#Smile At The Mouth Of Despair

[austajunk]

The wonderful @bardic-feline and I wrote a nice and naughty Eldritch AU Danganronpa Fic and the first chapter is up! So please take a look. <3

Smile at the Mouth of Despair

Summary: When part-time streamer Chiaki Nanami enters the Kirigiri Detective Agency one afternoon and insists that she is being lured to her death on a mysterious island, assistant investigator Makoto Naegi is determined to keep her safe from what fate awaits her. However, as they pursue this mystery together, they both find themselves seduced and entangled by a strange and eerie butler who longs to return an ancient power to its former glory…

Main Ships: Komaegi, Komanami, KamuNami, and KamuKoma <3

[austajunk]

The details and hatching are so beautiful, it brings tears to my eyes!!! So haunting and soooo sexy...

Fufufu, Nagy ya creeper.

Drew one of my fav scenes from @austajunk and @bardic-feline fic Smile at the Mouth of Despair

Course i had to make the ending stupid cuz im like.

[prlssprfctn]

Freshly adopted Jason, who is so used to taking care of his mother that the first morning in the manor, he wakes up in early hours to cook for Bruce, too.

Logically speaking, he understands that Bruce doesn't need it — he is a healthy adult, and they have Alfred — but it is six in the morning, and his mind is foggy, so he just follows his instincts. Maybe he does not even realise that mom is not here, after all.

Alfred finds him in the weakly dimmed kitchen when he finishes his walk around the Manor before starting with his chores. He is amused at first, stopping quietly behind the child. He is doing great (that's a surprise since Dick intentionally just stirred more trouble), and Alfred can't help but smile a little.

'Good morning, master Jason. If you are hungry, you should wake me up the next time. I promise to take care of you.'

Jason blinks owlishly, still awfully sleepy. His eyes are barely opened, his hands working on the automat.

'Breakfast,' he mumbles, frowning a little. 'For mom- I mean, for dad.'

Alfred's smile falters. His original impression shifts in a late realisation.

Oh.

'Master Jason, you shouldn't really-'

'Finished,' he yawns, putting a one — just one, nothing for himself at all — plate in front of Alfred.

It is a very simple dish, scrambled eggs with some black paper and toasted bread — but not even made in a toaster, just on the pan; this kid probably doesn't know how to use toasters. It smells nice, Alfred compliments mentally.

'Can you-' He yawns. 'Pass to-'

And then little Jason falls asleep helplessly, falling right in Alfred's arms. He catches him, of course. This boy weighs nothing at all.

'Hey, Al,' Bruce sticks his head in the kitchen, no less sleepy. 'What is going on?'

Alfred explains to Bruce what happened, and he is no less distraught. He helps him to put Jason in the bed and eats all the breakfast he prepared, with a mixture of delight and despair.

And when Jason wakes up, embarrassed by the faint memories of the early morning, Alfred puts a big plate in front of him, filled with so much food that his big blue eyes light up instantly.

'Bon appetite, master Jason,' he smiles. 'Your cooking had passed my personal standards for a cook. You are a good soldier.'

Jason giggles, his mouth already stuffed with bacon.

'That I am.'

And that he always will be.

[d-z20]

Neighbourly Care (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You come home from college for the weekend but your parents forgot and you are locked out of the house. Luckily your neighbour finds you and they let you stay at theirs

-OR-

You think the neighbours are MILFs and the evening is filled with flirting and then you get to be fucked by each of them and then by both of them.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, top Agatha, top Rio, small mention of Mommy kink, strap-on use, oral, there might be more idk it's very horny

Words: 4.6k of pure horniness

A/N: I think I blacked out while writing this, its so horny. It's inspired by this request and hasn't even been proofread yet so enjoy the horny mess of it

Tagging @aceday because I said I would

AO3 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Master List

The rain falls in relentless sheets, soaking through your jacket, and the rest of your clothes, for that matter. Each step squelches as you trudge the familiar path from the train station to your parents’ house. By the time you reach the front door, your teeth are chattering, and your clothes cling damply to your skin. A sigh escapes your lips as you grasp the handle and pull—only to find it locked. Your heart sinks.

The memory hits you like a slap: the locks were changed after they had a break-in a few months ago. Of course, you’ve forgotten to get a new key. Fumbling through your bag, you pray for some miracle, some overlooked backdoor key, but your search turns up nothing except your phone. A quick glance at the screen confirms no messages from your parents and no backup plan. Frustration mingles with despair as you stand shivering, wondering what to do next.

Footsteps break through the downpour, and you turn to see Agatha, your parents’ neighbour, crossing her lawn towards you. You’ve exchanged pleasantries with her and her wife, Rio, a few times during your trips home from college. They’re always friendly, but you’ve never spoken beyond casual greetings. That hasn’t stopped you from admiring them, though—two stunning women, each with their own magnetic charm. And yes, you’ve labelled them MILFs in your mind more than once. Their son, Nicholas, is long gone from the nest, leaving the two women to embody a kind of confident, enviable domesticity.

Agatha snaps you out of your spiralling thoughts with a two short words. “Locked out?” Her voice is smooth, with a hint of amusement as she tilts her head and surveys you.

You open your mouth to respond, but your gaze catches on her appearance. She’s wearing tight black leggings that cling to her toned legs and a cropped gym shirt that reveals her navel, where a bead of rainwater trails tantalisingly down her skin. Her wavy brown hair is piled into a loose bun, though a few strands cling to her flushed neck. A sheen of sweat glistens on her skin—evidence of a workout she must have just finished. Your thoughts betray you as your eyes linger on the curve of her waist, imagining what it might feel like to touch her. A sudden heat rising to your cheeks.

Her blue eyes lock onto yours, a curious smile curving her lips. “Hey, you alright?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You stammer an explanation about the locked door, your forgotten key, and your parents’ apparent absence. Agatha’s expression softens, and she motions towards her house with a nod. “Come on, you’re soaked to the bone. You’ll catch your death standing out here.”

For a moment, you hesitate. Accepting her offer feels… intimate somehow. But the alternative is staying in the cold rain, and the way her gaze lingers on you makes warmth crawl up your spine. You nod and follow her.

Agatha’s house is welcoming, with a faint scent of flowers mingling with something earthy and grounding. She grabs a towel from a nearby linen closet and tosses it to you with a playful grin. “Guest bathroom’s down here,” she says. “You’ve got two options: strip down and warm up, or stay wet and risk getting sick.”

Your eyes widen, startled by her bluntness. Agatha leans casually against the doorframe, smirking at your reaction. “Relax,” she teases. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.” And with that, she saunters away, not bothering to close the door fully behind her. Her confidence leaves you both flustered and intrigued.

Inside the bathroom, you peel off your soaked clothes, debating how much to remove. In the end, you leave your underwear on, wrapping yourself tightly in the towel. When Agatha returns, she hands you a pair of shorts and a blue plaid shirt. Her sharp eyes sweep over you, noting your wet underclothes with a tut. “All of it,” she says pointedly. “You’re dripping everywhere.” Before you can respond, she adds, “I’m off to shower. Rio should be back soon.” She turns and leaves, her movements fluid and deliberate, leaving the door ajar once more.

Feeling the weight of her words and gaze, you strip completely, your damp underwear joining the rest of your clothes in a soggy pile. You’re still mulling over what to do with them when the door opens suddenly. Rio steps in, her dark eyes widening as they land on you.

“Oh—sorry,” she says, though her gaze lingers a beat too long before she averts her eyes. “Didn’t know we had company. Agatha didn’t mention it.” Her tone is low and smooth, carrying a quiet amusement that makes your skin prickle.

You stammer an apology, clutching the towel back around you. Rio’s lips quirk upward in a faint smirk as she backs out of the bathroom, but not before you catch the way her gaze sweeps over you. Your heart pounds in your chest long after the door closes.

You quickly shower to warm up, but there’s no cleaning the thoughts inside your head. Memories of Rio’s lingering gaze replay in your mind, but they’re quickly overtaken by images of Agatha. You can’t help imagining what she looks like under the water, her skin glistening with steam, her hair sticking to her neck. The thought is startling, and you shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the fantasy.

After calming your racing mind, you dress in the clothes Agatha left and leave the guest bathroom to find the two women.

You find them both in the kitchen; the warmth a welcome contrast to the chill that had soaked through your bones earlier. Agatha moves fluidly between the stove and counter, stirring something fragrant in a pot that smells like tomatoes, garlic, and fresh herbs. Rio, meanwhile, arranges a bouquet of vibrant flowers in a vase with meticulous care, her strong hands working delicately to adjust the stems.

It’s domestic, serene even, but there’s an undeniable electricity in the air—one you can’t ignore under the weight of their lingering glances.

Agatha’s grin spreads when she notices you lingering awkwardly near the door. “Looking good,” she says, her eyes flickering over the borrowed clothes. The oversized plaid shirt hangs slightly off your shoulder, and her gaze lingers on the exposed line of your clavicle.

