Ao3 ⛧ My Art ⛧ Edits
➹ main blog: @ibikus (i like & follow from there)
➹ ghost archive blog: @kisstheobscene
➹ asks: open for questions, HCs & short fic prompts ♡
This is an 18+ fandom & writing sideblog. I currently mainly write for Ghost but occasionally for ASOIAF, BG3, DA and others. Please mind the tags.
✦ The Band Ghost ✦ ASOIAF ✦ Others ✦ Short Fic Collection
➹ Our Own Light ♱ Primo x gn!reader 18+
➹ With Rough and Gentle Hands ✶ Maekar Targaryen 18+
➹ To Owe Each Kiss ✶ Baelor "Breakspear" 18+
throws you this vivid 18+ Manon (OFC) x Secondo scene for WIP wednesday 🕊️ and runs :)
When he returns, she’s reclinging on the day bed like she’s the subject of an erotic painting. Her legs have fallen apart just so, one hand between them, lazily playing with herself. It’s as if she thought nobody was watching. But her eyes are on his the moment he enters, her expression unmoving, unbothered, but sharp nonetheless.
He’d draw her display, if he had any utensils. Instead he tries to memorize the scene.
The light filters through the swaying curtains of the sun room, soft where it meets her creamy skin. The white sheet she’s spread herself on, the one they’d been tangled up in, lays crumpled underneath her, falling off the edge of the cushion beneath in gentle waves.
He can’t tear his gaze away.
For some time he simply watches, nude, his cock heavy against his abdomen, but he doesn’t dare touch himself. It’s not his own hands he aches for, it’s her slender fingers, the patch of rough dark hair between her thighs, the puffy pink tip of her pearl where her hand brushes it seemingly with no purpose. After a while she holds out her other hand towards him and he saunters over.
“Don’t stop,” he says, moving upon her, his hands spreading her thighs so that he can easily fall between them. He covers her hand in his, giving her strokes intention, pace. “My nymph, are you not yet sated?”
She smiles sheepishly and shakes her head, a healthy flush spreading from her chest up and over her cheeks, but he knows she’s not shy. He can’t help but smile back, such a scheme, such mischief.
“You are not either,” she finally whispers, biting her lip, and he has to gently swat her hand from where it tries to reach.
“Not yet,” he says and he has their joint hands dip lower to where she is still wet and soft and open, so low that he can slide in both her and his fingers with ease. She gasps, though there is not much of a stretch yet, not with how deep he took her before. “Be good and show me how you want me to fuck you, my dove.”
throws you this vivid 18+ Manon (OFC) x Secondo scene for WIP wednesday 🕊️ and runs :)
When he returns, she’s reclinging on the day bed like she’s the subject of an erotic painting. Her legs have fallen apart just so, one hand between them, lazily playing with herself. It’s as if she thought nobody was watching. But her eyes are on his the moment he enters, her expression unmoving, unbothered, but sharp nonetheless.
He’d draw her display, if he had any utensils. Instead he tries to memorize the scene.
The light filters through the swaying curtains of the sun room, soft where it meets her creamy skin. The white sheet she’s spread herself on, the one they’d been tangled up in, lays crumpled underneath her, falling off the edge of the cushion beneath in gentle waves.
He can’t tear his gaze away.
For some time he simply watches, nude, his cock heavy against his abdomen, but he doesn’t dare touch himself. It’s not his own hands he aches for, it’s her slender fingers, the patch of rough dark hair between her thighs, the puffy pink tip of her pearl where her hand brushes it seemingly with no purpose. After a while she holds out her other hand towards him and he saunters over.
“Don’t stop,” he says, moving upon her, his hands spreading her thighs so that he can easily fall between them. He covers her hand in his, giving her strokes intention, pace. “My nymph, are you not yet sated?”
She smiles sheepishly and shakes her head, a healthy flush spreading from her chest up and over her cheeks, but he knows she’s not shy. He can’t help but smile back, such a scheme, such mischief.
