#I imagine they plead with Withers

[flymmsy]

Uno reverso where post-game Durge rescues Gortash from Bane’s realm and brings him back to life only Gortash is the one without memories this time.

[bi-demon-ium]

sending you a hug!!! may not be Nicholas Benedict, but hopefully it's something!!!!! :D <3

thank u

[thef1diary]

Language Of Leaves | F. Colapinto

Summary: Franco begrudgingly agrees to watch your plants, but caring for them leads him to realize he’s growing just as attached to you.

warnings: fluff, a few spanish sentences - w translation (correct me if it’s wrong!)

wc: 3k

masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

Franco had been wholly reluctant from the moment you asked him to take care of your plants. The request hadn’t even fully left your lips before he shook his head, immediately retreating a step, his hands raised as though warding off some ludicrous proposal.

“¿Estás loca?” (are you crazy?) he’d exclaimed, his brows furrowing in exaggerated disbelief. “You’re asking the wrong person here, I would kill your plants without even realizing. They don’t want me around, trust me.” He looked at the leafy green oasis you had so carefully tended to with a mix of apprehension and resignation, like the plants themselves were quietly mocking him from their pots.

But you knew Franco well, you knew that if you pressed just a little, his tough facade would soften. So, you laid it on thick, giving him that soft, pleading expression that he could never quite resist when it came to you. You looked at him with those big, hopeful eyes, layering in just a hint of sadness. “Franco, please. My plants will wither without someone to care for them. Leaving them alone for two whole weeks… it’d be like abandoning children.”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He hesitated, his gaze flicking back to the plants and then to you, a faint crack appearing in his armor. You could practically see the thought unfolding in his mind—imagining you returning home to drooping, lifeless plants, the beautiful greenery reduced to a shadow of what it had been. His resistance wavered.

And then you delivered the final blow: a tiny, almost-mournful pout. You knew it was his Achilles’ heel, the expression that always seemed to make him relent, no matter how absurd the request.

Franco sighed—a long, dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath as he glanced away, pretending as if he hadn’t already lost this battle. Finally, he held out his hand for the paper in yours, grumbling all the while, “fine. Solo por dos semanas.” (only for two weeks)

Franco took the paper with a resigned sigh, eyeing it skeptically as he skimmed the instructions. You had done your best to make it as straightforward as possible, keeping the notes to simple instructions for sunlight and water. Still, he seemed to regard even this minimal guidance as a daunting task, his brows furrowing with each line he read. You could practically see his mind racing, piecing together the responsibility you were trusting him with, and how high the stakes suddenly felt.

But since he had already agreed—thanks to that soft pout of yours he couldn’t resist—he knew it was too late to back out now. He folded the paper carefully and gave you a look, one last attempt to salvage his pride. “I’ll try my best, okay? But if you come back and a plant or two doesn’t make it, that’s not my fault.”

There was a slight smirk on his face, though, as if he was secretly determined to prove himself wrong, to come through for you.

You lean in and press a quick, warm kiss to his cheek, murmuring a soft, “thank you, Franco.” The gesture is small, but the effect is immediate. A flush rises to his cheeks, painting them a rosy pink that he tries to hide by looking away. He clears his throat, obviously flustered, and rubs the back of his neck as though the warmth spreading there might somehow disappear if he just ignores it.

He lets out a low cough, shifting his stance uncomfortably, and mutters, “Yeah, yeah… don’t mention it,” his voice gruff, but betrayed by the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Before you can say anything else, he gives a quick nod and ends the conversation right there, stuffing the paper in his pocket as though ready to make his escape before you see just how much your kiss affected him.

When you finally left for your trip, Franco lingered in the doorway of your apartment, taking in the quiet space that was now his responsibility. He moved to the middle of the room, staring down at the list you’d left him. The handwriting was familiar, your looping letters filling the space with gentle reminders and careful instructions, but it was the little doodles that captured his attention.

You’d sketched a happy monstera leaf next to its name, a tiny sun with a smiling face by the plants that needed more light, and even raindrops beside those that liked extra water. He found his fingers drifting over the paper, tracing each drawing, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Qué linda…” (how cute) he murmured before catching himself and pulling his hand back with a quick cough.

“They’re just plants, Franco,” he told himself under his breath, trying to brush off the warmth in his chest. Still, he couldn’t deny that the thought of you sitting down to make this list—carefully, as if you were entrusting him with a life-or-death mission—made him feel… something.

The first day was straightforward enough. He followed each instruction you’d left to the letter, checking off each plant on your list and measuring out water carefully. Some plants didn’t need watering every day, so he noted the days with reminders on his phone. He’d warned you he wasn’t the best plant sitter, after all, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally prove himself right.

As each day passed, he found himself coming over more often than necessary. Even on days when only one or two plants needed watering, Franco would still make the trip, convincing himself it was “just in case.” What if something went wrong overnight? What if he’d missed something? He checked each plant like they were little patients, leaning close to inspect the soil.

By the fourth day, he was getting into a rhythm. He began with the smaller plants, crouching down to check the moisture in their soil. If it felt too dry, he gave them a splash of water; if it seemed damp, he left them alone.

But then he reached your monstera, the plant you considered your prized possession. He stilled, a strange sensation of dread creeping over him as he noticed the edges of the leaves starting to turn yellow, a slight droop to the usually vibrant foliage. His heart dropped.

“¡Mierda!” (shit) he muttered, kneeling down to inspect the damage. “No, no, no…” Panic crept into his chest as he pictured you coming home to find a mess of dying plants. He knew how much these plants meant to you; you tended to them with such devotion, treating each one like it was a beloved pet.

“No me hagas esto, por favor. ¿Qué te hice?” (Don’t do this to me, please. What did I do to you?) His fingers brushed over one of the yellowed edges, his brow furrowing as he searched for any clue. “I swear, I followed everything she wrote down,” he muttered, almost like he was trying to reassure the plant—and himself. He took out the list and reread the instructions for the monstera, scanning the page as if a hidden solution would suddenly appear.

The room fell silent, save for his own low muttering as he kept inspecting the monstera, turning the pot gently and studying each leaf like a doctor checking a patient’s pulse. “Okay, maybe it needs a little less water? Or more light?” He tried everything he could think of, even nudging the pot slightly closer to the window. “Dios mío,” (my god) he breathed, wiping a hand over his face. “She’s going to kill me if it wilts.”

But then he paused, remembering something else.

Franco looked around at your cozy, plant-filled home, feeling a mix of anxiety and determination. He remembered how you’re always doting on these plants, cradling each one gently as you water or trim leaves. He’d always found it amusing, the way you’d coo at it as if it were a pet, fingers lightly brushing over its leaves, calling it mi bebé, whispering reassurances in a soft voice, and he’s never missed the way your face lights up whenever one of them sprouts a new leaf or a flower bud.

Franco never understood it, thought it was just some odd habit. But now, facing the wilting monstera, he wondered if maybe it wasn’t as silly as he’d thought.

He cleared his throat, feeling utterly ridiculous. “Alright, monstruo,” he muttered, using a nickname he’d given the big, leafy plant.

“We’re gonna make this work, ¿sí? No más hojas amarillas, ¿entendido?” (Yes? No more yellow leaves, understood?) He felt silly, but if talking to them helped even a little, he was willing to try.

“She really loves you, ¿sabes? She’d hate to see you like this.” (you know) He reached out and gently touched one of the yellowing leaves, his hand lingering there, almost as if he were holding its hand.

He could picture you now, laughing at him for talking to a plant—to your plant—but he kept going anyway. “I’ll do better, okay? Whatever you need. More sun, less water, whatever it takes. Just… hang in there. Don’t make me break her heart.”

He sat back on his heels, staring at the monstera for a moment longer. He felt strangely connected to it, like he’d made a pact, a silent agreement between them.

In the days that followed, Franco grew more and more attached, unconsciously mimicking the little rituals he’d seen you do. He hummed softly under his breath as he watered, sometimes even pausing to glance at the list you’d left, your handwriting now familiar and endearing to him.

He no longer approached your plants like a checklist to get through. Instead, he slowed down, taking the time to touch each leaf and test the soil carefully with his fingers, just like he’d seen you do a hundred times.

When he came across your spider plant, a small and slightly finicky one that he’d once jokingly called “the diva” because of its stubborn leaves, he paused, lightly brushing his thumb over the thin, arching fronds. “You’re giving me more trouble than all the others combined, you know that?” he said, his voice softer than before, almost like he was confiding in it. “But I get it… you’re probably used to her touch, not mine.”

Each day, he began to greet them with a quiet “hola,” as if entering a room full of familiar faces. He knew the way you did it, how you’d walk in and give each plant a little greeting or a compliment. And now he found himself doing the same thing. “Looking good,” he’d mutter as he checked the moisture of your jade plant, nodding approvingly, even though it was just a plant in silence.

The last thing Franco expected was to miss you. But somewhere between fussing over your plants and memorizing every instruction you’d left behind, he started to notice the silence. Your laughter, your endless chatter about plant care, the way you’d smile as you talked about each one like it had a personality—all of it lingered in the empty spaces of your home, making it feel strangely hollow.

He never said it out loud, but as much as he protested, he enjoyed coming over, having coffee with you as you arranged your plants, rambling about which ones needed more light, which were delicate, and which were “just a little dramatic.” You’d look at him with that soft, knowing smile as he pretended not to care, and though he’d grumble about “too many plants,” he never left without sneaking one last look at your little green haven.

He wondered how you’d react if he managed to keep them all alive. A small part of him—a part he tried not to examine too closely—wanted to see your face light up when you saw the plants, thriving and green, as if he’d managed to preserve something precious to you.

Sitting there on your living room carpet, surrounded by all these green, leafy “babies” you’d entrusted to him, he realized he wasn’t just daydreaming about your reaction to the plants. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be here with you, to share these quiet mornings side by side, maybe with a cup of coffee and your gentle teasing. He imagined your hand on his arm, laughing at his sudden “attachment” to your beloved green haven, and he felt a pang of longing he couldn’t ignore.

Franco had always admired you, but these past two weeks had somehow made him feel closer to you, made him wonder what it would be like if he weren’t just a friend.

He wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing these plants as “yours” and started treating them like they were his responsibility too.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, your two-week trip came to an end. It was well past midnight when you let yourself in, leaving your suitcase by the door as you spotted a lit lamp in the otherwise dark apartment. You padded softly down the hall, stifling a yawn, but stopped in your tracks at the sight that awaited you.

There, in the middle of your living room, was Franco, sound asleep on the floor. His back was against the sofa, his head lolling to one side, and in his hands were two of your plants—your small, temperamental spider plant and your “drama queen” fern. Even in his sleep, he cradled them carefully, as if afraid one wrong move might damage them.

You couldn’t help but smile, taking in the sight of him nestled between your plants, his face softened in sleep, looking far more at peace than you’d ever seen him. You stepped a little closer, crouching down and noticed the smudges of soil on his hands and the slight disarray of the room, as if he’d gone through a nightly ritual of checking on each plant before dozing off right there on the floor.

As you reached out, your fingers barely grazing a stray curl from his forehead, he stirred, eyes fluttering open, his gaze meeting yours. His sleepy, unfocused eyes sharpened as he realized you were there, inches away, and a hint of surprise flickered in them.

“Ah… estás aquí,” (you’re here) he muttered as he realized he was still holding onto your plants.

A faint blush colored his cheeks as he placed them gently beside him, his fingers lingering on the leaves as if reluctant to let go.

You both remained close, his sleepy eyes meeting yours, and suddenly the room felt charged, every inch between you alive with an unspoken electricity. He didn’t move away, and neither did you. The silence was warm, thick with all the things you hadn’t yet said, every shared glance and lingering touch from before echoing in this small, tender space between you.

“I didn’t expect to find you like this,” you whispered, the words coming out softer than you intended.

He laughed lightly, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he leaned back, eyes not leaving yours. “I didn’t expect to get so… attached,” he admitted, his voice dropping, a hint of something more in his tone.

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you raised an eyebrow, teasing. “To the plants or…?”

His gaze flickered down to the fern beside him for a moment, and then back to you, as if he could no longer resist the pull drawing you closer. “They were good company,” he murmured, his voice softer now, like he was confessing something he’d been holding back, “but… I meant you.”

Your smile softened, and before you could second-guess yourself, you had leaned in, bridging the last inches between you until your head was nestled gently against his chest. He shifted to hold you, his arms wrapping around you naturally, as if they’d been waiting for this moment. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your cheek, steady but just a bit faster than usual, mirroring your own.

He tightened his hold around you, one hand settling at the small of your back while the other drifted upward, his fingers trailing gently along your spine. The touch was unhurried, almost reverent, as if he were savoring the simple act of holding you close.