You fidget, tugging the fabric up, but Agatha only smirks, stirring the pot with a deliberate slowness.

Rio rolls her eyes, though there’s a faint curve to her lips. “Ignore her,” she says, her voice laced with playful exasperation. “She loves making people squirm.”

You manage a sheepish laugh, but it does little to quell the heat climbing up your neck. Agatha recounts your lockout predicament to Rio with the same teasing edge, her tone carrying just enough detail to make your situation sound both pitiful and amusing.

Rio hums in understanding, sliding the last flower into place and stepping back to admire her work. “Stay for dinner,” she offers, her dark eyes soft with genuine warmth. “It’s the least we can do.”

Agatha winks at you over her shoulder. “Yeah, we can’t have you heading back out into the rain getting all wet again—the downpour outside hasn’t let up.”

You nod, accepting their offer, though the way they exchange glances—subtle but charged—makes your stomach twist with something you can’t quite name.

As you sit at the dining table, Rio who is opposite you, starts pouring red wine into three glasses; her movements fluid and confident. Agatha joins you a moment later, setting down plates of steaming pasta and sitting next to her wife. “Hope you like red,” she says, her teasing smile returning.

The conversation flows easily over dinner; their attention split between each other and you. They ask about college life, your plans for the future, and your family; their questions laced with genuine interest and just enough flirtation to keep you on edge

When you have all finished, Rio stands to clear the plates, leaning close as she reaches for yours. The proximity is dizzying, her chest brushing your shoulder, and you catch a faint, earthy scent clinging to her skin.

Agatha doesn’t miss a beat, her eyes flickering between you and Rio, her expression smouldering. She doesn’t say a word, but the intensity in her gaze speaks volumes.

When you offer to help with the dishes, they wave you off with a chorus of “nonsense.” Agatha’s smile turns wicked. “Besides, we were supposed to have a movie date night tonight. You should join us—it’d be a shame to let all this wine go to waste.”

The phrasing makes you pause, but before you can think too much about it, Agatha ushers you into the living room. 

The room is cozy, bathed in the soft glow of lamps. Rio claims the armchair with an almost feline grace, crossing her legs and leaning back with a glass of wine in hand. Agatha sprawls on the couch, her posture open and inviting. She pats the seat beside her with an easy smile.

You hesitate for half a second before sitting on the far end of the couch, hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you.

The movie starts, but it’s impossible to focus. Agatha stretches her arm along the back of the couch, her fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. The touch is casual, almost innocent, but it sends your pulse racing.

She leans over at one point to refill your glass, her chest grazing your arm. The heat of her proximity is overwhelming, and you’re sure Rio notices the way you stiffen. There’s a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes as she takes a sip from her own glass, her lips quirking into a faint smirk.

As the movie progresses, the conversation becomes more pointed. They ask if you’re seeing anyone, and when you choke on your wine at the question, Agatha laughs—a low, throaty sound that makes your stomach flutter.

“No,” you mumble, setting your glass down a little too quickly.

“Well, that’s a shame,” she says, her hand brushing your knee lightly. The weight of her touch lingers, even as she pulls away. “I was sure a pretty little thing like you would get snapped up in a heartbeat.”

Rio arches a brow at her wife. “Don’t scare them off, Aggie.”

“What? I’m just being friendly,” Agatha replies, her tone innocent but her smirk anything but.

The conversation continues, peppered with light touches and teasing remarks that leave your heart racing.

By the time the credits roll, the tension in the room is palpable. Rio sets her glass down and stretches, her movements deliberate as she rises from the chair. “What do you think of married life, Aggie?” she asks, her voice light but carrying an edge. “Think we make a good team?”

Agatha’s gaze flicks to you, her lips curving into a smirk. “The best. But sometimes, it’s nice to mix things up.”

The comment hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Your heart pounds as you glance between them, unsure if you’re imagining the tension or if they’re deliberately baiting you—and each other.

You nervously check your phone, hoping for a message from your parents saying they’re home and wondering where you are. Instead, you find a single text: “Out of town for the weekend, hope you’re doing okay!”

You stare at the screen in disbelief, your stomach sinking.

“Everything alright?” Rio asks, noticing your expression.

"They… forgot I was coming,” you admit, feeling foolish. “They’re away for the weekend.”

Agatha clicks her tongue, feigning shock. “Terrible parenting, really. Lucky for you, we’re not going anywhere.”

Rio nods, her tone reassuring. “You can stay here. We’ll take good care of you.”

There’s something about the way she says it—gentle but with a sharp edge—that makes your breath hitch. You thank them profusely, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks as they show you to the guest room.

They leave you alone for a bit, both going to change. You sit on the bed, your thoughts racing. Their lingering glances replay in your mind, stirring something restless and uncertain. Without thinking, you pick up your phone and start searching their names on social media. Your heart beats faster as you hope for a bikini picture or something—anything—that might help you satisfy the growing ache of desire.

A knock at the door startles you, and you quickly set the phone aside. Rio steps in, holding a phone charger. “Thought you might need this,” she says, her voice soft and her gaze steady.

“Thanks,” you manage, taking it from her. Her fingers brush yours for a fleeting moment, and she lingers by the door before slipping away.

Did she know what you were about to do?

A short while later, there’s another knock. This time, it’s Agatha, holding a glass of water. “Thought you might be thirsty,” she says, her tone lighter, almost teasing.

Surely she hears how that sounds, right?

Her fingers graze yours as she hands it to you, and the warmth of her touch lingers long after she leaves. You sit on the edge of the bed, clutching the glass, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

"Okay, it’s totally normal to be offered a glass of water before bed, and it does not mean they can read your mind,” you whisper to yourself, trying to curb your horniness.

—

Later that night, as you lie in bed, unable to sleep, the events of the evening are still playing over in your mind, especially the lingering touches and smirks. Suddenly, you remember the spare key your parents used to keep hidden under the plant pot by the front door. Without even thinking about how weird it was to up and leave in the middle of the night, you hop out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway, careful not to make a sound. But just as you reach the stairs, a voice stops you cold.

“Exactly where do you think you’re sneaking off to?”

Turning slowly, you see Agatha leaning against a doorway, her silhouette illuminated by the faint light from her bedroom. She is wearing a floral robe, and her hair is slightly mussed; her expression is both amused and predatory.

“I—I wasn’t sneaking,” you stammer, holding up your hands defensively. “I just remembered my parents used to keep a spare key under the plant pot. I thought I’d grab it and let myself in—”

“Without saying goodbye?” she interrupts, stepping closer. Her tone is teasing, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze that makes your pulse quicken.

Before you can respond, another figure appears behind her. It’s Rio, wearing nothing but her underwear and a top that reads: BOHNER FAMILY REUNION. PITCH A TENT. Her dark hair is messy, and you notice a small, mouth-shaped bruise blooming on her neck that definitely wasn’t there earlier.

“You were being so good for us before now,” Rio says softly, her voice carrying an edge that makes your knees weak. “We said we’d take care of you, didn’t we?”

The heat in your cheeks is unbearable now, and there is a familiar wetness pooling between your thighs. You stammer out an apology, but their combined presence is overwhelming.

“Relax,” Agatha purrs, her fingers grazing your arm. “We’re not upset, just disappointed you wouldn’t come see us before saying goodbye.”

Before you can process her words, Rio steps forward, her hand gently tilting your chin up to meet her gaze. “Where were you going to sleep after grabbing that key, hmm? Your parents’ dark, empty house? Sounds pretty lonely to me,” she murmurs, her lips curving into a faint smirk as Agatha’s hands slide around your waist.

Rio’s touch is featherlight yet commanding, her fingers tilting your chin just enough to keep your wide-eyed gaze locked with hers. Her dark eyes glimmer with something unreadable—intensity, curiosity, desire, maybe all three. 

You’re painfully aware of Agatha’s hands on your waist, her touch firm but teasing, fingers curling just slightly as if testing your reaction. “And what would you do when you found out that they no longer keep one there? They stopped doing it since the break-in, don’t you know? Would you come back over here and beg for us to take you back in and keep you warm?” Agatha says softly, her breath brushing against the back of your neck. 

You try to answer, but your words stick in your throat as Rio steps closer, her thumb brushing along your jawline.

“She’s right,” Rio adds softly, her voice low and velvety. “Why sneak off when you’re already here?”

Your heart is racing, your pulse pounding in your ears as you look between them. You want to say something—anything—but the weight of their combined attention renders you speechless.

Agatha chuckles, the sound rich and almost predatory. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” She presses closer, her front brushing against your back now, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.

Before you fully realise what’s happening, Agatha and Rio are guiding you away from the stairs. You’re caught between them, their touches subtle yet deliberate. They lead you down the hall, past the guest room, and into the master bedroom.

