to use the fresh produce you're so curious about. He goes to smoke in the gardens and you’ll sit down with him, making a face when he exhales the cigar smoke but never sitting so far away as to avoid it.
Sometimes he thinks he’s hallucinating you.
Perhaps that is why he reaches out. It’s certainly not because your touch is the only thing that makes him feel anything.
He has not let anyone into his bed in weeks.
“You are strange company tonight,” you say.
“How so?”
He’s drying the dishes. You just inhaled two servings of his spaghetti al pomodoro and he’s watching you, half-draped over his couch, cheek smushed against the cushion. Just earlier he felt your hand under his as he showed you how to cut the basil. He’s still reeling from it.
“Don’t think you’ve said a word to me,” you explain, tugging at a loose thread on your shirt.
“I have.” He sets down the clean plate. “Per favore, do not pull at it.”
Your hand retreats and he watches every finger uncurl. “Would you have me leave?”
“No.”
He’s done with the plates and joins you in the living area. As usual, he chooses a vinyl that fits his mood. Today, it's Blues.
“Oh,” you whisper when he sits with you. “So it’s that kind of night?”
Secondo ignores you and closes his eyes. The music makes him feel, it has always been like that, a catalyst for his emotions. He forgets himself until he feels your hand reaching for his, kneading the tension from it.
He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, heavy with… something.
“I can stop,” you whisper.
He does not make you. Instead, you take his palm between both of yours and he thinks he might cry. It feels too good, forbidden, almost, to be touched so tenderly. You massage him and he wonders briefly what exactly the order entails, if this is just a ploy, his brother sending him someone so sweet that he has to stop brooding. That you're only doing this because you get paid.
"You want to be here, yes?" Even uttering the question hurts. "My brother sent you."
Your brow furrows in a way that tells him all he has to know. No ploy. In fact, you look almost insulted. "He did, the first time, but not since. Are you implying–"
"No," he says too soon. "I apologize."
Your hands have moved to his wrist. He can feel your fingertips against his pulse and shivers. "You are a strange man, Secondo."
"I know."
That draws a smile from you. When you move on to his other hand you scoot a little closer. "I noticed how tense you are," you say, thumbs pressing into the ball of his hand. "Whenever you touch me you flinch back, as if you didn't mean to."
"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable."
"You don't. I like it when you touch me." A beat of silence, then you look into his eyes. "I like you, believe it or not."
"I don't," he says, then, "Come here."
You follow his invitation but not like he expected. He realizes, then, what instinct made him do. Invite you into his lap, kiss you, undress you, a quick fuck, a night like so many others before, and then you're gone. But no, you nestle into his side and rest your head on his shoulder, nothing more. He feels your warmth through his shirt and thinks he might die.
"Why are you sad?" you ask, then. Your breath tickles his neck.
"I'm not."
"Then why Blues?"
He finds himself stroking along your back, his fingers dancing over the fabric of the shirt you almost ruined. "Melancholy and sadness aren't quite the same thing."
"You are often melancholy," you whisper, your nose brushing along his throat. "I wish I could take it away."
"You do," he admits, sighs, traps your hand under his where it rests on his chest. It feels small underneath his large palm, like he could crush it if he didn't pay attention.
You squirm too much, he thinks, or he is not used to this clumsy kind of closeness. Your hand wanders from his, crawling along his belly like the careful exploration of an ant, and he realizes that you want him. For the first time in weeks he feels himself stir and doesn't quite know why. He does not want to fuck you.
No, that is not true. He does. But he's scared of what follows.
“Let me take care of you,” you whisper. "I promise I won't run like the others."
How do you know? he wants to ask. But he can't. Your hand wraps around him and he does not have it in him to take over, to seize control. He does not have to fill this role, he realises, not with you, not tonight. And instead of the weight of expectation he feels a surprising peace. You would not ask anything of him. You want this.
"Let me–" he tries, out of relfex.
"No," you interrupt and your lips find the corner of his mouth. "Let me. Yes?"
"Yes."
He closes his eyes against the tears that well up, allows himself the illusion of it all, that he can be fragile for just a moment. He never realized how he had been starving himself, how he had been aching for someone like you.