“You are not either,” she finally whispers, biting her lip, and he has to gently swat her hand from where it tries to reach.
“Not yet,” he says and he has their joint hands dip lower to where she is still wet and soft and open, so low that he can slide in both her and his fingers with ease. She gasps, though there is not much of a stretch yet, not with how deep he took her before. “Be good and show me how you want me to fuck you, my dove.”
Hi just wanted to let you know I came across the Weightless Copia fic bc someone I follow reposted. MASTERPIECE. as a matter of fact a piece of it is now going in my vows
that is so kind, thank you so much!! 🫶🏼😭
i was super scared to post it because i have lost the habit of writing a bit this year and it made me super insecure, so it means a lot!! also: your vows??!!! omg congrats!!!
☞ 1k words, soft dom-ish copia, smut – fingering, reader has a clit, otherwise no specific words used, physical touch, intimacy, mostly hurt/comfort, 18+
The sound of your knees sinking into the carpet breaks his concentration.
Copia folds the book, sets it aside, and it only takes one glance for him to read you faster than any written word. He lifts his hand, reaching for the soft swell of your cheek, tracing the pillowy outline until his gloved thumb finds your lips. You open obediently, never taking your eyes off of him, but they’re not as bright as usual, weighty lines under heavy lids betraying what you don’t speak. The past weeks have been like sand grinding your gears, he’s been watching you wilting underneath the pressure of it all, retreating into yourself in the way he’s seen too many times before.
“I think it is time we forget everything for a while, baby, hm?” he whispers. “You will let your Papa take care of you tonight, yes?”
“Yes.”
His thumb slips from your mouth as you speak the word. You lean against him, then, the cheek he so lovingly carressed now pressed against rough black fabric. A weary sound leaves your throat and he begins to massage the tension from your jaw with gentle fingers, weaving along the side of your face and into your hair. The massage is slow, unhectic, and he continues until he sees your breathing slow slow slow. How the world tests you, he thinks, and he knows the feeling all too well. But he won’t allow it to continue, not for the next hour, not for the rest of the night.
Copia hasn’t bothered undressing or washing off his make up yet. He feels that painful extension of time as well, how every hour passes so slowly that it feels hard to bear one’s own existence, and yet there is never time enough. Not for what truly matters.
“Come here, amore,” he orders, his voice stern but soft.
He helps you to your feet as he stands himself, embracing you even before you can fully sink against him. You hide your face at his neck, reddened eyes, the simple act of being cared for too much. He’s no stranger to self-loathing and guilt. But it won’t deter him, it never has, catharsis takes many forms and he’s seen most of them by now, one way or another. These shared moments have become easier, after knowing each other so intimately. Carrying each other’s weight for a while has slipped into your routines as naturally as breathing, and he never minds when it’s you.
“No pain, only pleasure tonight, yes?” he murmurs against your head, taking in the sweet scent of you. You nod against him with a low sniffle and he hugs you tighter.
After a while he toys with the hem of your shirt, coaxing it up until you willingly part with it. No rush tonight. Every piece of clothing leaves when you’re ready, his palms caressing every sliver of exposed skin, every curve of your body, every ridge, every plane, soft, well-oiled leather with the heavy insistence of his hands.
Eventually he helps you recline against the pillows in bed, your body warmed from his touch, sinking into the comforting softness, pliant and weightless. He takes you in for a moment, the hot flush on your face and neck, this body he knows so well, loves so dearly. He recognizes every tense muscle, can tell whether the goosebumps on your skin are from pleasure or cold, every mole, every stretch mark, every single hair that adorns your skin has been memorised.
When he sinks down beside you, his lips find your cheek, then your neck, then your shoulder. He remains half on top of you, a comforting weight, still clothed, still in control of every fragment of you. You don’t have to make a single decision, no move to take any influence, not on him or anything at all.