The room is large but intimate, the air carrying the faint scent of cedarwood. A soft glow from a bedside lamp casts warm shadows across the space. Agatha releases your waist to close the door behind you; the click of the lock is startlingly loud in the quiet.

Rio takes the lead now, her hands resting lightly on your arms as she guides you towards the bed. Her touch is warm and grounding, yet there’s a deliberate slowness to her movements, like she’s savouring the moment.

“You’ve had a long day,” she says, her voice soothing but laced with something deeper. “Let us take care of you.”

Agatha steps into view, her smirk as confident as ever. “Or, we can stop. If that’s what you want?” She asks, tilting her head as she studies you.

Your heart pounds as you shake your head, unable to trust your voice. 

Agatha’s smile widens, satisfaction gleaming in her bright blue eyes. “Be good and use your words for us, hun.”

“Please don’t stop,” you whimper.

At that, Agatha moves swiftly to your other side, her presence as bold as ever. Her fingers brush against your jaw, turning your head slightly so you’re looking directly at her. “You’re so tense,” she murmurs, her thumb grazing your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and intimate. “We’ll fix that.”

You barely have time to process her words before Rio steps closer, her body heat radiating against yours. Her hand trails down your arm, her touch featherlight but deliberate, as if she’s memorising every inch of you.

The room seems to shrink as the weight of their attention consumes you. 

Agatha’s thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and you feel a thrill shoot through you as her lips quirk into that teasing, predatory smile.

“See something you like?” she murmurs, her voice a low purr. “You weren’t careful enough not to like some of our pictures online, darling.”

Shit. So their coming into your room was not a coincidence.

Before you can stammer out an excuse, her lips capture yours—soft but demanding, her confidence evident in the way she takes control. Her hands slide up to cradle your face, her touch firm yet tender, while the kiss is a paradox of teasing and intensity.

Rio’s hands suddenly slide to your hips, pulling your attention. Agatha leans back just slightly, her breath fanning your face as her lips curve into a smirk.

“Your turn, my love,” she says, glancing at Rio with a playful challenge in her eyes.

Rio doesn’t hesitate. Her movements are firm as she tilts your chin towards her, her lips finding yours in a kiss that’s slower, softer, but no less consuming. Where Agatha is fire and fervour, Rio is water, her touch calm yet undeniably intoxicating. Her hand presses gently against the small of your back, holding you steady as she deepens the kiss.

When she finally pulls away, her lips linger close to yours, her breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the room. “You taste as good as I thought you would,” she murmurs, her voice low and laced with something that makes your knees weak.

Agatha laughs softly, stepping even closer so that you’re cocooned between them. Her fingers trail down your arm, igniting sparks along your skin. “I think they’re enjoying this, don’t you darling?” she teases, her gaze flicking between you and Rio.

Rio smirks, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “I’d say so.”

They exchange a knowing glance before Agatha’s hands firmly grip your shoulders, and with a playful yet commanding push, they guide you onto the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting with the harsh intensity of their movements.

Agatha walks into what you presume is her closet, but you don’t think on it for long as Rio is straddling you in a matter of moments. She is kissing you with a deep need; meanwhile, her hand makes its way under the waistband of your shorts; she swipes two of her fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness, letting out a groan of pleasure at the feel of it and brings her fingers to your lips.

Just as you’re about to take her digits in your mouth, you hear Agatha’s voice full of desire call, "Off."

But Rio doesn’t move; instead, she pushes her fingers into your mouth, groaning at the feeling.

Agatha grabs the woman by the scruff of the neck and yanks her off of you.

“But Aggie, they’re so wet already,” Rio whines.

If your lips weren’t already parted from having sucked on Rio’s fingers, your mouth would have dropped open at the sight of Agatha; she had removed her robe, revealing the purple lace lingerie underneath.

She places something you can’t see at the foot of the bed and comes to stand next to you. “It seems like everything you wear ends up soaked,” she says, mock concern coating every word. 

Rio looks longingly at Agatha, a silent request on her face. With a single nod from Agatha, Rio starts undressing you hungrily. And as soon as you're bare, her mouth is on you again, exploring every inch of newly exposed skin.

“You know,” Agatha drawls, “Before your little stunt back there, my wife and I were finishing off our date with a wonderful night in bed.” She continued. “Both of us talked—or rather tried to talk between our moans—about how we’d get you to join us.” You feel Rio smirk against your skin at this last sentence.

You shudder under Rio’s relentless kisses and Agatha’s firm gaze. Your legs are forced apart with strong hands, and you feel the cool air hit your heat.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” Agatha states for the second time that evening. “Now let us take care of you.” Her voice is sure, leaving no room for arguments.

Rio’s makes her way down your body, nipping and sucking at your skin. When she reaches your thighs, her touch becomes lighter, stopping short of where you want her mouth most.

“Please.” You beg, back arching up into her.

The feeling of her lips on your clit is pure ecstasy. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation of Rio starting to suck lightly. Moaning, you grab a fistful of her hair and grind up into her face, seeking more. 

She hums in satisfaction, happy to fulfil your request. She nips gently and begins to tease your entrance with her tongue, dipping it in ever so slightly. It doesn’t take long before you’re cumming all over her face, her name falling repeatedly from your lips. It’s only when you start to come back down that you remember Agatha is still in the room. She is looking at you with sheer lust, clearly struggling to keep herself from interrupting Rio’s fun. 

As if they could read each other’s minds, Rio withdraws from between your legs and comes to sit behind you, pulling you up so your back is against her chest. She pinches one of your nipples, causing your head to drop back on to her shoulder. A firm hand grips your chin, forcing it back up, and you open your eyes to see Agatha kneeling between your legs, her hands rubbing up and down your thighs.

“You need to look at Mommy when she fucks you,” Rio whispers in your ear before playfully nibbling your earlobe.

Agatha’s arms snake under your legs, pulling your hips up and into her. It’s then that you feel something hard poke you, making your eyes go wide. At some point when Rio was fucking you, Agatha had slipped into a harness, a purple dildo secured firmly in the centre.

“Are you sure you want this?” She asks, bringing the tip to your entrance. “I’ll only continue with your enthusiastic consent.”

The fact that she cares enough to make sure you were definitely okay with this, only turns you on more. “Yes. Please, Agatha—" Rio's grip on your jaw tightens. “Mommy,” you correct yourself. “Please fuck me, Mommy.”

And with that, she slides into you, facing very little resistance with how wet you are. As she bottoms out, her hips pressing into yours, you can’t help the whimper that escapes your lips.

“Kiss me,” you demand.

You hear Agatha chuckle when she leans into you, capturing your lips in a searing kiss while still continuing her thrusts. 

The sex is messy and loud, and you cum at least two more times before the couple shows any kind of stopping. You are left gasping, your body shaking; Rio’s firm hold on you is the only thing keeping you upright.

“Think you can go for one more round, sweetheart?” Agatha teases as Rio climbs out from behind you.

With the strap still inside you, Agatha rolls you over so she is lying on the bed and you are straddling her hips. The other woman settles her thighs on either side of Agatha’s head, facing you.

“Honey, you really have enjoyed having our guest round, haven’t you?”

Rio doesn’t reply, only winking at you before lowering herself onto Agatha’s face.

You start to grind your hips at the sight, the strap hitting the perfect spot inside you, Agatha begins to flick her tongue over Rio’s clit, and Rio pulls your face in to start making out with you. This change in position has the harness rubbing against Agatha’s clit, pulling the most gorgeous moans from her. All of you are lost in waves of pleasure; the sounds of grunting, moaning, and whining filling the room. 

You all cum at different times, but it doesn’t matter because nobody stops until the last of you is coaxed through the final aftershocks of your orgasms.

Untangling yourself from one another, you and Rio flop down beside Agatha, dumb smiles plastered across all of your faces. It’s a few minutes before they get up, but Agatha takes off the harness, giving it to her wife before coming back and drawing you into her arms. Rio wanders off to their bathroom to clean it off and returns with a wet cloth to clean you up as well.

She rejoins you after she's done and presses a soft kiss to your head, coming to lay down behind you, draping her arm across your body. With the three of you like that, it is not long before you fall into a deep sleep, a small smile still visible on your lips. 

You were going to ache in the morning, but right this second you couldn’t find a single fuck to give.

——

Please like&reblog if you enjoyed, I thrive off external validation and it motivates me to write more stuff like this 👀

read part 2 here :)

[hangesophtalmologist]

The Salesman's Obsession

title: the salesman's obsession

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader (y/n)

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

[scarlet-star-witch]

His Sacrifice

Summary: Aemond makes the decision to save the one he loves over his brother.

Reader is Rhaenyra's daughter and is in a secret relationship with Aemond

WC: 1.5 K

Tumblr is a piece of shit that deleted the request but to whoever sent this, hope you enjoy xx

Part 2

~~

The screams of men below were almost inaudible over the roar of her dragon. She felt powerful, she felt vindictive, a smug satisfaction washing over her as she decimated the Green army below, the traitors who dared to usurp her mother.