You let yourself relax fully into his embrace, feeling the way his fingers seemed to map out a quiet symphony along your spine. There was a tenderness in his touch, a kind of reverence that made you feel like this moment was as meaningful to him as it was to you.

“Franco…” you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips as his gaze flicked to your lips, lingering in a way that made the room feel smaller, more intimate. His thumb brushed against your side, an almost absent-minded gesture, yet one that spoke volumes, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you with the tips of his fingers.

He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and for a heartbeat, the world outside faded, leaving only the soft rise and fall of his breath mingling with yours. His eyes closed briefly, like he was savoring the closeness, and when they opened, his gaze was deeper, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his tone laced with a sincerity that sent a thrill through you, making you forget everything but the warmth of his presence.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “I missed you too,” you whispered, your thumb gently grazing his cheek.

Franco’s hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. The moment hung between you, suspended in time, gentle and full of unspoken promises.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile was warm, content. There was no rush, no need for words anymore. Just the quiet understanding between you, as if the silence said everything that needed to be said.

And in that silence, you both stayed, savoring the peace of finally being close in a way you hadn’t been before.

taglist: @blakebearsblog @arieslost @lilorose25 @jamieeboulos @cinderellawithashoe @spreadyourwings-my-smiling-angel

[vipetas]

i. the radio's revival

The worst possible scenario just unfolded before Alastor's eyes—his beloved antique radio broke.

He stood in stunned silence, his usual jovial expression replaced by one of utter disbelief as the once-majestic device now lay in pieces, its intricate components scattered across the floor. With a heavy heart, he knelt beside the shattered remnants, his gloved fingers tracing the familiar contours with a sense of mourning.

It was a futile gesture, he knew, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss for the part of himself that had been taken away with it. For Alastor, the radio was more than just a mere object; it was a piece of his identity. Each scratch, each dent held a story, a memory of a bygone era that now lay at ruins at his feet.

In that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever before, stripped of the facade of invincibility he had carefully cultivated over decades. However, as he surveyed the damage, the vulnerability was quickly replaced by a flood of other emotions–anger, frustration, disappointment. How could something so precious, so irreplaceable, be lost in an instant?

The faint sound of shuffling feet then drew his attention. As he gazed up, one of the egg boys—those bumbling, loyal lackeys of Sir Pentious—timidly stepped forward with a sheepish expression.

“Uh, sorry about that, mister Radio Demon, sir. It was an accident,” the egg boy mumbled, his voice tinged with guilt.

Alastor's eye twitched in annoyance at the feeble excuse. Accidents were one thing, but this? This was inexcusable. His patience, already stretched thin, threatened to snap as he struggled to contain his frustration.

“Sorry?” Alastor repeated through gritted teeth. “Sorry won’t fix what’s been broken, now will it?”

The egg boys exchanged nervous glances, their carefree demeanor faltering under Alastor's withering gaze. “We didn't mean to, Mr. Alastor,” another one of them stammered. 

Yet it was far too late for apologies. Alastor's frustration bubbled over like a pot ready to boil, and with a growl of irritation, his form began to shift. With each passing second, his horns extended, his body swelled in size, and his once elegant silhouette towered over the trembling egg boys like a vengeful deity.

The egg boys recoiled in terror, their eyes wide with horror as they watched Alastor's transformation unfold before them. In their panicked mind, they could only imagine the worst—that Alastor, in his fury, would devour them whole.

Just as their fear reached its peak, Sir Pentious burst onto the scene. Positioning himself between the egg boys and the Radio Demon, his voice rang out in a chorus of apologies.

“Mr. Alastor, sir, I must beg for your forgiveness on behalf of my hapless egg boys,” he pleaded desperately. “They meant no harm, I assure you. It was a mere accident, a foolish mistake!”

Alastor's gaze narrowed as he observed Sir Pentious. As the snake demon continued to shower him with apologies, Alastor suddenly remembered the reason they were all gathered here in the first place—a party, of all things. With a wry smile, he glanced around at the other residents of the hotel, noting the fear etched onto their faces. The sight of their unease might've amused him under different circumstances, but the loss of something so precious to him soured his mood.

With a shake of his head, he allowed his form to shrink back to its normal size. As his horns receded and his imposing presence diminished, he felt the tension ebb from his body, the anger gradually fading away.

But that didn’t mean that all was forgiven.

“What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with my broken radio now?” Alastor's voice dripped with barely contained frustration as he shot a piercing gaze at Sir Pentious. 

Sir Pentious, visibly sweating under the weight of Alastor's glare, scrambled to offer a solution. “Ah, well, fear not,” he stuttered, his words coming out in a nervous rush. “I happen to know a mechanic—a fixer, if you will. Someone who can repair anything, no matter how... delicate.”

Alastor's eyebrow arched in skepticism, though a faint flicker of interest danced in his eyes. "Is that so?" he mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He had his doubts about Sir Pentious' ability to deliver on such a promise, but at this point, he was willing to entertain any possibility.

“And where can I find this mechanic of yours?”

Following the instructions scribbled hastily on the back of a crumpled receipt, Alastor eventually found himself in the slums of Pentagram City. The narrow alleyways led him to what appeared to be a workshop, its exterior bearing the signs of neglect and decay. The windows were grimy, patches of paint flaked off the weathered walls, and the sign above the entrance barely hung on by a single rusty nail.

It was a far cry from the elegance he was accustomed to, and he couldn't help but feel a familiar surge of anger rising within him. This was the place that was supposed to hold the solution to his problem? The Radio Demon scoffed inwardly, doubting that anyone within these walls possessed the skill or expertise to repair something as delicate as his beloved radio.

Still, he pressed on. Pushing open the creaking door, he was met with a gust of stale air, tinged with the scent of oil and metal. Inside, the workshop was a scene of disarray. Tools lay scattered across workbenches, and half-finished projects cluttered every available surface. The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with spare parts, some of which appeared to be salvaged from long-forgotten machinery.

Alastor's lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he absorbed the surroundings. Then, his gaze fell upon the lone figure, hunched over a nearby table—you.

As he drew closer, you finally looked up, and to Alastor's surprise, you greeted him with a wide smile.

“Hi there! What can I do for you?”

Alastor's sneer deepened at the sight of the chipper mechanic, a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere of the workshop. He had half-expected to find someone as worn down and weathered as the building itself, yet here stood this bright-eyed individual, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around them.

Suppressing a sigh, Alastor straightened up, the edges of his grin faltering ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he began. “My name is Alastor, and I'm here because I was told you might be able to fix something for me.”

Your smile widened at his words, and you nodded eagerly. “Of course! What seems to be the problem?”

Alastor hesitated for a moment, eyeing you warily. He couldn't shake the feeling that entrusting his precious radio to you was a mistake. Yet, he had little choice in the matter.

“My antique radio is in need of repair,” Alastor explained, his tone guarded. “It's a delicate piece of machinery, and I require someone with the utmost skill to handle it.”

You listened intently as Alastor detailed the intricacies of his radio, nodding along with each word. Despite his cautious demeanor, you could sense the underlying concern in his voice. It was clear that this radio held great significance to him.

As he finished speaking, you gave him another nod. “I understand, Mr. Alastor,” you reassured him. “You won't be disappointed, I promise. Now, let's take a look at what you've got there.”

With that, you gestured for Alastor to follow you to your workbench, where he finally presented the fragmented piece of machinery. As you laid eyes on the broken radio, it became immediately apparent to you just how extensively damaged it was. Fractured casings, tangled wires, missing components–it was a daunting sight, yet you refrained from revealing the true severity of the damage to Alastor, not wanting to add to his distress. Instead, you maintained a composed demeanor as you turned to look at him with a confident grin.

“We'll get this sorted out, Mr. Alastor,” you assured him once more. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor felt a flicker of hope stir in his blackened heart at the prospect of having his radio fixed. Though a hint of doubt still lingered at the back of his mind, he nodded begrudgingly.

“Very well," he muttered. "Just... be careful with it.”

As Alastor stepped back, allowing you the space to work your magic, his eyes remained fixed on you with keen interest. He observed the fluidity of your movements, the subtle shifts in your expression. Whenever you encountered a challenge, your brows furrowed in concentration, and with each successful repair, a hint of satisfaction graced your lips. Alastor found himself unconsciously mirroring your expressions as he watched your steady hands diligently work to bring his beloved radio back to life.

And as time passed, so too did his initial skepticism begin to wane, replaced by a growing sense of admiration for your skill and expertise. There was something captivating about the way you worked, a sense of determination and passion that shone through with every meticulous movement.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, you made the final adjustment. With bated breath, you flicked the switch and awaited the outcome. The room fell into a tense silence, thick with anticipation. Then, suddenly, a burst of static erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of music emanating from the speakers.

Alastor's eyes widened in disbelief as the once-silent device surged back to life. Your face lit up with a triumphant smile as you savored his reaction, a sense of pride swelling within you.

“There you go, Mr. Alastor,” you declared, extending the repaired radio toward him. “Good as new!”

As Alastor reached out to accept the radio from you, his fingers inadvertently brushed against yours in a fleeting moment of contact. In that instant, a jolt of electricity seemed to course through him, sending a distinct shiver down his spine.

It was a curious sensation, one that he couldn't quite place, yet it stirred something deep within him.

Even after withdrawing his hand, the feeling lingered, leaving Alastor perplexed. His gaze shifted from the repaired radio to your face, searching for any indication that you too had felt the same inexplicable energy pulse between you. However, your smile remained unchanged, oblivious to the tumult of emotions swirling within him.

“Thank you,” he finally murmured, his voice softer than usual, betraying a hint of sincerity that caught even him off guard. “You did a remarkable job.”

You beamed in response, your eyes alight with satisfaction at Alastor's words. “You're welcome,” you replied gently. “I'm glad I could be of help. And remember, if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me.”

Alastor offered a subtle nod of gratitude, though inwardly, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, he tucked the repaired radio under his arm and turned on his heel, heading towards the door. Stepping out into the dimly-lit street, he walked with deliberate steps. His thoughts drifted back to the moment his fingers brushed against yours, and despite his attempts to push the memory aside, his free hand instinctively flexed, fingers curling into a tight fist before relaxing once more.

This was going to be a problem.

part i / part ii

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed<3

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb fancomic: Luck of the Lamb

Part 1: Give Unto Me A Name

To say the name of the gods is to knock against the doors of their divinity. Such that they held their true names closely, for the call could surpass all barriers. Exchanging true names became a sign of partnership, trust, and perhaps even in some cases, union…

~Next~ ~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

"-and boil for eternity!" Narinder boomed, laughing to himself as he imagined Heket locked in a cauldron of oil. Chains tightened against his arms from his motions, and his laughter withered like a sail with no wind. He bowed his head and was quiet for a long moment, looking the Lamb in the eyes. "Return to your cult. Shamura is the last to hold me. Drive a knife in their heart, and at last I will be free... Go now. Please." He pointed towards the stone to teleport back, mind a mixture of rage, gloom, and loneliness. She nodded, excited by his sheer energy and power. But before she left she had a question. "...I have one request," she paused, hands wriggling in a sudden flash of anxiety. Shamura's words echoed in her mind, one burning like a forbidden flame. "I was told your name while on my mission, but I wanted your blessing before I dare use it... As your vessel, may I address you by name?" "You ask for so much little lamb," he chided. "Do not press the limits of our affiliation too quickly." He paused, humming thoughtfully, an ear flicking. Perhaps there was something to be gained here. "I will not give you the privilege without something in return." His brow raised, curious. "Tell me your own and you shall have mine." She hadn’t given her name in a very long time. It was hard to even remember it at all. Memories of her 'life' were almost foggy, stretching back hundreds of years from the time she'd spent in his service. From the depths she retrieved it, but more than just her name surfaced. Her father, pinned down with arrows bristling from his chest as he pleaded for her to run. Her mother, grabbing her wrist in a vice grip as they fled. The memory was so distant, yet felt like it had just happened. "Una. My name is Una." Her voice numb, barely a whisper. She blinked, shaking away the past and returned to meet his eyes. "Una..." He tasted her name on his tongue, trying to decipher what it meant. He hadn't been on the surface in hundreds of years, culture was entirely lost. "Very well then, you may refer to me as Narinder. But know that divine names have power. To use them can be a summoning, of sorts. Were you to use my name, I would know it. Your shred of divinity may share that, so guard your name well." Shadow covered his face, nothing but the faint light of three red eyes breaking past its veil. "Not all summons are made with good intentions..." He looked at the chains on his wrists, glaring with hatred. "Narinder," His name had a distinct flavor. Faintly reminiscent of the iron tang of blood, a faint chill lingering beyond the sound. She could feel the magic in it, sparks in her body, tingling and electric. While she knew she would only use his name in conversations with him and him alone, that didn't mean she wouldn't use it in private moments of prayer. Perhaps he would be just a little present in those now. She liked that thought, smiling and blushing despite herself. "Your name will be cherished and protected." "Good. Now Una, go rid this world of my enemies, slowly and horrifically please." He grinned, sharp teeth glistening from ear to ear.