“You are doing so good,” he whispers. “I am so proud of you, amore. Always so proud. Now breathe with me, baby.”
He shows you how, that deep inhalte, the pause in between, and the long exhale. For a while you simply mirror him, face to face now, eyes locked, as his free hand wanders down your body, pressing gently into any knot he can find. He will unravel you in any way possible. And you’re doing so well, so well, breathing in and pausing and breathing out and breathing– –
His fingers brush your soft core and your next breath is short and audible. He smiles, kissing a stray tear from your eyes. He’s been leaving black marks on you but this one is especially beautiful, the shape of his lips on the apple of your cheek. He moves lower now, his fingers parting you carefully, spreading you until he can comfortable tease your entrance, moving back up to your clit and as much as he enjoys you losing yourself in it, he still needs your attention.
“Eyes on me,” he whispers. “Let me see you, my baby. You’re so beautiful like this, eh? Do you know how much I love you?”
You blink your eyes to meet his but they remain heavy. He lets you cling to his shoulder, brings one leg between yours to keep them open for him. Then he gently enters you, one finger, then two, slow and steady, no rush, no matter how much his body tells him he wants you. The gloves almost slip from his fingers with how tightly you’re gripping him and he brings his lips to yours for a sweet moment.
More kisses as he keeps his pace steady, the heel of his palm tightly pressed against you. He can feel the way you’re focused on him now, the way your body has let itself fall into his gentle care with no compromise. He’s rarely felt this needed, this useful, and he lets the sensation carry him until he can feel your soft pulses, until you meet the gentle waves of his hand, and gasp into his mouth, immediately falling back into the long, deep breaths he’s been showing you. He keeps still just like this, watching you as the shadows pass from your eyes, as the warmth in your body brings back your light, even if just for a moment.
I’ll carry your weight, he thinks, I’ll carry it for the rest of my life if I have to.
i'm gonna take a little break from this blog here until i can come back with something productive. will still be yapping on my main blog @ibikus and discord under the same name if you want to reach me (if we know each other), see you <3
A SFW ask. I’m curious to know what classic literary tropes you’d personally like to give a lesbian pairing of your choice. OC’s, canon characters, a mix of OC and canon, the choice is yours! x
- 🐻🍃
oh this is such a good question!! i think honestly i just want to go for similar themes i enjoy in general, age gaps, power dynamics, yearning, sexual inexperience and also the feeling of finally finding a deep connection to someone.
i have a few ideas for original stories/novels, one deals with class differences, the weight of inheritance and responsibility vs the person you love, who does not fit into that world. all within a fantasy setting. one of the character is a lighthouse keeper :)) i love nautical themes.
i am also a very big sucker for an older x younger woman pairing, especially in a historical setting and with weird power dynamics. secret affairs, unknowing husbands, mentor/teacher dynamics etc. etc. especially in regards to exploring hidden sexual desires and preferences, finding pleasure you're otherwise denied.
in terms of canon and adjacent OCs i'm still looking for what really strikes my inspiration, i love my Alicent x lady-in-waiting stories and i'd like to write more about them which i suppose is sort of similar theme wise. and then i want to explore even more morally grey or evil-leaning characters that i love and haven't really dared to write for yet. like, i enjoy a good wholesome romance but i think i lean more towards dynamics with proper tension.
i do really want to explore some of Manon's previous entanglements before she met Secondo as well, at some point, which are mostly women :) and I still want to explore either Sister Imperator and Marika or Sister with an OC from her past.
there's always glimmer // copia x f!oc. sfw. 1.24k words. wildly self-indulgent attempt at comforting myself while i've been going through it *finger guns* depression/recovery/comfort/domestic fluff question mark? domestic something anyway. tl;dr: he loves her.
copia's ✨sorella prediletta✨ (whose name is isolde, everyone say hello isolde) has been in a deep depression for several months. he catches her in a candid moment and realises the fog may have started to lift.
The sound of her voice, thin and a little off-key, stops him dead in the hallway.