Yet her heart was aching. 

Her eyes scanned the skyline, nervously awaiting Vhagar’s presence, awaiting his presence. 

Her throat tightened and she blinked rapidly to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She’d cried enough tears over him, over the divide that wedged between them, threatening to break them apart completely. She had to be done. 

A trill made her perk up, looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her chest aching, but as she caught sight of the smaller, gold dragon headed her way, her devastation soon turned to anger. 

Aegon. 

Her face shifted, her agony now hatred. Her teeth grit with effort as she pulled at the reins, swooping dangerously close to the soldiers below her, a smirk painting her lips at their cries of terror. 

“Vermithor… attack.”

The dragon below her roared, a mighty sound that shook the bones of those who watched from below. 

She distantly heard Aegon’s call and held onto the handles of the saddle in a white-knuckled grip as she swerved out of the way of the stream of fire Sunfyre spat at her. She winced, flinching away from the barrage of flames that met her too closely. 

The dragons fought a vicious and bloody fight, Vermithor’s talons tearing Sunfyre across her belly, her cries echoing, shaking the ground below. 

Over her dragon’s head that now had the other poor dragon’s neck in his jaws, she met Aegon’s eyes, her gaze alight with hateful glee as she noticed the fear in his eyes. 

But suddenly, his expression shifted, a smile growing as he breathed out in relief. 

Turning, she saw the enormous figure of Vhagar looming forward, like a killer stalking its prey, ready to devour her with ease. 

Her heart dropped, the grip on the reins slipping from her hands, as if she already accepted her fate. 

Swallowing against the lump in her throat that grew, she closed her eyes, refusing to see the look on her lover’s face as he ended her. 

~~

They met in the dead of night, as they always had, meeting on a nondescript island halfway between Dragonstone and King’s Landing. 

He was already waiting for her as she descended from the skies, landing Vermithor beside the hulking figure of Vhagar. 

He was approaching her before she could unsaddle herself. 

His hands were on her before her feet met the ground. 

She was brought into his arms before she could say a word. She embraced him as she always did, desperately, as if it would be their last. With the state of their families, it might just be. 

“Are you alright?” She asked worriedly as she pulled out of his arms, her eyes frantically searching for his face, finding only despair.

“You cannot go tomorrow.” He told her swiftly.

“What-”

“They commanded me to take Vhagar to Rook’s Rest.”

Her face remained impassive as she took in his words, though the storm that raged within her was devastating, shattering every ounce of hopeful excitement she’d felt when she received his raven to meet her that night.

“Aemond, I-”

“You cannot go. Please.” He begged her. 

Her gaze met his and the frantic desperation she saw in his lone eye stirred sadness within her, the divide between their families that had slowly been tearing them apart delivering another fatal blow. 

“I have to. You know I have to.” She answered quietly, mournfully, as if she was already accepting her fate. She couldn’t fight Vhagar, she couldn’t win against him. 

He cursed and took a step away from her, placing his hand over his mouth as he tried hard to rein in his anger, his fear of what would happen to her, to them, as they met on the battlefield.

They always knew it would happen eventually, but it didn’t mean they were ready for it. They had been content to live in a fantasy together, as if they could pretend they weren’t living their reality, that they could’ve lived a happy life together. 

He stepped towards her again, taking her face in his hands. 

“Please, you cannot- I cannot-” He stammered and let out a shaking breath, his tortured gaze locked on hers. “Love, please, don’t go.”

“We always knew this would happen.”

His anger flared at the resolution he heard in her voice, at how quickly she was willing to accept this, that they were to meet on the battlefield, with only one of them returning victorious. He couldn’t accept it, he wouldn’t.

He shook his head wordlessly, his brows furrowed as if in pain. Her arms wrapped around him and he was quick to return the hug, holding her to him tightly. He let out a shaking breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he held her, silently praying it wouldn’t be for the last time.

“We should’ve left while we still had the chance.” She spoke with a small laugh that held nothing but sadness. Aemond nodded, his hands gripping her firmer, his thoughts a mirage of what their life would be if he had taken her up on her offer to escape to Essos all those years ago.

He desperately wished he had agreed. 

“Whatever happens tomorrow-”

“Don’t.” He begged, his heart already aching at the thought of what they would face. 

“Whatever happens,” She repeated more sternly as she looked at him intently. “It won’t change what we have. Nothing will change how I feel about you, even if I cannot feel anything at all.”

He practically shuddered at the thought, the mere notion of losing her too much to fathom and bowed his head until his forehead met hers, their shaking breaths shared. 

“I’ll love you even after the end.” 

He couldn’t hear any more. He kissed her firmly, pouring every bit of love he had for her and had felt for her for years into every caress of his lips, every tantalizing swipe of his tongue, every heated touch that he bestowed onto her beautiful body he had worshiped in secret. 

~~

I’ll love you even after the end

The words echoed in his mind all night. As he left her side to return to King’s Landing before the sun rose, they wouldn’t leave his head, torturing him over and over again, until he felt as though he couldn’t take another breath. 

Now, as he sat atop Vhagar, eyeing the battle in the skies above with bated breath, he knew he had only one choice to make. 

A choice that came all too easily, a choice he would make again each and every time. 

He commanded Vhagar to fly, her large frame taking to the skies slowly, his eye locked onto Vermithor, his heart in his throat as he saw her small frame duck out of the way just in time before Sunfyre’s jaws locked onto her. 

He felt nothing but relief as Vermithor trapped Aegon’s dragon in his jaws, he felt nothing as his brother’s dragon cried out in pain. 

But the blinding rage he felt as he watched Sunfyre swiped her claws against Vermithor’s face, dangerously close to her, made his blood boil.

His hands clenched, his jaw tight, his lone eye dark with resolve as he soon accepted the consequences he would face, the judgment the Gods would place on him. 

But he didn’t care. He would slay his brother if it meant she lived. He would slay millions to save her, without thought. 

“Dracarys!” He yelled, his eye remaining on Aegon who tried to shield himself from the flames that descended upon him. He grunted as Vhagar crashed against Vermithor, harshly nudging the dragon out of the way, Vermithor growling menacingly at Vhagar, before jerking to the side, her command of the reins forcing her dragon not to engage. 

He watched, his heart racing, as she flew away from the scene, away from Aegon as he fell alongside Sunfyre’s broken and burning body. 

He paid little mind to anything else and followed after her. They flew for a few minutes, away from the chaos of battle, away from any prying eyes that would reveal their secret.

He descended just a second after her, landing Vhagar next to Vermithor, his hands shaking as he undid his ties, jumping down his dragon’s frame unsteadily. 

“What the fuck was that?!” She yelled as she stomped towards him, tears in her eyes, unsure of what to make of the emotions overwhelming her. “Do you know what you have just done?”

He ignored her yells and grabbed her hands, pulling her to him, his arms wrapping around her tightly. She squirmed in his grip for a moment, her adrenaline still thrumming through her veins,  before finally giving in as she felt him shaking against her. 

She let out a trembling breath, her arms coming up to wind around him. She let her eyes fall closed as his hand rested on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. 

“What did you do?” She asked wearily, her voice hoarse and weak with exhaustion.

“What I had to.”

[ebodebo]

"Come to bed," Jason calls out, his voice a low murmur as you stand in the bathroom, carefully brushing your teeth. 

He’s lounging shirtless in your shared bed, the sheets barely draped over the sweatpants he’s wearing.

"I'll be there in a minute," you call back, your voice muffled by the toothbrush in your mouth.

He groans at the response, and you giggle.

You're sporting his oversized, worn-out tee that reads, "Property of Gotham City," paired with just a set of daring red panties.

You can feel his eyes on you, his gaze like a warm caress on your skin. In the mirror, you catch him stealing a cheeky view of your panties as the shirt rides up, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Bad boy,” you playfully scold, reaching for a magazine on the back of the toilet and holding it up to browse through.

He throws his head back against the headboard, overwhelmed with despair. "You’re killin’ me, Baby."

You let out a chuckle as you rinse out your mouth, quickly wiping it clean with a towel. Suddenly, you freeze, your eyes locking onto a new article that catches your attention.

You grab the magazine from the counter, feeling the paper crinkle in your grip as you turn to face Jason. He sits upright, his relaxed demeanor radiating an easy confidence.

"Listen to this," you say, clearing your throat with a cough before adopting a playful, sultry news anchor tone as you begin to read the article.

"Red, Hot, and Ready: The audacious vigilante, Red Hood, knocks the charming Nightwing off his pedestal in Gotham Time’s Sexiest Vigilante Poll," you teased, drawing nearer to him.

“Uh-huh. You done?” He drawled, a playful spark dancing in his eyes.