Narinder watched her go, as she turned into an ethereal energy and vanished. The gateway was silent. The realm of death was not known for its liveliness. Aym and Baal stood stoic and unflinching, as if they had not heard any of the conversation. Slowly the tension in his body faded, feeling the familiar weight of the chains on his arms. Soon. Patience. Their next meeting would likely be after Shamura's defeat, and then everything would be in place.

"I look forward to our next meeting Una."

[jesuistrestriste]

Puppy art squirting 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

art’s laid out on his back with your hand around his cock, three loads pooled and shot out over his toned abdomen, and you’re still stroking him.

he’s whining and letting little punched-out gasps escape his chest, but it’s no use.

he knows you won’t stop.

i think the words you had used were ‘milk you dry’ when you had explained what your plans for him were tonight.

the blonde’s hands stayed behind his arched back, right where you told him to keep them, and tears pricked at his eyes as he squirmed and bucked his hips up into your first. sweat dripped down his trembling thighs, but you ignored it from where you sat between them.

“shh, puppy,” you coo, “relax for me… a lil bit came out last time, so you still have at least one more in you, ok?”

he shakes his head vehemently, trying his best to protest, but his swollen cock is doing most of the talking as it throbs and jumps.

your hand strokes him a little faster, and he all but wails.

“noo—! oh, god, please—” he sobs, tears threatening to spill over.

you only stroke him faster at the sound of his cries and focus your attention on his oversensitive tip.

“Art,” you say lowly, almost a warning, and you swear that you can imagine a tail tucking between his strong legs just from the look on his face.

he’s withering, pouting even, and then he’s back to moaning. you knew how to push him back into his place, and he enjoyed that. even if it sometimes made his dick feel like it was being scratched and tickled at the same time.

pain and pleasure. he could, and would, take it all for you if it made you happy.

a few more moments go by, and you then move your palm to glide right over his leaking slit.

art’s body convulses like he’s being electrocuted and his eyes go from being screwed shut to flying open.

“AH—” his hands fly out from behind his back and reach down for your wrist without his permission, wetness finally dripping down his cheeks from his flooded eyes as he shudders and hisses with oversensitivity.

“no, no, wait— wait,” he pleads, shaking his head, and he shakily retracts his touch from yours, but his palms hover over his twitching length, “that’s gonna be too much, it’s too much, it’s so much—”

he’s babbling now, gasping and slurring like he’s drunk, while your hands stop for the longest (and first) time since this whole thing started.

you look to his eyes, one hand wrapped around the base of him.

“you’re going to be ok,” you say softly, using your other hand to lean forward and wipe the tears from his cheeks, “you’re just gonna cum again.”

he shakes his head, sniffling.

“no, no, that felt weird,” he tries to explain between breaths and jolts of his spent body, “like something was gonna happen..”

you quirk a brow and then your entire body heats up as you realize what he’s describing. you’d seen it once or twice online, but you had no idea that art was able do it. and now, you were realizing, maybe he could.

you smile softly and breathlessly, giving him one firm stroke up and down before you pause your hand again. he curls in over himself and keens.

“do you trust me?” you speak gently.

he whimpers, but he nods. there’s a bit of hesitation in his head’s movements, as if he’s processing that you’re about to make his body do something that he’s never experienced before.

“hands behind your back, please,” you hum sweetly, but authoritatively nonetheless, and he complies without question.

all it takes is that one little indication of obedience from him, and your other hand is gliding up to swiftly start rubbing circles over the very tip of his cockhead with the flat of your palm.

he instantly sobs and cries out, shaking his head and digging his heels into the bedding while his head tips back into the pillows.

this only goes on for about fifteen seconds before he's gasping and lifting his head up to look down to you.

“oh my god, oh my god— oh— OH— no, no, something’s gonna come out, i’m gonna— it feels like i’m gonna—!”

your hand squeezes his tip now, and you begin to swipe the pad of your thumb rapidly over his slit.

“OH F-FUCK!” he yelps.

his legs kick out frantically on either side of you, his whole body arching up towards the ceiling as the strange coil in his gut finally snaps. he lets out one long, rushed, strangled moan, and then he squirts.

your jaw drops open as you watch the clear, watery fluid gush and fly out of him like a geyser, and you chuckle breathlessly.

“holy shit,” you murmur.

your thumb continues to glide back and forth over his tip as he releases more liquid, your digit faltering the stream, and he sobs harshly as he grasps at the sheets under his curved back where his hands remain.

after a couple long moments, the rush of fluid tapers off and he moans and whines little dopey, fucked-out words that make no sense.

you stop touching his tip, and glide that hand down to meet the one still holding his base. you sigh breathlessly as you sit there completely in awe.

art’s body collapses and his chest is heaving like you’ve never seen; for a second you’re worried he might pass out or hyperventilate, but he comes around.

his cheeks are flushed a bright red, tears muddling his baby blues, and his mop of shaggy blonde curls is a mess against the satin cushion under his head.

“Wh—” he mumbles, clearly still in a haze as the liquid trickles down the sides of his torso where most of it landed, “what just happened to me..?”

a breath.

“did i just… did i pee…?”

he whines softly and you remove your hands from his cock to lean down over his shaky form and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“you just squirted, it’s fine,” you try to reassure him, but this only seems to embarrass and confuse him further. although, the kiss helps ease some of this internal discomfort, even if just slightly.

he removes his hands tremblingly from under his back and pushes himself upright a little to look down over his wet stomach. he drops himself instantly back down and covers his eyes with his hands.

“i just pissed,” he says, his soft voice cracking with humiliation and exhaustion.

you frown and shake your head.

“Art, no, i promise you that you didn’t,” you tell him, trying to further soothe him, “it can happen when you get overstimulated, it’s okay.”

he tries to process your words, he really does, but he doesn’t have the brain capacity for it yet. he just moves to wrap his arms around you and push his face into your neck.

“i’m sorry,” he wheezes.

you kiss him some more. twice on the side of his head and then once over his shoulder. he relaxes a little more.

you return the embrace and sigh, rubbing his upper back as you pull his heavy upper body into your arms a bit further.

“don’t be sorry,” you whisper, “you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s all fine..”

he doesn’t say anything but you can tell that he’s too busy recovering to really take your words to heart.

you can take a quick shower with him, make him some dinner, cuddle and dote on him, and then maybe—just maybe—he’ll be open to talking about it. maybe he’ll even want to do it again.

who knows?

after all, he’ll do anything for you.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

In His Element

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: After watching Matt cross examine a witness, your patience is worn thin, leaving you to plead with the devil.

warnings: SMUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. fingering, brief masturbation, descriptions of fem genitalia, dom!Matt's filthy mind, and also him being so attractive

a/n: THIS IS MY FIRST EVER SMUT THAT WASN'T GHOST WRITTEN SO IT MIGHT NOT BE GREAT. I am going to keep practicing for y'all though! As always, please comment/reblog and leave me feedback if you desire :)

w/c: 3.5k

With clammy fingers, you smoothed your wrinkled skirt until it lay flat over your knees, crossing your ankles under the pew you were seated in. In your haste to find a seat before the trial resumed, you’d landed directly below an A/C vent, which was blowing a harsh current over you. The hair along your limbs stood on end, your heart pumping your blood in smaller loops, leaving your extremities to slowly wither. It should’ve been uncomfortable, but you were far too focused on the heat churning in your gut as your eyes followed your partner’s pacing form.

Hands stacked loosely over the handle of his cane, Matt’s head tilted slightly as he prepared to ask the prosecution’s witness a question. He was facing away from you, but you could imagine the exact emotionless-yet-somehow-haughty expression that graced his face. It was one of the attributes of your boyfriend’s stoic appearance that emerged behind the courtroom doors that you found mind-numbingly attractive.

“Officer Bauer,” Matt’s voice sent a shudder down your spine. Though the man wore a literal mask most nights, he had a variety of metaphorical personality-masks that suited various environments—his everyday polite demeanor, the protective and concerned boyfriend that always surfaced whenever you were threatened or hurt, and, notably, the serious, calculating attorney persona he adopted during his trials.

Biting your tongue to freeze your body in place, you inhaled slowly, trying not to draw attention to yourself. A quick glance to the jury confirmed that you were not the only one entranced by the dark-haired man as he strode back and forth, a few feet in front of the witness stand. He had you all captivated.

Shifting his weight to his heels, Matt was angled enough that you could see the innocent smile he directed at the man sweating on the stand. “Can you tell me what you were doing at the corner of 52nd and 8th on the afternoon of Thursday, March 6th?”

A simple question, innocuous enough that the callous man he was questioning let out an indignant scoff as he answered. ”Patrolling.“

You rolled your eyes at his single word response, his disdain for the judicial process evident in his slouched posture and bored tone. He was practically falling asleep in the worn leather chair, his half-lidded eyes trained on Matt like a dazed serpent. The man looked foul and, from the little that Matt had told you, his personality matched.

Despite the apathetic participant he was dealing with, Matt remained calm and composed. His smile widened marginally, revealing a flash of his pristine teeth as he huffed in amusement.

"Of course. And when you were on patrol you noticed the defendant amongst a group of young adults. Is that correct?"

Your chest was convulsing as your heart pounded from your rib cage. Matt was exceptionally intelligent and had explained his tactic for cross-examining this inattentive cop, but that didn't make it any less suspenseful as you watched his game of cat and mouse play out before your very eyes.

The officer's slitted eyes wandered to the ceiling as he sighed. "Yeah."

"Can you describe the group to me?" Matt lifted his shoulders as he posed the question, not quite shrugging, but definitely indicating that, while he believed the leathery-skinned witness had not yet satisfied his curiosity.

“Buncha kids. Messin around.” Four words rather than one. That was progress, right? Akin to the marble rolling down a track at the beginning of a complex Rube Goldberg machine. The task was far from accomplished, but there was motion somewhere within the structure.

“And, as your partner stated earlier, most of the kids were white, is that correct?” The first hint of something substantial. You pressed your lips together, holding in a smile as your mind started to piece together the rocky, cobblestone path your boyfriend was laying for his uncooperative witness.

“Yes.”

“What encouraged you and your partner to approach the defendant and other students in the park?” Tone laced with what sounded like genuine curiosity, Matt raised a brow at the arresting officer. His ability to color his voice in a way that would appeal to the jury never ceased to amaze you.

“We got news of a nearby break in, and they were actin' suspicious.”

At this point, you were pretty much tuning the lazy cop out—waiting for Matt to open his mouth again, to speak in the beautifully deep, almost hoarse way he always did when defending his clients. His words were direct, controlled in the same manner his general conduct was, his anger and need for justice hidden behind an expressionless facade.

It was intoxicating, his ability to hold back. Almost as divine as his ability to let go.

“Can you describe these suspicious activities for the court?”

Fidgeting with a loose thread on the hem of your skirt, you let Matt's voice drape over you like a wool blanket on a winter night. Comforting, warm, and a tad prickly. Only ears as finely tuned to the man's peculiarities could pick up the barbed edge of his questioning—thousands of serrated teeth waiting to ensnare the animal as soon as it was within their grasp. Knowing how talented your partner was in his field, that moment wasn't far away.

The chair creaked as the cop shifted with a hefty shrug. “Ya know, talkin' all low to each other, shovin' things in their bags while lookin' over their shoulder...” He trailed off, mashing a fist against his nose with an awful throat clearing sound.

“And, while on your patrol, you noticed the group acting this way.” More of a statement than a question. Matt was closing in.

“Yea, that’s what I just said.” The cop snorted, completely unaware of the brutal fate that awaited him.

“So you and your partner decided to intervene?” Matt reasoned aloud. He was pacing again. Your attention had been solely on his voice, not his footsteps.

“Course that’s our job.” The ignorant man to the right of the judge shifted again in his seat, his frustration visibly growing as Matt continued to hurl benign and repetitive questions at him.

“And when you exited your vehicle, what happened?” Matt asked.

“They took off.” Bauer answered, irritated.

“On foot?” Matt clarified.

“Yes.” The witness rubbed forcefully at the bridge of his nose again.

“And it’s true that my client left with them?” Gesturing softly to the young woman seated at the defense's table to indicate to the room who his client was, in case they needed a reminder.

 “Yes.” Bauer confirmed.

“So the entire group dispersed on foot?” Matt asked with an air of confusion. His rumbling baritone lifting on the tail end to indicate his dismay.