Copia stands there, one foot frozen in front of the other, and listens. It's a pop song on the radio, and she's butchering the melody, but she's singing. She's singing while the knife thump-thump-thumps against the chopping board in a steady, familiar rhythm.
He hasn't heard her sing in months. Not even a hum.
He pads to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. The kitchen smells like onions and garlic frying in olive oil, and the early evening sunlight slants across the tile, catching the dust motes dancing above the stove. Isolde's back is to him, her dark hair damp and falling loosely down her back. She moves between the chopping board and the pan, her hips swaying just a little in time to the tinny sounds coming from the small radio on the counter.
She's singing along. Not properly, not with any effort. Just humming the melody, then catching a phrase she knows. Her voice is scratchy from disuse, the notes flat and out of place, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. The sight of her is so ordinary it feels sacred and it cracks something open in his chest. A tight, anxious knot he's been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what breathing felt like without it.
The silence, her silence, in their room had been a physical thing. A thick, heavy blanket smothering everything. She'd been present, but folded in on herself, a closed fist. He'd bring her tea and she'd stare at the wall. He'd talk about his day and her eyes would be somewhere else, focused on some internal landscape of grey. He'd hold her at night and feel the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine, and wonder where she really was. He learned to move quietly. To make just enough noise to let her know he hadn't let go, and then exist alongside the absence of her.
And now, here she is. Singing badly to a terrible song. Frying onions and garlic in a pan. It sizzles and she jumps back with a tiny, startled laugh—a real one—and the sound punches right through his ribs.
She turns to grab a wooden spoon from the ceramic jar on the counter and catches him in the corner of her eye. The singing stops. Her eyes go wide for a second, then soft, and a faint pink flush creeps over her cheeks.
"Oh, love. How long have you been lurking?"
"Just a second," he lies, his own voice rough with emotion. He pushes off from the door frame and walks towards her, stopping a few feet away, not wanting to crowd her. Not wanting to break whatever fragile spell this is. He looks at her face. The shadows under her eyes are still there, but there's a glimmer in them he hasn't seen since spring. It's not a blazing fire, not yet. It's the first stubborn coal glowing in a pile of ash, but it's burning.
"You're singing," he says. Obviously, he thinks.
She looks down at the spoon, then back at him, a shy, crooked smile touching her lips. "It was on the radio. I used to hate this song."
"I know." He remembers. She'd groan and change the station every time.
"It's growing on me," she shrugs, turning back to the stove, and giving the contents of the pan a stir. "I'm making pasta. Nothing fancy. I was hungry."
He hears what she doesn't say. I wanted to make something. I had the energy to make something. The simple, monumental facts of it swell in his chest until it aches.
He closes the last of the distance, coming to stand behind her. He doesn't touch her, just rests his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her gently between his arms. He rests his chin gently on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear. He can smell the citrus scent of her shampoo, new and fresh. Proof of a quiet victory he knows she will not count as one.
"Isolde," he murmurs.
"Hmm?"
He lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder, then nuzzles his face in closer to hers. He feels her still, then lean back slightly into the contact. A tiny, willing weight against him.
"There you are," he breathes into her hair.
She lets out a shaky sigh. The spoon clatters softly against the edge of the pan as she sets it down. Her hands come up, not to push him away, but to rest over his where they grip the counter. Her fingers are warm.
"I've missed you," she whispers, so low he almost doesn't catch it over the sizzle of the pan and the radio DJ's chatter.
"Amore," he says, the old endearment feeling new on his tongue. He turns his hands under hers, lacing their fingers together. "You've got your light back."
She makes a small, choked sound that he can't quite place and turns in the circle of his arms, her face tilted to his. Her eyes are bright, and a little wary, like an animal stepping out into sunlight after a long winter in a dark den. He brushes a thumb over the apple of her cheek, where the skin is warm from the stove. He sees the tired lines that haven't quite faded. But her gaze is clear. Present. Here.