"The majority of pollers found Red Hood's enigmatic presence rather…” you pause, shifting onto the bed and positioning yourself to straddle his lap as you draw closer to him.

His hands find their way to your hips, raising an eyebrow as you lean in closer, holding his gaze without breaking eye contact.

"…alluring," you finish, as Jason makes an amused face. 

"That was…captivating," he sarcastically says, his tone dripping with dry humor.

"I can't believe my boyfriend is a celebrity," you say with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Can you still love a nobody like me with your towering  status?" You question, with a sarcastic inflection that's hard to miss.

"It'll make me look more humble than I already am, so yes," he jokes.

You laugh. "Yes. Oh, so very humble."

He laughs softly as his hands slip beneath your shirt, his fingers gently gliding over your bare skin. You lift the magazine again, your eyes quickly scanning the 'Poller's Insight' section.

You can’t help but chuckle, clearly entertained.

"Oh my God. When asked what pollers thought of his rather blunt demeanor, they responded, ‘It’s hot. Like really, really hot,’" you say, grinning widely, your eyes locking back onto his.

“Why are you laughin?’” He asks, adopting a mock-serious tone, his eyes filled with admiration as they gaze intently into yours.

"It's just, so...hilarious," you sputter.

"You jealous you got some competition now?" He quips, fingers greedily gripping the fat of your hips.

"Hah! I'd like to see someone try to deal with you, especially in bed," you cackle.

"You wound me," he jests, with mock outrage.

You grin, casting the magazine aside, bringing your hands to sqeeze his cheeks. "You know what I mean. Baby, you're insatiable."

"I just can't get enough of you," he utters, his pupils dilate as he peers at you.

He is the spitting image of devotion. 

"You're so...perfect," you murmur, finger running down his cheek to easily trace the outline of his lips. "So perfect."

"Seems you're the only one to think that," he mutters, his fingers tracing random shapes into the skin on your hips, eyes moving to glance at your lips.

"That's alright," you begin, tone just above a whisper as your eyes flick over his shamelessly hone in on your lips. 

"You'll be just my perfect boy."

He inhales a deep breath, his fingers stop moving, and his eyes flick back to yours in an instant. You give him a light smile, lightly moving your fingers against his cheek.

He dips his head forward, lips brushing against yours. You lean into him, hand resting on the nape of his neck. His hands move to grip your waist, holding you in place as the kiss becomes more fervent.

You grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slightly before Jason pulls it back down. Your protests die on your tongue as he slips his tongue in your mouth, fingers moving to fiddle with the waistband of your panties, easing them down behind your knees.

He pulls back, reaching for his sweatpants and boxers, which are stretched over his thighs. "Nah. Leave it on. Wanna fuck you in it," he finally mumbles.

Jesus Christ. 

"Okay," you mechanically say, already breathless.

You would do just about anything he told you to.

He grips your waist tight, moving you so you hover over his erect cock. "Ready, Baby?" He asks, eyes locked on yours. 

You grip his shoulders. "Ready," you affirm.

He hisses as he slides his cock into you with much ease. You let out a pathetic whine at the contact. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning against your skin as he grunts, helping you move against him. 

"Ride me, Baby. Ride me," he breathes into your neck.

You let out something of a moan and whine as you place one of your hands over one of his hands positioned on your waist, and the other stays gripping his shoulder for support. 

Your hips move back and forth, his rising to match your rhythm. He leans his head back, releasing an anguished moan in the process, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

"Am I doing alright?" You ask with only slight apprehension. 

"Yeah, Baby. Doin' so good—so good," he amends through labored breaths. 

"Yeah?" As you speed up the pace, you retort, desperate to make him feel good. 

"So fuckin' good," he groans, throwing his head and hitting the bed's backboard as you sit completely on him, his cock slipping deeper into you. 

Leaning down, you press a kiss to his Adam's apple as you go up and down on his cock, occasionally grinding down to give your clit some more stimulation. 

His fingers dig into your flesh with much pressure. "Fuck, Baby. I'm gonna—" he grunts.

"Yeah, me too—me too," you affirm, grinding yourself against him until you're wailing his name and he's mumbling curses.

You rest your forehead against him, both of your chests heaving, and sweat gathering around your temples. "We should do that—" you begin, catching your breath "—more often."

He lifts his eyes to look at you, his mouth contorting into a cheeky smile. "I'll do anything you want, Baby," he affirms through ragged breaths. 

"See, you are perfect," you jest, releasing a stifled laugh.

He playfully rolls his eyes, hands moving to get a handful of your ass, grinding you into him a little. You moan at the contact, still sensitive.

"And insatiable," he smirks, flipping you onto your back.

You ready yourself for a long night and can't find it in yourself to be mad about that. 

a/n: another self-indulgent fic🤰<-me rn divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[starryknight565]

OUGH THIS ONE HAS A LITTLE KICK TO IT

imagine being a shy little intern at jujutsu high and getting the fattest crush on gojo because he’s just. so strong and cool. you idolize him. you want to be his friend. and he seems to take a liking to you; he’s cheery and encouraging and sweet in a roundabout way. you feel like you’ve grown pretty close to him.

imagine him falling asleep right next to you on a sofa in the cafeteria. you can barely tell, with his blindfold still on. but you scurry away to find a blanket, happy that he trusts you enough to rest in your proximity, ready to wrap it around him —

only for it to slip right off. rejected by his infinity.

(he never turns it off, around you.)

[austajunk]

The wonderful @bardic-feline and I wrote a nice and naughty Eldritch AU Danganronpa Fic and the third chapter is up! So please take a look. <3

Smile at the Mouth of Despair

Summary: When part-time streamer Chiaki Nanami enters the Kirigiri Detective Agency one afternoon and insists that she is being lured to her death on a mysterious island, assistant investigator Makoto Naegi is determined to keep her safe from what fate awaits her. However, as they pursue this mystery together, they both find themselves seduced and entangled by a strange and eerie butler who longs to return an ancient power to its former glory…

Main Ships: Komaegi, Komanami, KamuNami, and KamuKoma <3

[lilacgaby]

title: save me.

pairing: childhoodfriend!katsuki x reader

katsuki has always saved you, his princess.

the first time you asked katsuki to save you was in kindergarten.

you'd fell and scraped your knees after some other little boy shoved you to the ground, upset that you had taken the swings from him earlier. you were in tears as you begged, "save me kacchan!" as his eyes widened and a feeling he couldn't describe overtook him, he scared off the other boy, happily taking the praise from you as you looked at him stargazed, in awe of his strength.

from that day on he swore to protect you, in all the games you'd play, he'd be the knight, you'd be the pretty princess in the tower, and his gang of friends would be monsters, trying to attack you.

he'd superglued your hands together at recess once too, just to keep you with him. he smiled as he said, "now we'll be together forever!" the reprimanding the two of you faced because he did so was worth it in his opinion, as the message stuck throughout the years.

it manifested in his protective nature over you never ceasing even as you two aged. in middle school the guy who'd been rude to you to the point of tears in biology came to you the next day, shakily begging you to forgive him. guys wouldn't look your way, terrified to even upset you. when you confronted katsuki about it? he'd deny it, say you must've done something yourself.

katsuki felt you were the only one who was his equal, the only one he wanted by his side on his journey to become number one.

that's why he was glad to be with you in u-a, why he 'let' you apply without the public humiliation he'd inflicted on izuku.

since you two were together constantly due to the dorms, you'd do everything together. you'd study together, train, sit next to eachother in class, eat lunch together. you'd even developed a habit of napping in his bed, waking up with horrible 'bedhair', not knowing it was because he'd play with it when you were fast asleep.

and as you two graduated, becoming pro-heroes, getting married. opening an agency together, plans for children on the way.

plans that were all thrown out as quickly as they were conceived.

the last time you asked katsuki to save you was when you were bleeding out in the destroyed streets of the city. debris and destruction surrounding you as you struggled to even mutter the phrase. "..s-save.. me." you could barely see him, let alone see the heartbreak and despair in his reaction.

everything hurt, your body could barely process why. maybe it was the fact you were being impaled on a blade of steel, brought forth by the villain who'd caused this madness in the first place.

"you're.. you're gonna be okay." he said, equally for yourself and him. trying to convince himself this was all a nightmare, one he'd hope he'd wake up from soon.

but as he looked over at you, processing the fatal wound in your stomach. he knew he couldn't be selfish and lie to you a second longer.

his words came out cracked as he confessed, 'i.. i don't-- i can't help you.'

how dare you? how dare you try comforting him in your last moments, reaching out to coddle his face with the hand that wasn't mangled, softly smiling and ignoring the blood cascading down your mouth as you dedicated your last words just to him. "i love you.. you've always- been my knight, katsuki."

he felt your hand drop, but he rushed to pick it up. he had never felt so hopeless in his life, he always swore to protect you.. and yet? he failed. he was a broken man as he was escorted away from your corpse, only your ring to serve as a permanent reminder of what he lost.

he was a broken man as he tried and miserably continued life without you, seeing you in everything, yet never feeling you again.

the only form of solace he would ever get was to find that villain, and to pummel him into the ground. and he did so, feeling so gratified in the moment, as if he'd served justice in your honor.

but all the blood he'd shed would be worthless,

for nothing could bring back his pretty princess in her tower.

alt ending!