“Yep.” Bauer grit his teeth, tiring quickly as Matt persisted.

“At the same time?” Matt asked with the same bewildered look on his face.

“Yes.” His witness growled.

“The same group that was acting in a suspicious manner?” Matt questioned.

“Yes. I just said that.” Voice raising, you could see Bauer's face getting redder by the second.

“Then can you tell me, Officer Bauer, why you and your partner BOTH decided to pursue my client?”

Bauer's eyes flashed with something similar to understanding, his mouth remaining clamped shut as Matt stepped closer, closing in on his prey.

“You’ve previously reported and just now confirmed that the entire group left when they noticed you approaching. Yet you and your partner both were solely focused on my client rather than any of the other members of the group. Tell me, officer, is that because of her race?” Matt's words flew out of his mouth rapidly, a string of poorly concealed accusations within them.

You barely had time to appreciate Matt's ingenuity before the lead prosecutor bolted out of her seat. "Objection, Your Honor, that is clearly leading."

"Sustained. Counselor?" The judge glanced at Matt for his next move.

Holding up a hand, Matt didn't miss a beat. “I’ll rephrase. Officer, what reason did you have for pursuing my client rather than any of the other students?”

"Well, she was acting weird," Bauer stammered, his eyes bulging with fear. He'd spotted the threat then.

“In the same manner as the rest of the group, as you previously stated, all of whom you approached with your partner. Yet both of you ran after my client.”

“Yes.” Nodding cautiously, Bauer's voice was suddenly small.

“And, besides her race, can you give any other reason she stood out to you as more suspicious than the rest of the group?”

“Objection, leading.” The prosecution called out, her voice a bit shrill with desperation.

"Overruled. Mr. Murdock, please continue with your line of questioning." The judge's gaze flitted between the prosecutor and the witness who was now sweating profusely on the stand.

“Thank you, your honor. Officer Bauer, can you explain to the court exactly how my client was acting differently?” Changing the question slightly, Matt's lips twitched with the hint of a smirk.

“I don’t know, she, she just was!” Bauer cried, flustered.

“Is there any other difference between her and the rest of the group that you can explicitly state other than her appearance or her race?” Matt asked, cheeks twitching as he gleefully listened to the snare clasp around its victim.

“No.” Bauer answered. "But, but it wasn't like that!"

Turning to the judge, Matt's spine was straight with satisfaction as he announced his intentions. “Your honor, the defense would like to file a motion to dismiss this case on the grounds of selective enforcement. The combined testimony of Officers Bauer and Burke demonstrates an intent to frisk my client because she was black, not solely because of her actions, negating the principle of reasonable suspicion.”

The courtroom exploded, the witness and prosecution both howling in protest as the defendant and Matt both smirked. Grinning ecstatically, you stifled a laugh as the uproar continued, until the judge finally granted the dismissal. You couldn’t lessen your smile if you tried. 

Flooding out of the courtroom amidst the sea of spectators and journalists, you stepped out of the current as quickly as you could. Craning your neck over the waves of bobbing heads, you broke into a wide grin when you saw Matt trailing after the masses, cane sweeping inches from their ankles like he was chasing them out. As soon as he was within reach, you called his name, eagerly grasping his outstretched hand and tugging him out of the doorway.

“God, Matty, that was incredible.” You exclaimed breathlessly, wrapping him in a tight hug. His forehead landed against your hair, his nose skimming the shell of your ear as he shook with a resonant chuckle.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, a guttural noise slipping out as he did. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

His words were barely audible, a secret to only be shared with you. They sent another wave of need straight to your core. “Matthew,” You mumbled, his name breaking off into a whine.

Another huff of laughter sounded in your ear. Planting another kiss against your neck, Matt's broad hands squeezed your hips. “My place. Now.”

“What about you?” You murmured, mouth watering as every touch from your boyfriend left a lingering patch of heat along your skin.

“I have a few things to finish up here, but I'll be there when I can. I promise.” You didn't need to hear his heartbeat to feel the honesty in his vow.

The idea of waiting for him made your knees tremble, the joints threatening to buckle as Matt swiped a calloused thumb over the bare skin of your waist, his hand beneath your shirt. “Matty, please.”

Matt shushed you sweetly. “Not here, angel. Be a patient girl for me and I'll make all your pain worth it, I promise.”

With one final squish of your hips, Matt separated from you.

The walk to Matt’s apartment was excruciating. With each step, the throbbing between your legs grew more intense. By the time you’d made it up the stairs and flopped onto his couch, you were practically panting with want. 

Now, you were desperately trying to focus on your book, but the words on the page might as well have been gibberish given how little you'd retained since you started. How were you supposed to manage when the image of Matt's parted lips was branded on the back of your eyelids.

“Be a patient girl for me and I'll make all your pain worth it, I promise.”

Patience was never your strongsuit.

Digging your front teeth into your lip, you dropped your head to the arm of Matt's couch with a thunk, whimpering as your discomfort crested. Blowing out a breath, you clenched the paperback book with vigor, fingernails stabbing the parchment inside, scarring it with tiny crescents. If only this book was Matt's broad back.

He loved when you got a little rough with him. You couldn't help it. As soon as his mouth was on you, your eyes shut, vision blanketed with stars. Your hands would grapple for whatever surface they could find to anchor you as Matt rocked the two of you in tandem, your nails carving scratches into Matt's beautiful, sporadically-freckled skin in the process.

The first time it happened, you'd been horrified. Stammering out an apology and offering to apply antibiotic gel to the red marks, but your boyfriend had just smiled, assuring you that he didn't mind.

“Each of those marks is a reminder that I'm yours, sweetheart.”

Arching your back as Matt's dulcet tone echoed in your ears, the book toppled to the ground with a flutter of pages. Hands wandering over your body, you reminded yourself to be patient.

Matt will be here soon. He will.

But not soon enough. A voice buried somewhere in your subconscious warned, encouraging your primal desires and urging your hands to free the hem of your blouse from where it was tucked beneath the waistband of your skirt. Fingertips trailing over the now-exposed skin of your lower belly, you hummed softly as a ripple of pleasure circled out from your fingertips.

Unbuttoning your skirt, you slowly loosened the fabric enough for your hand to dip under it. Dragging a finger over your panties towards your core, you hissed as it finally reached your delicate clit. The bundle of nerves was overly sensitive after being ignored for so long. Pulling the cotton aside, you pushed your finger between your folds, smiling as it danced over your clit. Circling it carefully with a single finger, you shuddered as your body began to buzz with a familiar thrill.

Rocking your hips into your hand slowly, you could barely hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears—which meant that the slam of a closing door caught you off guard.

Yanking your hand out of your underwear with a yelp, you sat up, frantically jerking your head towards the door.

“I thought I told you to wait for me, sweetheart.” Matt's face was shrouded by an array of shadows, the glint of his malicious smirk tinted red in the light of his living room window.

“I—I was!” You mumbled, arousal seeping into your panties as Matt stalked towards you with a laugh.

“You know I can tell when you're lying, sweets. Want to try that again?”

“Depends,” You retorted, adrenaline reigniting the confidence Matt always brought out in you. “Are you planning on apologizing for being so late?”

Chuckling sinfully, Matt cornered you against the back of the couch, fingers deftly unlooping the fabric of your skirt from the remaining buttons. Leaning down until your lips were practically touching, his mouth glanced against yours as he spoke, ignoring your question. "Do you know how difficult it is to remain coherent when you've clouded the entire courthouse in your scent?"

"W-what?" You stammered, gasping shallowly when Matt's teeth grazed the underside of your jaw, his lips kissing languidly along your neck.

"Did you miss me that much, sweetheart? Wanted me to take you right there on the floor before the jury?" Matt purred, making your cheeks thrum with bashful heat.

"I'm not the only one who wanted that, it seems." You grinned, cupping your hand over the noticeable bulge in his pants. “I can't help it, Matt. Watching you in your element...you're intoxicating. I can't listen to two words out of your mouth without wanting to drag you to the nearest bathroom.”

Palming his cock through the layers he wore, Matt growled into the skin of your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Static ricocheted from the impact, freezing you in place as your thighs flexed.

Shedding you of your skirt, Matt gently caressed the cotton covering your drenched pussy. “Can I—”

“Please,” You begged, choking in a breath before Matt's mouth crashed against yours. His stubble bristled against your skin, the small pinpricks a pleasant contrast to his plush lips. Tearing the remaining clothes from your legs, Matt threw his leg over your torso, encouraging you to fully recline against the leather. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other was splayed across your mound, a single dextrous finger parting your glistening lips.

He tasted like salt, like want. His tongue lapping at you like he needed to swallow you whole, like he couldn't get enough.

His cheeks ruffled as a strangled moan escaped him. “You're this wet for me, sweetheart?”

“All for you.” You panted, the air between you growing thick with feverish heat. “Always for you.”

With a beautiful grin, Matt's finger swiped over your entrance. “You ready?”

Nodding sloppily, you brought your hands up to cup his cheeks, tugging him back to your lips. Mouth colliding with yours, the force became bruising when your body rutted upwards, a jolt of satisfaction striking your every cell as Matt's finger entered you.

You hissed as the familiar pleasant pain washed over you. Arching your back as Matt pumped his digit upwards, you moaned, clapping a hand over your mouth as the sound escaped you. 

Matt chuckled. “No need to be quiet, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.”

“So g-good, Matty.” You whimpered, every nerve within your folds quivering as Matt dragged his finger out of you, pushing it in again as he scraped his teeth over your neck. You cried out, vision going black as your body strained to find release. Your fingers dug into the silk beneath you, yanking at the sheets.

As your desperation grew, the rest of your limbs faded into numbness, your brain solely focused on the sensations of Matt’s callouses scraping against your walls—as if he was scratching an itch that had been niggling at you for hours. 

Matt hummed against your throat, pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit, making you yelp. The fire within you was out of control, your body drawn taught like the string of a bow. 

Wriggling slightly beneath his touch, your breaths became shallow, your stamina worn thin after watching him in court. You whined, twisting slightly to avoid launching yourself over the alluring edge into heavenly oblivion. 

“So close already, sweets?” He teased, repeatedly strumming the bundle of nerves. 

You moaned in assent, fisting the blankets in your clammy hands. His thick fingers tangled in your hair, giving your locks a tug and drawing a pleased yelp from your mouth. 

“Go on. Come for me.” Matt rasped, his breath fanning over your face. 

The command shoved you over the cliff, your lungs clenching as you stifled a scream. Your tailbone rutted up, your back arching off the mattress. Everything went white, your ears ringing as sheer pleasure coursed through your veins.

Matt was murmuring to you, his words muddled by the blood rushing in your ears. “–at’s my girl. Always such a good girl.” 

Rounding the peak, you collapsed to the mattress, your body trembling viciously. Each beat of your heart shook your rib cage, the motions rippling throughout your limbs. Hands flexing, you hissed as the muscles stretched out of mashed fists. Cupping Matt’s cheeks, you smiled as he eagerly dipped to kiss you. 

“Good?” He asked, the question punctuated by the noise of your lips pulling apart. 

“Fuck, Matty,” You whispered, head still swimming from the influx of oxytocin. “Yes. Yes, it was good. S-so good.” 

Withdrawing his hand from between your legs, Matt cradled you against his chest, brushing a thumb over your nape as your soul re-tethered. Lifting one wobbly leg, you shifted, attempting to throw the leaden weight over him, but Matt gently caught you by the thigh, encouraging you to relax. 

“What about you, love?” You asked, drawing in a harsh breath when Matt’s teeth nipped under your ear, his fingers already spreading your legs again.

“Later.” He huffed, his stiff length falling against your plush hip. “I’m not done with you quite yet.”

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002 @blue-devil-of-the-lord @pigeonmama @daisy-arien0 @yarrystyleeza

[moremaybank]

#5 from the prompt list with JJ?

"i can't pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that."

warnings 18+, unprotected sex, breeding kink (mwahaha), creampie, language

prompt list (requests closed) / jj masterlist

"Please, baby. Fuck me raw."

JJ looks into your imploring doe eyes, feeling your hands run up his bare chest. You hook one of your fingers into his signature shark tooth necklace, tugging his face closer to yours. You leave a savoury kiss on his lips, lingering for a few moments before pulling back to stare into his intense gaze once more.

"Baby..."

He admires your frame beneath his. Your hair is fanned out like a halo around your head, reminding him that he regards you as his angel. Your gorgeous tits are on full display, accompanied by the many love bites he'd left behind. You're completely spread out for him and dripping at the thought of him inside you in his purely bare state.

"I don't want anything separating us. Imagine how good it's gonna feel when you're inside of me, J."