When he comes it feels like he is inhaling the air of a bright summer morning, crisp and full of promise. You clean your hand and the kiss that follows is chaste, tethers him back to you before the dread can set in. You're not going anywhere, it says, and you don't. Your body fits against his, not squirming this time, and the record keeps spinning a song he does not quite feel anymore.
The dread never comes.
He finds himself reaching for you.
This time, he does not pull away.
this was written for an ask from @razzle-dazzle97 – i hope this was okay <3
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its so sad when a fanfic trope initially centered around noncon/dubcon gets popular enough that it turns into a watered down extremely consensual healthy-relationship version of it
as retribution i think i'm going to start taking vanilla tropes and making them noncon. the barista is putting roofies in the coffee. there's only one bed and the other guy is getting chained to the radiator. there's no social or legal protections for assault within soulmate matches
the thing that drives me mad about Secondo is that, at his core, he loves the shy ones.
the ones that are quiet. the ones that keep to themselves. the enigmas; the ones that are sweet yet confusingly isolated, or the ones that seem confident and self-assured — but are just slightly too practiced in the way they avoid talking about romance or sex.
the ones that are bashful when he knows, deep down, they don’t want to be. the ones that can’t help fearing their own desire. the ones that wall themselves up — unaware that he sees the fractures in the concrete, obsesses over them. daydreams about the softness and the aches that might peek through the cracks.
there’s just a scent to it. the kind that hits him the way blood does a great white. when he gets you alone, it’s purposeful; isolating you from excuses, preventing you from running off. using his voice, his hands, his eyes, his smell while he quietly locks the door. all to keep your brain buzzing and heart racing. to keep you vulnerable. to keep you honest.
so, what is it, then?
blood pounding in your ears, your eyes darting around the room. oh, he loves the way panic looks on you.
what is it you’re hiding? why do you pull away?
is it shame? no, don’t look away. tell him what’s so shameful about this. what’s so shameful about you having needs? pay no mind to the way his voice sinks lower, deep in his chest, or the way his pants are tightening. answer the question, my dove.
the way you avoid his eyes drives him fucking crazy. he’s close, isn’t he? close to cracking that shell? just look at him, guardami, let him see that pretty face, hm?
are you feeling exposed, tesoro? solo da un piccolo contatto visivo? he smirks; you can hardly stand it, looking at him like this, trying so hard to keep cool but nearly fidgeting in place. the attention, his attention, is just so overstimulating and he can’t help but want to fucking torture you with it. til you’re shaking and tearful, the only words coming through your slurred speech being “please” and “I want it.”
but this is just too enjoyable. why rush into stripping you down with his teeth when he can ask you why you’re blushing instead?
ok but, like- vampire knight who uses his armor to shield himself from the sunlight. whose face has never been seen, whose true name and age is completely unknown. who has never changed banners, not even once in his unnaturally long life. who's still as devoted to his kingdom as any other knight, gorging on her kingdom's enemies with gusto and grows (in)famous for his tactics in the battlefield- especially his implementation of night raids.
who is so utterly devoted to his princess that he can't stand to be near her- she smells too good, she's too tempting, he's convinced if he's alone with her for even a moment that he'll lose all sense of self and bite her, thus becoming the first of the kingsguard's history to refuse becoming the princesses royal bodyguard.
he pretends not to see the confusion, hurt, and embarrassment on her face. pretends not enjoy the way her eyes search his visor, looking for even just the shine of his eyes in the dark helm. pretends not to enjoy the way the king insists, claiming he's the only one he trusts to keep his precious daughter safe.
[a terrible call, really. she's too soft, too ripe, too pretty, too delicious to be left in his care. the king would be better off leaving a fat steak in the care of a starving dog.]
something something the princess slips her current bodyguard to find the eternal knight's chambers so she can demand to know what exactly is so terrible about spending time with her... but she can't find him. he's nowhere to be found. as she waits, sitting on the edge of his cot, staring curiously at the windows that have been completely blacked out and covered, she does not notice the way one corner of the room has darker shadows than the rest.... shadows that are slowly creeping towards the bed like a mist... shadows with a set of eyes that are staring very hungrily at the back of her neck...
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i actually think its incredibly funny that people can just log on to the internet and get in a fight with a guy in another country. what a privileged time we live in. you used to have to go to war to do that
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