[hailsatanacab]

Family Dinners - dpxdc

"Holy shit, you're Bruce Wayne!" Danny gaped, jabbing a finger at the man sitting at the head of the table.

The bustling dining room goes silent as everyone turns to look at him.

"Danny, who did you think was going to be here?" Tim asks, disbelief plain in his voice and Danny feels his face flush red.

"Sorry, I, uh, I guess I just never put it together. Tim Drake-Wayne. Wayne Manor. It, uh, makes sense now." He laughs sheepishly and scrubs at his neck before slumping back down into his chair.

"Well," Tim says with an indulgent sigh, "at least I know you're not just friends with me for my connections."

"Yeah, I'm really sorry, I just never thought about it, I guess."

Danny sinks lower as everyone around him laughs. Come to dinner, he said, the food is the best, he said, ignore the family, he said. Danny really wishes he'd listened to Tim and just ignored them—almost as much as he's regretting accepting the offer in the first place—but... he's having dinner with Batman.

Ancients, that's so weird!

The last time he saw Batman was in the future and, suffice it to say, it was not going well. There hadn't really been time for family dinners there.

Wait. Family dinners?

He peers around the table, openly gawking at everyone as it all clicks into place.

"Everything alright, Danny? Now realising who everyone else is?" Tim asks with a roll of his eyes.

"Uh... something like that..." Danny mumbles as everyone laughs again.

From further down the table, the smallest Wayne scoffs and clicks his tongue.

"I thought you said he was smart, Drake?"

"So, you all do it, too, then?" he asks, ignoring the jibe. Danny's only a little bit jealous as he thinks of how much easier they must have it, how much easier it'd be if his family had been on his side, too. "You all work together?"

"Nah," Dick says from across the table with a brilliant grin. "Tim's the only one that works with Bruce, we all have different jobs. I'm a police officer in Bludhaven."

"Disgusting." Danny blurts out without thinking—because seriously, what kind of self-respecting vigilante would also be a police officer?—before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry."

The whole table laughs again, the loudest being the blonde girl a few spaces down from Dick. Look, Danny wasn't really paying attention to names when they were all paraded in front of him. Dick only gets remembered because his name is a joke.

Come on, Danny, recover!

"That's, uh, not what I meant, though."

"Oh?" Dick asks, cocking his head slightly to the side. Is it Danny's imagination or does his smile tense slightly?

"Yeah, I mean like, you know, in costume. It must make it so much easier to have everyone together like this."

"Costume? What do you mean?"

Yeah, Danny's not imagining it, everyone tenses up at that. It's really only now that he's realising that this probably isn't how he should bring up that he knows about their... night time activities. In fact, he probably shouldn't be bringing it up at all.

"Uuhhh..." Danny looks wildly around the table as he continues making his stupid noise. Think, think, think! There must be a way out of this!

"Danny?" Tim asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, Ancients, this isn't how I wanted it to go at all," he mutters, slipping even further into his chair. He's almost on the floor now and he so, so wishes it could just swallow him up.

His real first meeting with Batman was meant to be cool! He had planned to be Phantom, maybe save them from a tight spot, prove his worth as a mysterious and powerful ally as thanks for the help Batman gave him in the future.

"Danny, what are you talking about?" Tim starts tugging on his sleeve in an attempt to pull him back up from his pit of despair.

Eventually, Danny relents and sits up straighter, hiding his face in his hands and whining all the while.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't expect him to be here and it threw me off so now I look stupid and it's so embarrassing!" he wails, flailing his arms wide. "Why wouldn't you warn me that Batman was your adopted dad, Tim? Couldn't you have let me know?"

"I'm sorry, what? Danny are you alright? There's no way Bruce can be Batman, look at him!"

"Yeah," the blonde girl laughs from the bottom of the table, "look at him! That's a wet noodle of a man! Batman can actually do things, B is incapable of pretty much everything."

"Thank you, Stephanie," Bruce sighs, massaging his forehead.

It's... Those are the first words Danny's heard Batman say since everything went down and it's enough to knock him out of his embarrassment.

It's really good to hear his voice again. Especially now, when it's strong and healthy and full of personality—even if that personality is little more than a tired father right now—far better than how it had been, at the end.

Danny sits up, back straight, and grins. He's got this. He remembers it perfectly. Some people count sheep to fall asleep, Danny repeats his mantra to be certain that he'll never forget it.

"Gamma alpha upsilon tau iota mu epsilon, 42, 63, 28, 1 colon 65 dash 9."

Once again, the whole table falls into silence.

"Holy shit..." breathes the other D name (Duke? Danny's pretty sure he's Signal) from opposite Stephanie. "Isn't that...?"

"The time travelling code." The littlest Wayne says stiffly. "We have met in the future?"

"That's not just the time travelling code, Dami." Dick says, looking between Danny and Bruce. "That's the family time travelling code."

Danny's grin freezes in place.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"1 colon 65 dash 9." Dick explains, still flicking between him and Bruce. "It means you've been adopted into the family and we should all treat you as such, no questions asked."

"Tell you what, I'm about to ask a question." Danny says, dumbstruck. "You just told me it was a code to identify time travellers, not anything about being adopted! What the hell, B?"

Bruce looks about as shellshocked as Danny feels.

"We must have been close," he says finally, after opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water a few times.

"No! Not that close!" Danny reels back, taking a deep breath ready to refute it all, but... "Well, I mean, you found me when I first got stuck, and you helped me get better despite being... And then we fought together against the, uh, bad guy, before he, um, he... before you couldn't."

An uncomfortable beat passes while they all pick up on what Danny tried so hard not to say.

"So, you're not from the future, then, you travelled there and came back?" Tim asks, breaking the tension and leaning forward with a glint in his eye.

"Yeah, it was a whole end of the world thing, but don't worry about it," Danny says with a hand wave, "It's all kosher now, won't ever happen."

"What did happen?"

"Seriously, don't worry about it, we cool."

"How long in the future was it?"

"About ten years? You were pretty spry for an old man, B," Danny laughs, wishing they'd get off the topic of what happened and get back to the adoption bit.

Everyone shares degrees of a cautious smile as they relax out of the shock, and Dick—whose grin is the biggest—says, "No wonder you got the family code, you're already riffing on him like one of us. How long were you there for?"

"A week, before I managed to get back to my present and stop him then."

"A week? Jeez, B, that has to set some kind of record, seriously."

"Oh!" Danny says, sitting bolt upright and blinking in surprise before pointing at Dick and bouncing in his seat. "You're Nightwing!"

"What?"

"That's exactly what Nightwing said when Batman told me the code! Makes so much more sense now."

Dick laughs and claps his hands, delighted.

"You were not formally adopted?" The grumpy small one—Dami?—asks, his face pinched.

"I didn't even know I was informally adopted."

"And your parents? Are they alive or dead?"

"Damian, stop—"

"They were dead in the future, but they're alive now." Danny says, looking down. He fiddles with the tablecloth, twisting the fabric around his fingers as he fights down the pang of sadness that he always feels when he thinks of them now. He forces a bright smile on his face and hopes it doesn’t look too strained. "I just, uh, can't talk to them much, anymore."

"Damian," Dick warns, "1 colon 65 dash 9. Treat them as family, no questions asked."

"This is Damian treating him as family, the little turd has no manners." Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he gently bumps shoulders with Danny to knock him out of his funk. Danny can't help but send him a watery smile.

"I have the most exemplary manners, Drake, unlike some people." Damian spits, crossing his arms with a pout. "I was merely ascertaining his status to see how he could possibly fit into the family."

"I know this is all a bit sudden, Danny," Bruce smiles, ignoring Damian and reaching out to lay a warm hand on his arm, "for all of us. But if I felt strongly enough to give you that code after spending a week with you in the future, then you are more than welcome in this family, if you so choose it. I think I can speak for all of us when I say we'd like to get to know you a bit more."

"I know a threat when I hear it, Bruce." Danny snorts. "But, yeah, I get it. I'm sorry this is all so weird, it really wasn't how I wanted to find you again, but... I'm glad I did."

"So are we, Danny." Dick says, with a warm smile. "And formally or not, 1 colon 65 dash 9 means you're family. Welcome to the fun house! No take backs or refunds, sorry. You're stuck with us."

[iniquitousyearning]

tom riddle. | everyone has their vices

summary: tom riddle tells you he jerks off (and more) to relieve stress. just….in typical tom fashion.

word count: 2k

tags: 18+, suggestive content, so much tension you’ll choke on it, frustrating subliminal tom riddle (though reader is just as stubborn), flirting, masturbation insinuation, make out sesh.