And suddenly, that's all JJ needs to hear to be fully convinced, because how can he ever deny your wishes when you look the way you do? When you make his brain short-circuit the way you do? The truth is, he can't.

Not now, not ever.

The minute he slips inside you, he's a goner. The gasp that tumbles past your swollen lips as he pushes his way in is like music to his ears. Your cunt takes him all the way, swallowing him and encasing him in a wet heat that is far past what he considers to be euphoric. He buries himself to the hilt, already fighting to stave off his high.

He begins to move slowly, stuffing you full with each deep dig of his hips. He slips and slides easily as he starts to fuck you fervently, the remnants of his sound mind withering away the more he indulges in your warmth.

"We're never fucking with a condom again," he grits out as he goes harder, "not when I finally know how perfect you feel without it."

"Yes. Fuck yes," you gasp in delight. You can feel all of him deliciously, without a single barrier between you. Every inch, every thick vein. Every twitch and flutter as he lets go of his restraint bit by bit. You can see the lust in his eyes spreading like wildfire when he looks at you, and eventually, that same fire bleeds into his actions. His hands push down on your thighs, opening you wider for him. He pummels his cock deeper into you, reaching as far as he can with each thrust.

"God, you're so fucking wet. That how bad you crave my cock inside you, pretty girl? You want me to fuck you raw that badly?"

JJ taunts you with his words and his eyes, and the sparks flying inside you go berserk. "That needy that you'd take your chances? Even if I fucked my baby into you?"

You let out a wail, and your pussy convulses around his length as you come close to falling over the edge. You circle your legs around his waist and sling your arms behind his neck, holding onto him tightly.

"Please," you cry, "Please, J. Gonna cum."

"Me too, baby. Fuck, gotta pull out," he grunts.

You squeeze him tightly and pull him impossibly closer. Honestly, you're being selfish. You know you need to let go of him, but you can't say that any fibre of your being even wants to. All you want is JJ, your JJ, stuck to you. Or, stuck in you, rather.

"I can't pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that."

"I don't care. Cum inside me," you plead. Your hand runs through his hair after you pull his face closer to yours. "Be a good boy and give me all your cum, J. Stuff me full."

JJ's cock jerks inside you, the switch inside of him coming alive and falling to your mercy. He lets out a loud groan, mumbling a few curse words as he cums inside you. He triggers your own orgasm, and you all but scream as the pleasure takes over your body.

"We're gonna need a fucking Plan B."

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[iamgonnagetyouback]

autumn songs: sweater weather with Tom riddle x reader (mostly themed around “I hate the beach but I stand in California with my toes in the sand”) and how tom kinda hates some of the things reader likes but will deal with it and enjoys making her/them happy

(and MAYBE a mood board based of it if you’re feeling good! Ofc you don’t have to)

tom riddle x reader where he hates the beach but he still stands there for you

The idea of forcing Tom Riddle out into the sun was one you were determined to see through, no matter his whining and the pointed glares he kept throwing your way.

He might be brilliant and ambitious, but for this one summer break, you had managed to pull him out of the castle and into California. The two of you had spent most of your sixth year listening to Tom’s incessant rants about the necessity of seclusion and the unparalleled wisdom of spending every holiday at Hogwarts to prepare for “the inevitable challenges ahead.” But none of that sounded remotely as fun as sand, surf, and sunsets.

So, with some strategic pleading and well-placed persuasion, you’d convinced him to take this trip.

“How bad could it be?” you’d thought.

Well… now that you were twenty minutes into a sun-drenched California hike, with Tom huffing like he was being forced to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, you realized exactly how bad it could be.

“This is my life now,” he announced, his aristocratic accent thick and his voice laced with an absurdly tragic tone. “I have climbed this hill and now I will die upon it.”

You snorted. “Shut up, Tom. We’ve only been hiking for twenty minutes.”

He shot you a sharp glare, dark eyes narrowing as if you’d personally insulted his very existence. “Twenty minutes is precisely nineteen minutes too many,” he said, looking as though he could wither the hill itself with his displeasure. “Have you heard of Apparition, darling? One small effort, and we’d be there.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your backpack and grinning over your shoulder at him. “You know I don’t have my license yet,” you said with a shrug. “And I don’t know why you’d want to break the Ministry’s rules anyway.”

His lips twisted into a smirk. “I never did find the Ministry’s rules particularly sensible.” He raised a brow, his voice taking on a sarcastic note. “No doubt they would rather enforce trivial regulations than allow anyone to enjoy a semblance of efficiency.”

“Well, too bad!” you said cheerfully, hiking up a bit higher and delighting in the exaggerated sigh he gave as he followed. “Efficiency isn’t always the point. Sometimes, you hike and take in the scenery.”

Tom’s answer was a long, slightly disgruntled silence, though he dutifully followed your lead.

For all his complaints, he didn’t turn around. In fact, every so often, you’d catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if the sight of you grinning in the sunlight intrigued him more than the trees and the path. He could grumble all he wanted, but the satisfaction of having him with you was more than enough to ignore his protests.

Finally, after a considerable amount of “nonsense walking,” as Tom so eloquently put it, you reached the beach. The late afternoon sun bathed the sand in a golden glow, and you ran ahead, tugging Tom along by his wrist.

“I hate the beach,” he muttered, looking around with a slightly disdainful expression as his polished shoes sank into the sand.

“You’ve never even been to the beach, Tom,” you said, laughing. “How could you hate it?”

“Because it involves sand, saltwater, and screaming people,” he replied, lifting his chin as if these were the most detestable elements imaginable. “Hardly an ideal setting.”

“Okay, drama king,” you teased. “Maybe try enjoying it?”

With a sigh of utmost resignation, he let you lead him closer to the water. The waves rolled in gently, brushing up against your feet. Tom grimaced, nudging his toes in the sand experimentally as if it were a potion he wasn’t quite sure he’d brewed correctly.

“It’s not so bad,” you insisted, nudging his shoulder with yours.

After a beat, Tom’s expression softened ever so slightly. “If by some miracle I end up enjoying myself,” he said, smirking, “I’ll expect full credit for my resilience.”

“Duly noted, Tom,” you said, smiling. You turned away and started to set up for the evening, collecting bits of driftwood and stacking them near a little bonfire pit you’d found.

To your surprise, Tom joined in, carefully arranging the wood into a neat pile. He’d made quite the show of his displeasure, but you could tell he was warming to the idea of being here with you. Once the bonfire was going, the beach felt even more magical. The sky was streaked with hues of pink and orange as the sun dipped lower, and the sound of waves was peaceful, almost lulling.

When a cool breeze swept through, you shivered slightly, and before you knew it, Tom was already slipping his jacket off and wrapping it around your shoulders.

“There,” he said simply, his voice softer than usual. “One less complaint you could levy against me.”

You smirked up at him. “I wasn’t complaining. But thank you.”

He nodded, watching you closely. For a long moment, you just sat beside each other, gazing out at the ocean. The fire crackled beside you, and you thought you saw Tom relax a little, his shoulders loosening as he let the warmth of the flames chase away the chill.

“Maybe it’s not… entirely horrid,” he admitted grudgingly, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

“I’ll take that as high praise from you, Riddle,” you replied, grinning.

He shook his head, but there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Only you could find pleasure in such simplicity,” he murmured, though there was a softness to his tone.

You chuckled. “It’s not simplicity, Tom. It’s just… enjoyment. You don’t always have to be thinking about what’s next, you know?”

Tom was silent, his gaze flickering from the water back to you. And for a moment, you thought he might argue—go off on some long monologue about ambition and purpose. But instead, he just nodded, his gaze lingering on you a bit longer.

As the evening deepened, you watched him relax more, caught in quiet, peaceful moments. Even if he’d complained the entire way here, there was something about watching him find even a moment of enjoyment that made the entire trek worth it.

“You know,” he said quietly after a while, “if you insist on these… excursions… again, I suppose I could tolerate another.”

You looked up at him, surprised and grinning. “You mean that?”

He raised a brow. “Don’t get carried away,” he said, though there was a hint of a smile as he spoke. “I only mean that next time, I’ll be more prepared for such… inconveniences.”

“Like the beach?” you teased.

“Precisely,” he replied, deadpan. “I may even bring earplugs.”

You both shared a quiet laugh, the warmth of the fire flickering between you. He might not have loved the beach or the hike, but seeing the small, rare smile on Tom Riddle’s face made it all worth it.

And for that evening at least, it was just you, him, and the sound of the waves washing against the shore.

thank you so much for requesting, maddie!!

[doodle-pops]

「 ✦Discovering You Writing Fanfiction About Them✦ 」

Headcanon: Curufin, Turgon, Finarfin, Egalmoth, Beleg, Gwindor

A/N: I had a ball of a time writing this one. Please enjoy the crack and humour I’ve written.

「 ✦Curufin✦ 」

Always curious about the little notebook you kept so closely guarded, and how you manically laughed as you acribbled across the page, Curufin had his mind set on being a little mouse. You had never been secretive, exactly, but you were always quick to close it whenever he walked into the room. So one day, when you were out gathering herbs, Curufin’s curiosity got the better of him. He picked up the notebook, casually flipping through the pages. At first, he was intrigued. Then his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.

“By the Valar…” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from the words on the page. The story depicted him—Curufin the Cunning, the master of craft, the sharp-witted son of Fëanor—as a bumbling, lovesick fool who couldn’t tell a forge from a farm. And was he really wearing a flower crown while spouting poetry about how beautiful your eyes were compared to the “gleaming stars of Elbereth”?

When you returned, finding him sitting at the table with your notebook open in front of him, his expression was a mixture of horror and disbelief, not far off from yours at his discovery. “Care to explain this?” he asked, his voice strained as he tapped a finger on the offending passage.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter at his expression. “You weren’t supposed to see that!”

Curufin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts. “You’ve turned me into some kind of…lovestruck poet! And what is this nonsense about me trying to bake bread for you and burning down half the kitchen? I’m a master craftsman, not some…incompetent oaf!”

“Have you ever seen yourself in the kitchen making the simplest of things,” you teased, leaning over to read the part that had him so outraged. “I thought you’d enjoy it!”

“Enjoy it? You have a cruel sense of humour. Change this, please!" Curufin pleaded, his voice almost panicked. The thought of anyone—especially his brothers—reading such a portrayal was too much to bear. “I have a reputation, you know. This—this will ruin me!”

You shook your head, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Well…I can always write about you being a brooding, melodramatic anti-hero who monologues about his dark, tragic past while throwing in some utterly cringe-worthy lines like, “No one understands the deep abyss of my soul, not even my beloved.”

“Absolutely not! Furthermore, that suspiciously sounds like you’ve already written it,” he accused as his fingers flipped the pages, searching for the story.

Setting your basket of herbs down, you chuckled, “Maybe, however, this one stays. Besides, no one else is going to read it…unless you keep making such a fuss about it."

Curufin groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is not right!”

“If you continue to complain, I’ll write you more tragic than you already are,” you replied, planting a kiss on his cheek.

He gave you a withering look but couldn’t stay angry. “At least give me a heroic death or something…not this ridiculous baking disaster. I have standards!”

You laughed again, knowing full well that no amount of pleading would make you change a word. Curufin could only shake his head, muttering to himself as he walked away, “A flower crown… really?”

「 ✦Turgon✦ 」

When he discovered that you had been writing stories about him, his curiosity was piqued. He imagined grand epics or tales of his wisdom, but when he found the actual content, his reaction was...less than pleased.

He sat across from you in your shared chambers, holding the offending parchment as if it were some dark relic. “You wrote this about me?” he asked, his voice incredulous. You could see his composure faltering as he glanced down at the text once more. “I’m a tyrant who imprisons wayward poets and forces them to compose odes to my magnificence? And what is this about me turning into a dragon at night?”

You tried to stifle your laughter but failed miserably. “It’s just a story, Turgon. You’re the tragic anti-hero who loses his mind and his kingdom.”

He gave you a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Tragic anti-hero? I’m a lunatic in this! And why on earth would I turn into a dragon? My ancestors never had anything to do with dragons!”

You shrugged, an innocent smile playing on your lips. “Artistic license?”

Turgon groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is not how people should see me! I’m not some unhinged ruler obsessed with power and—wait, do I really speak in third person in every single chapter?” He flipped through the pages, his eyes widening with every line. “Turgon commands! Turgon decrees! Turgon is displeased!”

“It adds to the drama,” you teased, leaning back and crossing your arms. “And the readers seem to enjoy it. If you want, I can merge it with another idea where you have a penchant for over-the-top declarations and an obsession with your own reflection.”

“I do not swoon at my reflections!” he whined.

“‘And lo, Turgon, the fairest of all Eldar, gazed upon his reflection, and the very heavens wept at his beauty…’” you mocked, lifting a hand to your forehead, pretending to swoon.