"It's just pasta."
"It's more than pasta, Isolde," he corrects, and he means it.
He leans in and kisses her. It's not careful, not hesitant like the kisses he's given her in the dark these past months. This one is a slow rediscovery. The taste of her mouth and the way her hands come up to curl in the front of his shirt, holding on. He pours all the waiting and the worry, all the helpless love into it, and she returns just as she takes.
When he pulls away, her cheeks are wet. She looks down. "Feels strange," she admits, voice a husk of a thing. "To be here. In the kitchen. Making dinner. Like a person."
"You are a person. My person." He says it plain, because it is plain. The most fundamental truth he knows.
They look at each other then. A wordless understanding, an acceptance, until another tear escapes her. She swipes at it with the back of her wrist, laughing a little at herself. "The garlic is going to burn."
"Let it burn," he says, but he releases her, stepping back just enough to let her breathe, to let her move. "We have survived worse than some bitter garlic, no?"
She huffs a laugh, turning to the stove and grabbing the spoon to give the pan a frantic stir. Another song begins on the radio, something slow and saxophone-heavy. She hums again, just a few bars, her body swaying automatically as she works.
Copia leans back against the counter, crosses his arms, and watches her, letting the simple, profound relief of it all fill the room.
The dark ocean of the last few months hasn't receded forever. He knows that much. He knows it's still out there, and that the tide could come back in at any point. But for this evening, in this warm, messy kitchen smelling of slightly scorched garlic, she is on the shore.
And she is singing.
ok so i didn't write this with this song (or any tbh) in mind but when i was thinking of a title it came to me, and in hindsight actually feels quite fitting :')
gia margaret - groceries
though it's not easy to see
there's always glimmer
you bought the groceries
and you let the light in
you let the light in
when it's dark
short prompts: there are small children and for some reason the only responsible adult within miles is Secondo. How does he handle it?
against what i assume people would default to from a superficial standpoint i genuinely think secondo would be really good with children. it's not just the clip where he sings happy birthday to a little girl in the crowd, it's also the fact that he has such a soothing voice and calm aura when he addresses them in the audience. and in my own HC i actually think secondo has a heart for orphans and children in difficult circumstances, especially those in the care of the ministry.
i always think of this one quote from papaganda as well:
“i like to be there for the children, or for the kids, as they say. it’s almost like a religion to them. i mean not only religious in the same sense that we are, but their devotion to the band. it reminds me of how the children looked up to the local priest. it is very much like that, but without the guilt, violation, or corruption.”
so no matter how you interpret that i think he is very aware of the responsibilty he has in influencing people and also the way adults and especially (religious) leaders are role models for the younger. he also thoroughly critizes the way that other religions take advantage of those who are vulnerable and feed them lies (like in idolatrine).
otherwise, for one, i think (a little bit like with cats), children respect when you don't baby them and flock more to people who aren't gushing over them and thereby overstep several boundaries. secondo is very aware of those boundries because he doesn't like his own being overstepped either and he was one of those kids that didn't really get the full freedom of enforcing them when growing up.
and on the other side, secondo might seem a little scary/intimidating but upon further expection he's really not and children see through this sort of facade way faster than adults do. kids are curious about him, especially when he's wearing his his full face paint and regalia or even just his sunglasses and fancy suits. he sticks out in most scenarios. then he'll notice them staring at him and BOOM, finger up his nose and the child is laughing uncontrollably. it's like an inside joke.
so i think in a situation like that (depending on why those children are alone) he'd try to carefully approach and find out why they're there and where the adults responsible for them have gone, to see if the situation is actually dangerous. then he'd probably sit down with them, sing some soothing songs, play some silly games and tell them batshit stories from his life (that are only age-appropriate if you squint real hard) until the parents/guardians return to find those kids.
if you see me liking contradicting headcanons for the same character just know it's because I do not give a fuck and I have an active imagination #hewouldsaythat