"But how?”

Tom inhaled sharply, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he prepared to reexplain for what felt like the hundredth time. "Because, the slightest distraction or doubt can result in consequence—as I said previous. A momentary lapse in any of the areas we covered will result in splinching."

You blinked, staring at him like he'd spoken an alternate language. The late night and the relentless focus on Tom's face for the past four hours had blurred everything into a haze and dulled his voice into a monotonous hum, blending with the soft rustle of parchment and the distant lapping of the lake against the window. He could see it—your disconnection, the way his words slipped past you like water through fingers.

He exhaled, slumping back in his chair, a hand raking through his dark hair in frustration. "Should we call it a night?"

"Probably," you muttered, your gaze drifting to the window behind him, the surface of the Black Lake rippling under the moonlight. "You've overloaded my brain. I stopped comprehending two hours ago."

You felt Tom's eyes narrow slightly as he studied you—you must have looked a mess. Strands of hair had fallen out of your ponytail, your uniform shirt was half undone, and there was a dullness in your eyes that spoke of more than just exhaustion. A week bedridden with the flu had set you back, and now, despite Tom's best efforts, you felt like you were drowning.

He knew you were stressed beyond measure—you were normally not like this.

"You need to relax," he said, the words landing with the flatness of an undisputed fact. "You won't retain anything in the state you're in."

"How can I relax when I'm two weeks behind? And exams are next week?" Your voice cracked with the weight of your frustration as you leaned your elbows on his desk, burying your face in your hands. "I'm helpless, Tom. I know you know it."

"Would I be sitting here wasting my time if I thought you were helpless?" He watched you, almost clinical in his intensity as he spoke—tone matter-of-factly, devoid of any false comfort. It cut through your despair with ease. Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose; if he was here, it meant he believed you were worth the effort. "My suggestion is that you reset your brain," he continued, his voice steady like his fingers as he shut the textbook between you. "Take a walk. Have a cold shower. Jump in the lake. Whatever you need to do to decompress."

The simplicity of his suggestions almost made you laugh, but it was the kind of laughter that would easily turn into tears if you let it. Tom had a way of stripping everything down to its most basic form—of cutting through your stress and chaos and presenting you with a simple, unvarnished answer.

You were a mess, and he was telling you to fix it—no coddling, no pity, just a clear-eyed assessment of the situation. And somehow, that was exactly what you needed to hear. You appreciated him for it.

"Decompress, huh. I don't believe I've ever done such a thing." You leaned back in your chair with a lopsided grin, arms crossed. "Is that what you do? Jump in the lake?"

Tom let out a huff, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in what was almost—almost—a smile.

"Something like that."

Interesting—Tom Riddle, always so composed, every inch of him meticulously put together, as if the mere idea of stress was a foreign concept. You couldn't imagine him spiralling, not the way you did—frankly, you couldn't imagine him ever feeling overwhelmed at all.

The curiosity gnawed at you, wondering what he did to unwind—what rituals or habits did the untouchable Tom Riddle indulge in when no one was watching?

"Something else, then?" You pushed it further, gently, your eyebrow arching just slightly.

For a moment, his gaze flickered, something dark and inscrutable passing behind his eyes. You knew he was considering your words, debating whether to indulge your curiosity or keep you at arm's length. Such a fascinating creature he was—all brick walls and boarded windows—you had a feeling he was going to shut this down.

Until, he leaned forward.

"If you're asking if I have habits—I suppose I do," he said, your eyes drawn to the way his lips moved, the way his voice curled around each syllable. "Habitual things I do to—relax, let's say."

You hummed and pulled your lower lip between your teeth as you considered him—fighting to hide your amusement. That was the biggest personal moment you've had out of Tom Riddle since the day you met him in first year where he told you his name.

"Well, isn't that a revelation," you teased, toying with the edge of your skirt. "Just the mere insinuation that Tom Riddle has to do something to relax—as though he's not always cool, calm, and collected like he lets on."

His lips curled slightly at your words, his gaze dipping briefly from your eyes to your mouth, trailing lower in a slow, deliberate sweep that brushed over your chest before landing back on the desk.

Your brain buffered, tingles in the wake of his wrath. He picked up his quill, spinning it idly between his fingers. 

"Everyone has their vices—if they don't, they end up like you," he said, his tone laced with an ambiguity that made you wonder just how deep his ran. "Perhaps it's time you found some."

You scoffed, leaning further back in your chair, the fabric of your shirt pulling tighter across your chest. You forced yourself to ignore the visceral reaction your body had as you caught the brief flicker in Tom’s gaze—the way his eyes darted up to the movement before he quickly masked his expression.

For a moment, you thought you might be imagining things, but the tensing of your thighs betrayed a reaction you couldn't quite shake.

"And what are yours?" You asked after a moment, your voice softer now. Tom Riddle was many things, but he was not a conversationalist—and yet here he was, indulging your curiosity instead of shutting it down. He was humouring you, and you intended to make the most of it. "Decompressing with bland tea and ancient tomes? Sneaking into the Restricted Section when no one's looking?"

“Mm, no.” Tom let out a snort, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips— "I’d say my vices are less...pedestrian, than all that."

The quill in his fingers stilled—the change in his demeanour was subtle, though you felt it in the air—electric, making your pulse quicken. He traced the edge of the feather with the tip of his thumb, the motion slow and deliberate, and you found yourself inexplicably distracted, fighting the urge to shift in your seat.

Why in Merlin's name was that so damn captivating?

"Less pedestrian?" You echoed, curiosity at an all-time-high. "What do you do, then, Tom? Dance naked by the light of the full moon?"

"I should hope not," he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that resonated in the pit of your stomach as you giggled alongside him. The quill twirled again in his fingers, the motion languid, almost hypnotic. "No, I'd say my vices are more...private. Less suited to polite company. Perhaps I should let you guess since the mystery of it seems to fascinate you so."

The look he gave you made you stiffen, a challenge—no, a dare—clear in his deep, dark eyes. Your thighs involuntarily reacted again—less suited to polite company?

"I believe I've already made several guesses," you tried to compose yourself with a shallow inhale. "I'm quite at a loss."

He shook his head, stifling his grin. "Clearly, you lack imagination."

"Clearly, you enjoy being cryptic." You shot back, unable to stifle yours.

At that, he hummed—it was obvious your stubbornness was as entertaining to him as it was aggravating. Perhaps you could say the same. He set the quill down, his eyes on yours as the fingers of his free hand began to tap idly on the desk—and then his gaze dipped again, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting lower, a slow, deliberate path that made you tense.

For a moment, you wondered if the tension in the air was all in your head. Was he always this adventurous with his eyes?

"When the mind is under strain," he began, his voice smooth, clinical, "it's a result of an excessive influx of neural signals. Synapses misfire, disrupting cognitive function. A basic physiological response." He watched your reaction closely, as though gauging the impact of his words. "To address such a state, one must reestablish control over these neural pathways. To be direct, I find the most efficacious methods involve tasks that stimulate the senses without being emotionally or physically taxing. A simple, repetitive action can suffice—something arbitrary enough to encourage the subconscious to lose focus."

You fought the urge to scowl at his change in speech—Tom knew damn-well just how overwhelmed your brain was—and then continued to recite scientific jargon as if it were his full-time occupation.

You’d almost be mad if it weren’t for the fucking words that stuck to the inside of your ears—stimulate, repetitive, lose focus—

"You're a walking textbook, aren't you?" You continued to play it off—you didn't want to make assumptions—you hated the way he danced around the edges of things, never quite saying what he meant. "Be specific."

Tom's grin grew as he leaned in slightly, his fingers stilling on the desk between you. "I find tasks that involve the hands particularly useful. Something that can be repeated in a smooth, steady rhythm, with little conscious thought required. The ability to lose oneself in the pattern is key."

Merlin help you—the atmosphere in his dorm had changed with those words; the air turned viscous, cloying, each breath sticking in your throat like syrup—hands, steady rhythm, lose oneself—the words pulsed with implication, even if it was buried under layers of his typical, infuriating ambiguity.

He was absolutely referring to—no—no assumptions—

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "So...knitting?"

The words tumbled out, a weak attempt at humour to cut through the tension, but they hung lifeless in the air—as hollow as the chuckle that rumbled from Tom's chest.

His eyes traced over you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle. "Not exactly."

"Hm. A different kind of needlecraft, perhaps." You shifted in your seat, trying to inject a semblance of nonchalance into your posture.

But you weren't fooling him—you never had—

"How much longer are you going to play coy?" He murmured, the amusement clear from light-years away.

Heat surged up your neck, the flush burning across your cheeks, betraying you—"how much longer are you going to continue holding your tongue?"