“No! I am not that vain! And who are these readers, and why do they enjoy such madness?” he demanded, looking genuinely baffled.

You chuckled. “Um…your Lords, especially Penlod. He’s impressed by my creativity,” you sheepishly muttered, “They find you entertaining. It’s just fiction, Turgon. People love a good villain.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “You read to my Lords that I’m a villain. I don’t even have a nefarious plan! And this duel with Fingolfin—why would I challenge my own father?!”

You reached over and patted his hand, still unable to wipe the smile off your face. “Maybe you need to lighten up a bit. It’s all in good fun.”

Turgon sighed, staring at the parchment like it was a betrayal of everything he stood for. “Can’t you at least make me less…absurd? A little more dignified?”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully, plucking the story from his hands. “That would ruin the whole point.”

He slumped in his chair, utterly defeated. “This is torture.”

“Of course it is,” you replied, grinning. “And the more you protest, the more inclined I’d be to release an even more ridiculous story.”

Turgon gave you a long, suffering look before burying his face in his hands. “As if this wasn’t already absurd…”

「 ✦Finarfin✦ 」

He had assumed you were writing poetry or perhaps a letter. Even the way you would double over your papers, laughing and snickering as your quill scribbled across the page, still never led him to imagine that you were penning elaborate tales about him. One evening, curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked over your shoulder as you wrote. Instantly, him eyes fell from his sockets as he read the words on the page.

“What… what is this?” he stammered, barely able to believe what he was seeing. In your story, Finarfin—noble and wise King of the Noldor—was portrayed as a dark, brooding figure who lived in a shadowy tower, plotting mysterious schemes and cursing his foes with ancient, forbidden magic.

You looked up at him with a grin, clearly unrepentant. “Oh, just a little something I’ve been working on.”

“Little? ”he repeated, aghast. “You’ve turned me into some kind of…evil sorcerer! And this dialogue! ‘The night shall swallow your soul, and darkness shall be your only companion’? I would never say that!”

You burst out laughing at the sheer horror in his voice. “But it’s fun! Besides, you’re kind of cool as a dark lord.”

Finarfin gave you a long, hard look, his hands on his hips. “I cannot allow this to stand. Change it! What if someone reads this? They’ll think I’ve gone mad!”

“You worry too much,” you said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just fantasy. And besides, who’s going to read it? It’s not like I’m publishing it, or maybe I should. Think of the fortune I’d make….” You whispered more to yourself than him while rubbing your chin.

He sighed, clearly distressed. “This is so far from who I am! You’ve made me sound like some villain out of a children’s tale! Please, my love, I implore you…write something more…accurate.”

“Accurate?” you teased, arching an eyebrow. “Like what? The time you got lost in the gardens and refused to ask for directions?”

Finarfin’s face turned a delightful shade of pink, and he shook his head fervently. “No! Something dignified…perhaps a tale of wisdom or…or bravery?”

You smiled sweetly, patting his arm. “Ugh, too boring. No one would read that. I’m quite fond of Dark Lord Finarfin.”

Finarfin sighed in resignation, realising he wasn’t going to win this battle. “If this ever gets out…”

“You wouldn’t die,” you assured him, though the twinkle in your eye suggested you were thoroughly enjoying his discomfort.

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips despite himself. “You truly are incorrigible.”

“At least I’m talented, right?,” you said, kissing his cheek.

Finarfin laughed softly, wrapping an arm around you. “Indeed, for bizarre tales.”

「 ✦Egalmoth✦ 」

Known for his epitome of elegance and grace, a Lord whose charm and wit were unmatched, he was secretly thrilled when he found out that you had taken up the pen to write stories about him. That is, until he actually read what you had written.

He stormed into the room, holding the pages as if they were an orcish weapon. “Is this your idea of a joke?” he asked, his usually calm and melodic voice now tinged with outrage.

You looked up from your work, biting back a smile. “What’s wrong, darling?”

Egalmoth’s eyes narrowed as he read aloud. “The Dark Lord Egalmoth, with his army of cursed skeletons, ruled Gondolin with an iron fist, forcing his subjects to worship him or face the wrath of his pet sphinx.” He looked up, his expression a mixture of horror and disbelief. “A sphinx, really?”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “I thought it was a nice touch. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“This is not dramatic! This is ridiculous! You’ve made me into a laughingstock! A…a parody of myself.” He waved the parchment at you. “Oh, woe is me, for I am but a poor, misunderstood Lord, doomed to be misrepresented for all eternity… I’m one of the most beloved lords in Gondolin!”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re proving my point. Plus, people love a good villain. And it’s not like you’re entirely like that, the evil part I meant.”

He groaned, dropping the parchment onto the table. “And what’s with the cursed skeletons? Where did they even come from? I’ve never dealt with necromancy in my life!”

“Artistic license,” you said with a wink.

Egalmoth threw his hands up in the air before pointing them at you. “There’s artistic license, and then there’s…whatever this is!” He picked up the pages again, flipping through them. “And what is this about me challenging Glorfindel to a duel over a hat?”

You grinned. “It’s an epic battle for the most fabulous headwear in all of Gondolin. Glorfindel’s hat has feathers, and yours is made of a kaleidoscope of gemstones. The stakes couldn’t be higher.”

Egalmoth stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words. “This…this is madness. Utter madness. I would never duel someone over a hat!”

“But think of the drama!” you insisted, laughing as you reached for the parchment. “It’s all in good fun. You can be the dark, brooding anti-hero.”

“I don’t want to be a dark, brooding anti-hero,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “And what about this scene where I banish Tuor for using the wrong fork at dinner? I would never do that!”

You shrugged, grinning mischievously. “You might, if it was your favourite fork.”

He stared at you in disbelief. “Please, for the love of Eru, change this. I beg you.”

“Fine then,” you said cheerfully, tucking the parchment away. “I’ll write a story where you you’re portrayed as a flamboyant and melodramatic Lord, prone to fainting at the slightest inconvenience and speaking in overly poetic riddles. But know that the more you protest, the more outrageous it will become.”

Egalmoth groaned dramatically, leaning against the wall as if his life’s burdens had suddenly become too heavy. “You’re going to ruin my reputation, you know that?”

“Don’t worry,” you teased. “Your reputation in the fanfic world is already legendary.”

He looked at you, defeated but with a twinkle of humor in his eye. “Hmm, sure.”

「 ✦Beleg✦ 」

Being a curious elf had its perks, which meant getting into more trouble than he liked to admit. Like the day you were out gathering herbs and fruits and he stumbled upon a leather-bound journal tucked under your pillow. His natural curiosity got the better of him, and before he knew it, he was leafing through the pages, his eyes widening with each word he read.

When you returned, you found Beleg sitting cross-legged on the bed, your journal open in his lap, a look of pure disbelief on his usually composed face. "Is this…me?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and amusement. You froze, immediately recognising the situation.

“Uh, maybe?” you replied, trying to gauge his reaction.

Beleg cleared his throat, reading aloud in an exaggerated tone, “‘Beleg Strongbow, the mighty and majestic warrior, paused mid-battle to admire his reflection in the river, his hair flowing like a golden waterfall as he struck a pose worthy of the Valar.’”

You cringed internally as he continued, “A pose worthy of the Valar, really? Do you truly think I spend my time in battle preening like a peacock?”

You couldn't help but laugh at his horrified expression. “It’s just for fun, Beleg. People enjoy reading about a more…dramatic version of you.”

He shot you a look that was both exasperated and pleading. “But this isn’t me! I don’t pose mid-battle! I certainly don’t spend hours grooming my hair—golden waterfall? My hair isn’t even golden!” He looked genuinely distressed as he skimmed through more of your work.

“Here’s another one!” he exclaimed, reading aloud, “‘Beleg, the bravest of all, leaped from the treetops, only to get tangled in the vines, dangling upside down as he tried to maintain his dignity.’” He paused, raising an eyebrow at you. “Tangled in vines? I’ve never been tangled in vines in my life!”

You tried to stifle your giggles, but they escaped anyway. “Come on, Beleg, it’s just a story! It’s supposed to be exaggerated.”

Beleg looked at you with wide, earnest eyes. “Please, change it. Just a little? Make me…less ridiculous?”

You shook your head, grinning. “Would you prefer if I wrote you off in a battle?”

His sighed halted as he stared at you in utter disbelief at your choice of changing the story. “How is that any better that before? And why would you kill me?”

“Because I’m the author and I can do whatever I want to the characters, and fhey can’t do a single thing about it,” you replied cheerfully, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “But look on the bright side, at least now people know you have a sense of humor!”

He groaned, covering his face with his hands. “A sense of humour! That’s the last thing people would recognise in these stories. But please don’t make me die—I’m too heroic to die. Write about me saving you like I always do.”

For the rest of the day, Beleg chastised you mercilessly, to not kill off his character in any of your stories you planned on writing about him in the near future. Begging to have an input the tales about him, so they would have to be as painfully awkward as you pen them.

「 ✦Gwindor✦ 」

Never the type to pry, but the sight of you giggling to yourself as you wrote in your journal piqued his curiosity. While you were out of the room, he couldn’t resist, opening your journal to a random page and beginning to read. What he found had him staring at the pages in utter disbelief.

According to your writings, Gwindor was some kind of brooding, tortured soul who wandered the forests at night, muttering dark prophecies to himself and scaring off woodland creatures with his gloomy presence. And the love letters! They were all sappy, over-the-top declarations that had Gwindor cringing. If he had any idea how you were portraying him, he might have refused to ever speak again.

When you came back, you found Gwindor standing there, journal in hand, looking at you with wide eyes. “What…is this?” he asked, holding up the open book, looking like he was reasy to cry.

You immediately knew what he was talking about and burst into laughter. “Oh, that? It’s just a little fanfiction,” you replied, trying to downplay it.

Gwindor’s jaw dropped. “A little fanfiction? You’ve turned me into a wandering spirit of doom! I don’t wander around muttering dark prophecies! And this love letter—” he pointed to a particularly sappy passage, “—isn’t this a bit much?”

You couldn’t stop laughing as Gwindor continued to stare at the journal, utterly appalled. “It’s for fun!” you said between giggles. “Besides, it’s not that far from reality.”

“Not that far?” Gwindor repeated, aghast. “I’ve never even written a love letter in my life that sounded like this!” He mimicked the overly poetic lines with an exaggerated, tragic tone, making you laugh even harder.

Gwindor groaned, closing the journal and giving you a pleading look. “Please, please change it. You’ve made me sound like a character from a bad romance novel!”

“So you think my writing and creativity are bad then?” you asked with a straight face, watching as he fumbled around for the right words.

“Not for me,” he said, giving you a look that was almost comically serious. “At least let me have some dignity in your stories.”

“But it’s so entertaining!” you teased, reaching for the journal, but Gwindor held it back. You shook your head, grinning. “Plus, that’s too boring! Gwindor, the brooding, tortured soul stays.”

Gwindor sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to ruin my reputation!”

You walked over and kissed his cheek, laughing at his mock misery. “Don’t worry, love. Your secret’s safe with me—and whoever reads the fanfiction.”

Gwindor gave you a long-suffering look, but his lips were twitching with the effort not to laugh. “You owe me for this, you know.”

“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Threatening the author who can turn your character into anything they want it to be, now?”

Sheepishly grinning, he pulled you close. “Yes. I’m threatening you to write me not broody and dark. I’m a nice elf who doesn’t wander the forest at night.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No promises, Gwindor. No promises.”

Masterlist

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[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Hiii can i make a request for an imagine for daemon smutty??

Hiii. Hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: Smut, slight somnophilia, orgasm denial, spanking, degrading name calling. Word count: ~1k

She sighs and turns heavily in the bed yet again. Daemon remains undisturbed, deeply asleep, brow slightly furrowed even in slumber.

Gods, why won’t he wake up?!

The morning sunlight filters through the window in a blaze of pinks and reds, heralding the arrival of dawn. She knows he will sleep for a while longer, he usually does, but she needs him now.

Sleep has evaded her the last few hours and she is plagued by a throbbing ache between her legs that she knows only he can satisfy.

Her hand creeps beneath the blankets, tracing a path down the soft flesh of his abdomen, pushing through the thick patch of dark hair situated at the root of him, before it curls around his flaccid member.

Even when soft he still feels weighty and imposing against her palm. She begins to stroke him gently, smiling to herself as she feels him start to harden beneath her touch.

Daemon shifts in his sleep, grousing as he is roused into involuntary wakefulness.

“Pack that in.” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep, before closing his eyes again.

“Aōha ābrenka ao ajorrāelza!” She protests, giving him a slight squeeze that causes him to grunt. Your woman needs you!

“Kelītīs. You can give the sun a chance to rise and need me then, you spoiled little madam.” Stop it.

He keeps his eyes closed, but she delights in feeling that she now has the part of him she needs most standing to full attention.

“Please.” She whines, draping herself over him.

He cracks open a single eye, peeking at her derisively. “You think that wet little cunt of yours is more important than a Targaryen Prince’s need to rest?”

She pouts. “No! But…I could do all the work? Let me ride you.”

He elicits a withering sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face before looking at her properly. “You’ve never managed that without my help. You’ll whine that you’re tired and I’ll have to take over, lazy girl that you are.”

“I won’t!” She pleads. “I can do it myself, I don’t need your help.”

“Very well.” He says with a roll of his eyes. He slings his arms behind his head and regards her with a cocky smirk. “You’ll have no help from me. Hop on.”

She giggles excitedly, moving to straddle him. Grasping his erection, she positions the head of it at her entrance and sinks down slowly. The anticipation of having spent hours wanting Daemon has left her slick with arousal, and her cunny envelops him with little resistance.

Pride blooms in her chest as she sees his lips part slightly as he draws in a sharper intake of breath than usual. It pleases her to know that she affects him every bit as much as he affects her. She stays as she is for a moment, enjoying the fullness of him inside of her.

“Worn out already, jorrāeliarzus?” He teases, raising an eyebrow. Dearest.

“Daor!” She snaps back, beginning to roll her hips against his. No!

She sighs in relief, delighting in the way that Daemon’s eyes darken as he gazes up at her. She quickly finds a rhythm that she knows will bring her release. She has been so pent up she is certain it will not take long, especially with the tip of his cock repeatedly grazing at the spongy spot deep inside of her.

True to his word, Daemon lays still, watching her carefully, though the rise and fall of his chest has become more rapid. She can feel her peak cresting, as the tension in her lower belly coils tightly to a breaking point. As she is about to tip over the edge, the sensation is gone and she is robbed of her climax as Daemon jerks his hips backwards.

She lets out an anguished cry of frustration, her release ruined. “I was so close! Why did you do that?!”

“Usōvegon yno bēvilza.” He says with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I was getting a cramp. Carry on.” I must apologise.

She stares at him, a mixture of suspicion and annoyance pinching her features, but she is still utterly desperate for relief, so she resumes her movements, quickly working herself to the apex of her pleasure once more. He pulls his hips away again. She wails pitifully as the sensation leaves her void of satisfaction.

“Daemon! You are doing it on purpose!”

He chuckles. “If you want it that badly, riña litse, you will earn it.” Pretty girl

“Ñuhor līr gūrēnna.” She huffs at him. I will take what is mine.

“Go right ahead.”

By the fifth time Daemon denies her climax, her thighs are burning from the exertion and tears of vexation are welling up in her eyes. She feels so tightly wound she fears she may snap.

“Kostilus!” She whines. “This isn’t fair!” Please!

“Oh come now, I thought you were capable of riding me all by yourself?”

“I’m…” Her cheeks burn with humiliation, not wanting to finish her sentence.

“You’re what? Say it for me, riña litse, and it all goes away.” Pretty girl.

She whimpers, irritated by the sight of him still reclining lazily with his arms folded behind his head. She craves nothing more than for him to grab her hips and take charge, just as he always has. Her pride is eclipsed by her utter desperation as she relents and tells him what he wants to hear.

“I’m tired.” She whispers.

“Hmmm.” He muses. “Skoros vestri?” He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him. What do we say?

“I need your help…please.”

“Jaehossas sȳris sātās.” He says cruelly. “She finally admits it.” Gods be good.

She squeals as he surges forward, grabbing her and manhandling her onto all fours beneath him. The crack of his palm across the meat of her rear is loud and sharp, leaving behind a hot, painful sting to her flesh in its wake that causes her to gasp.

“Ilībītsos.” He snarls. “If you wish to peak, I shall see to it that you do, repeatedly. You will take it, and you’ll think on the feeling the next time you entertain the idea of behaving like an insolent fucking brat.” Little slut.

She shivers, knowing she is about to be taught a lesson she won’t soon forget.

[crushedsweets]

Do you have any hcs for how Clockwork and Jeff would act around each other?

yes!! ok so i think i covered their relationship a good bit on my blog (should be in my masterlist on my pinned post), but i can try to scramble more concepts rn

ok for starters theyre really mean. like 'why are you happy you look fucking ugly smiling like that' completely unwarranted. but its very much like older sibling taunting, but theyre both fighting for role of the older sibling LMAO

i can imagine nights of them at the barn, one of them sick to their stomach from the operator(or the various other infections and illnesses theyd collect) and way too ill to do anything. jeff is partial to bringing clocky a joint to ease the pain, clocky is partial to bringing jeff actual food/water to ease his. theyre def not the type to be affectionate or whatever but jeff would scramble to grab clockys long long hair if he realizes shes abt to throw up. then he'd be like 'jesus christ thats nasty'

theyll sit with an ipod or smth and go through a lot of music together too . . . just a lot of "figured youd like this song" or bringing eachother a CD they found and showing it off.

i could see clocky incorrectly thinking toby and jeff would get along, cuz theyre honestly pretty similar. so she'd get them to connect, and then it would go poorly. i think jeff and toby would TRY to kinda hide their distaste for eachother... sorta

like, toby would just be like 'hes fuckin weird' and jeff would be like 'why do you hang around such a loser' but they wouldnt be like "clocky if you so much as mention his name around me im going to go kill him" . until the nina situation unravels, in which case clockys distancing from jeff anyway

i think jeff and clocky would have a lot of convos about like...

theyre really in similar boats. both got infected with O/S syndrome, both slaughtered so many people under the effect, both feel the symptoms/trauma to this day - but they went down different paths. upon recovering from it, clocky made a life for herself, got a job, hobbies, friends, an apartment. jeff just...kept up with the violence and power trips. lives in an abandoned barn, only friends with a freak ghost kid, etc.

clocky isnt the type to beg but when she sees him years down the line, withering away, becoming worse and worse when she tried so hard to get better and encourage HIM to get better too . i could imagine some tears and pleading there. i dunno . he's kind of a lost cause, though

[blueicequeen19]

Right Side of Wrong Pt. 2

Warnings: non-con, somno, unprotected sex

I can’t turn my brain off. Ever since last night, all I can think about is Y/N fingering herself on my bed with her tits bouncing with each thrust. My mind runs wild, especially when I’m trying to sleep.

In my dream, she’s riding me and whispering dirty things in my ear as she claws at my chest. My head is thrown back into my pillow, my moans almost as loud as hers. It feels so real. I can almost imagine how she’d feel around my cock.

“Wake up, J.” I hear her voice in my ear, her heat tightening around my cock almost painfully. She was so wet it was dripping down my balls.

Huh?

“Wake up, JJ. I’m gonna cum and you’re gonna miss it.” I hear her voice in my ear, her teeth nibbling my ear before she’s gone again.

I feel wetness against my lips next with a burning pain against my chest and my eyes suddenly snap open.

It’s not a dream.

Y/N is on top of me, riding my cock like there’s no tomorrow as she digs her nails into my chest. I open my mouth but nothing comes out but a breathy moan. She was exquisite and I was ten times more turned on by the fact that she took what she wanted. That she was using me to pleasure herself.

“JJ, your cock is so big. It feels so fucking good inside me.” She breathes, dropping down on my chest and kissing me as her ass bounces up and down. She’s kissing me. Like it’s second nature and we’ve being doing this all along.

“We have to stop.” I don’t know who’s voice that is. It doesn’t sound like me. Even though my hands reach up to palm her bouncing tits as she straightens back up. I tweak her nipples with my thumb and forefinger, watching in awe as she throws her head back while grinding back and forth. I look between us where we’re connected, still trying to convince myself that I’m actually balls deep inside her right now.

“Let me finish and I’ll stop.” She whimpers, “I’m so close, J. Can you feel it?” Fuck yea, I can feel it. She’s squeezing me like a steal band. I don’t know how I haven’t came yet. I can see her cream pooling around the base of my dick, sticking to her as she moves.

“God, you’re a bad fucking girl.” I snap, pinching her nipples hard before sliding my hands down to her curvy ass. I dig my fingers in to the soft flesh, helping move her.

“More. Oh god, I need more.” Y/N pants, her nails biting into my chest again. I quickly roll us, pinning her beneath me and clamping my hand over her mouth as her eyes widen in surprise. I snap my hips forward just once, enough to make her gasp and watch her eyes roll back. I was deeper like this.

“You’ve started a very dangerous game.” I snarl, rolling my hips from side to side then back and forth. Her nails dig into my back, her eyes pleading for more.

“You have to be quiet.” I hiss, pounding her pussy harder. I grit my teeth as the bed starts to creak but I can’t bring myself to stop. I should kick her out before John B or someone catches us. But the deed was already done. I was already inside her even if it wasn’t how I planned. Might as well finish.

I dont slow down, snapping my hips forward at an ungodly pace as she whines and withers beneath me. Her eyes start to roll back into her skull, her nails dragging down my back as she reaches her climax. I roughly grab her bouncing breast, pinching her nipple as she cums hard, soaking me and my sheets. I snarl, my balls tightening painfully as my release barrels forward. I yank free at the last possible second, jerking my cock roughly until I spew all over her stomach and tits.

We stay like that for a minute, panting and shaking with the after affects of our orgasms. My anxiety starts to creep in again until she drags a finger through my cum and sucks it into her mouth, humming in satisfaction. I almost whimper as my head hangs. This girl was filthy and I wanted her more than anything. I was never going to be able to stop after this.

“Are you going to come to my funeral?” I ask with a blank expression. Her brows furrow for a minute as she gives a nervous chuckle.

“What do you mean?”

“When your brother kills me for defiling his sister.” Her face lights up with a grin as she moves to a sitting position, my cum running down her body as she reaches up for a kiss. I savor it, devouring her mouth and slipping my tongue inside. Her lips close around my tongue and she sucks, making my cock jerk to life again. I pull back, panting and ready to fucking ruin her.

“Son of a bitch, where did you come from? Who taught you this shit?” I grumble breathlessly, my words holding no weight as I climb off the bed and she follows.

“I’ve had practice.”

“I don’t want to know that.” I growl, quickly making my way to the bathroom but she’s right on my heels, not letting me run away.

“It was mostly porn and girls.”

“Jesus!” Just when I didn’t think my cock couldn’t get any harder, I visualize her going down on another girl while I fuck her from behind.

“I needed experience, J. I wanted to be good for you.” Her hands wrap around me from behind as I fight to catch my breath. I watch as she rubs her hands across my chest and slowly makes her way south. My cock jerks again, knowing what’s coming. She grabs my cock with two hands, tightening her grip as she slowly pumps me. I release a shuddering breath, letting my head fall back to look at the ceiling.

John B really was going to kill me. Not because I fucked his sister. Because I wouldn’t be able to stop fucking his sister.

[suhjihanma]

I have a lil' request. I just can't get off my mind ghe fact that kakucho is not much experienced with sex even though he would like to.

And whose better than the Haitanis to teach him how to please a woman. Just imagine Kakucho eating out reader while Ran (he is the best at it I KNOW IT.) Teaches him what to do 😫😫😫

And Rindou helping him by teaching new positions to try out with reader.

These three are my downfall 😭

This was sitting in my box for a whole two weeks. Goodness. Apologies, anon.

(Please, I hope you don't mind if I dedicate this to eating out. I'm a sucker for writing them).

Imagine having both legs holstered up in the air, Ran holding the left while Rindou holds the right. A familiar head rests between the center of your sensitive core while the moaning and words of encouragement continued on throughout the night.

"Kakucho." A whisper slipped from your lips as you caressed the back of his neck with the soft hands of a woman. A simple curse word, or a moan from pleasure, could do, but saying the name of the man that was giving his all to have you come down on his tongue was nothing but enticing. A bit concern of his lack of experience, you knew you would love Kakucho, regardless. Faint memories were playing in the thoughts of Kakucho complaining to you about his experience. The talking stages were the only success stories that he had with women, a probable case of bad luck. A kiss covered the sulkiness of his expression as you reassured him that still, you loved him for him.

To hell with experience.

The dancing of his tongue that slowly dragged across your wetted folds, along with the suckling sensations, could drive a woman insane. Motions of his tongue could be too harsh on your sensitive folds, but at least there were two men guiding him on what to do. Not that it matters, but you can't imagine how Rindou and Ran got pulled into this sensual predicament. All you remember was striking up a conversation about Kakucho wanting to further improve himself with you in the bedroom. The agreement of having two 'teachers' was completely unnecessary.

Then again, you couldn't help but to take Kachuko's gullible words for granted.

But seeing how you have a small audience looking over at something so erotic made you want more. It made you want the men hovering over this moment to make Kachuko do things that were dirty, filthy, and raunchy. More things than just eating you out. Greediness was consuming you as you wither underneath all three men. Pleading eyes were now focusing on Kachuko, who was lifting himself from you before planting a small kiss on your navel.

"Good, Kach-chan. Although fucking her with your fingers will get her more stimulated. A toy will even help her more while she's getting eaten." Sighed Ran as he placed a chaste kiss on your upper thighs. His head rested against the smooth skin. He showed Rindou a gentle smile before looking over in your direction. Rindou looked at his brother on the opposite side before looking at Kachuko, still resting between your thighs. "Or, have Kachuko being buried in it." With no hesitation, Rindou places one of his hands against Kachuko's neck and guides his face deeper inside you, making you mewl out in desperation.

"Fuck!" You yelped, hips struggling to move with the sensitivity that was rushing all over your body. Being tortured wasn't in the plans for Kachuko's lesson, although you couldn't help but to wonder if both of the men above your thighs wanted to step things up further.

"Gently nibble around her clit. She seems to like stimulation from there." Ran breathes out before soothing you with gentle strokes across your legs. As you tried to maintain yourself from an early orgasm, you couldn't help but to look at Kachuko and then look up at the ceiling with the sounds of panting and slurping growing to be more prevalent. Your hands ran through the surface of Kachuko's head before another wave of sensitivity hits your core.

You were thankful that the brothers were showing him how to eat you out good, but then, at the same time, bedroom moments with Kachuko will be an endless amount of agonizing bliss.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Hey there I have a request for you! Picture the scene:There’s a heatwave in Santa Carla and everyone is trying their best to stay cool including the boys who are in the cave trying to block any sunlight in the cave,but sense the boys don’t have air conditioning or water they are mostly stuck inside when the fem reader comes in the cave to find them laying around the main entrance of the cave sweating like crazy and bored,when the reader had a idea her idea is to invite them to her house and make blood frozen treats like popsicles!

If you like the idea 😅

Frozen blood is better than ice cream

warning : fluff

masterlist

Info : Thanks for the request it was really fun to write it especialy because of the hot temperature here in Germany and it reminded me off a scene from the Movie : Only Lovers Left Alive (also a vampire movie) where they also have blood ice cream :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was too hot in Santa Carla in one of the worst and warmest summers in history. The plants died, the trees withered and the people of Santa Carla suffered from the heat. Young and old alike, they all sweated under the hot sun.

They sought refuge in the blue, cool sea that had not yet been warmed by the sun, raided the ice cream parlours or jumped into their own pools if they could afford it.

But this did not apply to all the inhabitants of Santa Carla. There was a small group of four creatures who were able to escape the sun but had nothing against it to protect themselves.

A group that only had the shade and the night, as well as sleep, which in such temperatures was more likely to end in a sweat bath than anything else.

But the five members of the group hardly noticed any of this. Instead of sweat, the young woman had a smile on her face as she rode her motorbike over the long, seemingly endless road.

The wind was pleasantly cool and she was happy to see her four bats. During the summer she had hardly felt any of the heat.

Whether it was because of all the ice she had stashed away, the latest air conditioning system or the ten fans in her house was a debate.

But now, in the late afternoon, when the temperatures were cooling down to some extent, at least in her mass, she ventured out again.

Which is why she decided to check on her four creatures first.Vampires and heat, what do they look like? she asked herself, smiling slightly as she imagined four bats in a swimming ring.

All enjoying a swim maybe in the moonlight but still with sun creams one could never be too careful. Whether human or vampire, both would surely get sunburnt.

Coming to a stop a few metres before the entrance, she switched off the motorbike. The sun was still relatively high despite the time of day.

Even though she enjoyed the warmth to a certain extent, at some point it was too unbearably hot even for her.

Which is why, with a delighted grin, she set off into the cave to see her four favourite people. At least that was her plan.

Walking along the stony dark rocky path that was still lightly illuminated by the last rays of the sun. A few moments later she found herself in the cave that was the home of her four friends.

But no sooner had she taken a few more steps into the cave than she startled when she felt a hand on her ankle.

Cold and clawing at her, the person pulled herself up slightly. ,,Please-please-please make me human," she heard Paul plead as he lay on the floor, exhausted from the heat and looking as if he would fall over at any moment.

Hastily putting him on his back and trying to help him somehow, she heard Marko's dark giggle shortly afterwards. ,,Nothing's wrong with him, he's just sweating and bored," the blond said and carefully fanned himself with one of his pets' pigeon wings. She doubted whether this would really do any good.

But she also saw that the blond curly head was sweating and leaning more and more against the once cold stone wall. ,,Like all of us," she heard David's voice, half-trying not to touch too much in his chair. The material must be hot, she thought, and even saw that he wasn't wearing a cigarette.

Even for that it was apparently too hot for the leader. Understandable. ,,Mhh" grumbled Dwayne who made his way down from the ceiling of the cave to them.

She looked at the duct tape in his hand and saw that they had closed all the holes with cardboard, paper and other things, including duct tape.

It was makeshift but holding. ,,Nice device," she murmured and saw the short nod of Dwayne who, like the others, also had a layer of sweat on his body. ,,My poor vampires," she began and looked at the others again until she slowly realised that the four of them had no real option but to stay inside.

At least during the day when they didn't want to be fried. ,,Maybe I have something for you, come and see me, it might help!" she called and ran out of the cave with a wave and an encouraging look.

She knew exactly what she could give the four of them to cool them down. It would take a little effort, but her four sweet vampires deserved a reward.

Especially in this heat. Which is why it didn't surprise her that just a few hours later, when the sun had set, the doorbell rang. ,,Come in, you humans," she quipped, and heard Paul and Marko giggling as they pretended to take off their coats and hats.

After the five of them stood in the living room and practically threw themselves in front of the fans, she smiled.

All that's missing is a swimming hoop, she thought and giggled as she imagined the four of them swimming in a pool. ,,You said you had something for us," she heard David say, still holding his cigarette.

The last thing she wanted was the smell of smoke to last forever. Nodding, she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen.

The sound of the freezer opening and closing could be heard before she returned with five popsicles. ,,Ice cream!" Paul shouted and was about to reach for them when Dwayne slapped his hand away and grabbed the woman's wrist. ,,You didn't have to do that," he said quietly and she nodded knowingly.

Knowing that the others also saw the plaster on her wrist. Which was holding the wound in place.

Now the others seemed to slowly understand as they smelled the sweet familiar odour emanating from the ice carried through the room by the fans. ,,I know...but I wanted to give you something cool and delicious...an ice cream that tastes good" she replied and put one of the popsicles in each of their hands. Before she took the light vanilla ice cream and licked it.

Giving a satisfied sigh, the others also tried the ice cream. First it was just a nod, then a satisfied sigh before a loud ,,Yummy!" came from Paul and Marko, which was supported by David and a ,,Really good" from Dwayne.

Satisfied that the four of them liked her frozen blood and ice cream, she sat down on the chair next to a fan and watched her four vampires.

All happy with a smile on their lips as they lapped up the ice cream. Despite the heat that was still raging outside, it was more than just pleasantly cool for the five of them. It was bleeding cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[neverchecking]

You could consider this a request but the idea was too good to pass and I'm sure you'll be feral and foaming at the mouth if it wasn't in ur req box the moment it actually opens. So I'm writing this here for you to keep in your inbox before I forget and you'll mull it over and keep it preserved until it's time for requests to flood in again—

Remember Sadistic Reader? I bring u this: Dom! Sadistic! Reader x Sub! (Any of the chain) 🧍‍♀️

A reader who, after their little vixen side is revealed, it comes into play in the bedroom. ESPECIALLY in punishments. Maybe darling goddess wasn't pleased at the method they used to rid off a vermin, or rather maybe they were upset how nearly reckless their way of handling the pest was that they nearly got themselves caught. Sure, they didn't get hurt or get caught in the end, but their safety was on a tightrope and Reader couldn't help but be concerned and if the poor Link brushes it off as it's fine? Boi are they having it in the bedroom.

But the twisted part is that they probs did it purposely too, because they were much too starved for reader's attention. Too bad Reader knows this as well, oh they know. But did they really have to go through such unnecessary lengths? It's a bit unfortunate, but none of them really thinks it's as unfortunate anyway; Reader knows they enjoy being edged for a long time like the freaks they are until when the time that they deemed fit to let them come undone comes, and Reader will sit back and enjoy them wither under her touch until the sun rises.

She could only wonder how Hylia, much less Zelda even— would think of seeing their chosen champions a withering mess before them without her even lifting a finger to touch them. But whether or not the musing was said aloud only falls on deaf ears, leaving Reader to relish the show of seeing her feral handsome guard dog be reduced to a pathetic puppy.

(u can make it freakier and make this the entire chain being punished and Reader is just watching them—)

Alright I'm out bye—

Bestie. My cinnamon apple. The absolute gem of my life.

This. Every part of this. I didn't necessarily do request more imagine-

So, imagine Reader just giving them the look the second they step back into the inn they've chosen to stay at. A look that just spells danger in bright flashing letters along with a sharp frown that shoots of a matching flare.

Imagine the Link immediately knowing that he's in deep shit the moment he sees that look. His ears are going back and his shoulders are hunched. His steps immediately become slower and he debates dropping to his knees then and there, begging for forgiveness right then and there.

Imagine Reader silently watching him, assessing him, waiting to see his reaction. When he doesn't give her one, she's scoffing softly before turning on her heels, beckoning him to follow with one finger calling him forward.

Imagine Link stumbling over his feet, staying just one step behind his Goddess, watching her ever neutral expression. It doesn't shift though. Doesn't give away anything. It's frustratingly even and doesn't give him anything to go off of. Should he plead with her? Beg her? Kiss the very ground she walks on for just an ounce of mercy?

imagine the Link tries to brush it off, heaven forbid, or even go as far as insisting that it was no big deal. He's waving a hand flippantly all while feeling a bead of sweat tickle his spine. This feeling of not knowing eats him alive. He hates it. But he wouldn't dare question, much less talk back to his Goddess. That would be a field day for the rest of the chain.

imagine the Reader's gaze turns razor sharp and her steps suddenly stop. He's stumbling over himself in an effort to keep the distance between them. She's stepping closer and closer before her fingers, intricately delicate but just as iron clad, are pinching his cheeks and pulling him closer to her own face. There's a look in her eyes that tells him everything he needs to know. She knows.

Imagine the Link immediately bowing before her, his face scrunched in terror as he tries to think of a way to fix the situation. He knew he was being sloppy. He knew that it would come back to his Goddess because he ensured it would. He just didn't expect for it to feel this way. Of course, he never wanted to worry her, never- that would be sacrilegious- but he had just felt so...withdrawn from her presence. Like an addict who had gone too long without a hit. And It was brutal.

Imagine Reader is doing nothing but watching him for a tense second. Determining what punishment is worthy enough of this crime. She cannot be too cruel. That would make her no better than that wretched Hylia. Or, heaven and hell forbid, Zelda. No, this had to be as fair as it would be memorable. Something that could be seen as enjoyable at first before the overstimulation buzzed their veins and poisoned their minds.

Imagine Reader tying their hands to the bedposts, along with the Link's ankles before teasing them unlike ever before. Dragging feathers up and down their dripping shaft. Circling the head of their cock with a small shard of ice and watching it melt in delicious little drips. Maybe even letting candles burn and fall around the plain of their stomach, watching it harden before doing it again.

Imagine Reader doing this over and over and over again, until the Link is little more than a whimpering mess, pleading with her for forgiveness. Crying that he would never do it again, never dream of worrying her like he had done. Singing his hail Mary's and howling her hymns. Being nothing but a broken soul for her to weave and knit into whatever she wishes. Whatever suits her cause.

Imagine Reader tauntingly cooing over how shattered he is beneath her. How she had him so tightly wound around her finger, ready to snap the second she let him. How she knows he knows that he is nothing like the hero Hylia had crowned. That Zelda had deemed worthy. He is nothing to them, but everything to her. And she'll cherish their souls and hearts. He knows she will.

Imagine Reader making damn sure the lesson is truly sticking before letting up even just the slightest.

Imagine the rest of the chain (Minus Wind of course) being able to do nothing but watch. To simultaneously both learn the same lesson and acknowledge a new one.

One being that Their Goddess is just as benevolent as she can be strict. Never malicious, and never vindictive, but insistent on them learning and living with the knowledge that she views them as worthy. Not as Heroes, but as people. Her followers.

And she would never let anything happen to her followers.

Someone recommended calling this the Sweet but Psycho AU and I'm kinda digging it.