Your voice came out sharper than intended, laced with a challenge you barely felt capable of meeting. You and Tom had always been cordial, the slight suggestive comment here and there, mostly from your end. But this—oh, this was different—this was uncharted territory.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "Would you prefer I do something else with it?"

Oh, fuck yes you would—

"You're being obtuse," you practically choked out, though the words lacked the bite you intended. "Entirely vague."

"I'm being clear," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "But you're being obstinate—willfully ignorant to my meaning because you refuse to acknowledge it without me saying it outright."

The air between you dissipated—you tried to grasp for a coherent thought, something to regain your footing, but your mind faltered, stumbling over the implications of what he was saying. His eyes never left yours—and you watched them deepen in colour, black pupils eating away the rich brown of his irises, darkening with something that made the room feel unbearably small.

You could feel the heat rising in your body, pooling low in your belly. How did he do this to you? How did he turn you inside out with nothing more than words and that infuriating, knowing smile?

"Tell me," you breathed, hating how desperate the words sounded, "what do you do with your hands, Tom?...how do you use them to relieve...stress?"

The second those words left your lips you realized what was truly happening here—Tom Riddle never did anything without intent—every word, every pause, every smirk, was a thread in a web he was weaving, intricate and inescapable. He'd led you here, gently, subtly, with the barest hint of force, and now that you were caught, you realized that you wanted this.

Needed it.

And it was clear he did too. Otherwise you'd never have gotten to this point—he wanted you to push, to dig deeper—your stomach twisting as you watched Tom wet his lips, but there was no smirk on them this time.

Only something intense—jaw set, eyes focused—

"I think we both know what I do with my hands," he whispered, the double entendre clear in every syllable— "you knew exactly what I was insinuating the moment this started."

Your breath snagged in your throat, a tremor running through your entire body as the warmth pooling in your belly began to spread, sinking lower, threading through every nerve. Your vision narrowed, centering entirely on him—his eyes, the curve of his lips, the way his presence seemed to devour the room, leaving no space for anything else.

And then, you nodded, the movement barely there—a subtle acknowledgment of your understanding.

"Do you touch yourself, Tom?..." the words escaped you, a soft, breathy whisper that you could hardly believe were your own. "Or do you touch someone else?"

For a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze, suspended in the intensity of those questions.

The world narrowed to the point of his gaze, the sharp line of his jaw—the reality of where you were, what you were doing, almost seemed to blur—trapping you both in a moment that felt surreal, like a scene caught in the still frame of a film. Never—never—had you imagined a conversation like this with Tom Riddle, hardly your acquaintance, the untouchable genius of the school.

And yet here you were, heart pounding, every nerve on fire, and Merlin help you, you were going to wring every drop of this out for as long as you could.

He swallowed, and you watched the movement, entranced. "Depends on my level of stress."

Tom's expression was unreadable—except for the subtle tension in his shoulders as he leaned back, spreading his legs a fraction wider, the fabric of his dress shirt straining against the flex of his biceps—

"...and how stressed are you right now?" You whispered, reckless, without a trace of restraint.

Tom's throat bobbed with another swallow, a gesture so simple yet so charged that it sent your pulse roaring in your ears.

"Quite," he murmured, his voice taut, stretched thin. "The past four hours have been rather taxing—wouldn't you agree?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up, escaping before you could stop it. You tried to steady yourself, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. You had never felt so intensely aroused and frustrated in your life, and you knew, without a bloody doubt, that he was perfectly aware of it.

"Are you trying to imply l'm the cause of your stress?"

"On the contrary," he said, his gaze raking over you, his eyes dark and hungry, as if you were something to be consumed, devoured whole. "I'm saying you've exacerbated it. Though I'll concede a fair share of the responsibility—as it is mine, after all."

"How kind of you," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain composure. "To admit your own fault in the matter."

"I'm a kind man." His voice was a low purr, the kind that seeped into your bones, making your blood thrum with anticipation. "I like to take responsibility for my shortcomings."

Yes, yes—so very kind—

"Then take it."

The words left your mouth before you could second-guess them, a challenge thrown into the thick, suffocating air between you. The tension was a living thing now, colled tight, ready to snap, turning your insides into a churning mess of want and need.

Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Take it?" He echoed. "And what exactly do you want me to take, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart.

The pet name rolled off his tongue with a casual ease that sent a flush of heat straight to your core— the simple word wielded like a weapon, striking you down with its intimacy. There was no denying the power that name held over you, especially when coming from his lips.

"The responsibility..." you whispered, the words trembling as they left you, barely more than a breath. "…for your..." you hesitated, your eyes locked onto his as you finally said, "…shortcomings."

For a moment, everything hung in the balance—until, oxygen extinct, Tom leaned forward, closing the space between you until he was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, mingling with your own.

Curse this fucking desk between you.

"My shortcomings," he repeated, his eyes flicking to your lips. "Is that all I should take responsibility for?"

"Are you suggesting..." you leaned in as well, the distance between you shrinking to a breath—your gaze drawn to his own mouth—the plush of it, how bad you wanted to feel it against yours, "...there's something else you wish to take responsibility for?"

Said mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile and witnessing the shift this close felt dangerously religious—as though you'd experienced something sacred not many have before—part of you knew you did.

"Many things," he whispered, the sound soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "The list is long and varied..."

The heat in your body was painful—you had never been this close to him, never felt the full weight of his presence bearing down on you like this. His cologne—faint, rich, and so distinctly Tom—overwhelmed you, the same scent he'd worn since you first met him.

It was infuriating, how everything he did was so subtle, simple—yet so fucking intoxicating, so irresistible.

"...I'm not quite sure where to start." His eyes flicked back to yours.

Every word that fell from his lips was a new form of torture, his dark eyes pinning you in place, searing into you. The heat radiating from his body made you want to retreat, to find air, to find space—but the thought of putting any distance between you was unbearable, the need to be near him overriding everything else.

You'd rather lose consciousness than pull back.

"Why don't you start..." you whispered, tilting your head, your teeth grazing your bottom lip. "By fixing the insatiable ache in my curiosity...the one you created when you mentioned how you use your hands...to relieve stress..."

He exhaled, the sound rumbling from his chest like a growl and you could almost imagine that if he parted his lips, you'd glimpse fangs behind them right now—you'd never seen him like this—his gaze predatory, fucking ravenous, and it was as though he could devour you whole if he so chose to.

But you knew better. Tom Riddle would never be so crude. His methods of torment were deliberate—Methodical. A slow depletion of your senses until you're gasping for something only he can give you.

Then, in a voice that was all gravel and silk, he whispered, "is that all that's aching...your...curiosity?"

"Gods no—"

But you never finished that thought—because in an instant, his hand was tangled in your hair, pulling you forward with a force that sent you careening over the desk and into him—Tom Riddles lips crashed against yours, and it was like drowning, his tongue invading your mouth, stealing your breath and dragging all ounces of your cognitive ability along with it.

You were half out of your chair, caught in the gravity of him, unsure if your legs were even working, or if it was his grip alone that held you upright. His free hand found your wrist, pinning it to the desk as his mouth worked you with a fervour that made your head spin. The kiss was incendiary, a wildfire scorching its way through every nerve in your body, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake—the intensity of it, the sheer, unrelenting pressure of his lips on yours, made you wonder how you survived this long without it.

All the heat in your blood pooled low, deep between your thighs, an ache so profound it threatened to consume you. Tom Riddle was about to show you precisely how he used his hands to relieve stress, and Gods, if that wasn’t the only thing you’d ever needed right now.

[theealbatross]

never not been mine (s.s)

Plot | Everyone wonders if you and Sebastian are together. Sebastian wonders when will everyone mind their own business.

Tags | fluff, cheesy pining, we're not together or are we, cranky!seb, slytherin!reader, curses, threats, prejudice, seeker!seb for the plot, established relationship (kinda), when you love her so much it drives you insane, seb and reader are shit seniors is my headcannon

[Disclaimer | I borrowed a scene from "no hard feelings" because it was trending on tiktok lol. Also a portion of this is heavily inspired by 'The Alchemy' by Taylor Swift'. Photos not mine.]

“Just one drink – butterbeers on me!”

You couldn’t help but smile at the eager nameless hopeful in front of you.

The wince from his two friends at the other edge of the common room was apparent at your periphery. You had to give it to him, he’s lasted longer than the others. Usually, most would be walking away with their egos bruised when greeted with your disinterest.

“Not like you have any … pending appointments, don’t you?” He tried to maintain his bravado, even taking a step closer to the loveseat you were sitting on by the fire.

Call it an instinct, a bond only kindred spirits that have tethered in-between life and death together would have, but you could almost feel him – not needing to see him to recognize the heavy steps on the stone stairs, the deep sigh as he impatiently scours the common room in search of you, and the inevitable crinkle that forms in-between his eyebrows when he sees someone else in your vicinity.

You smile.

“I have one,” you muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

His smirk faltered, eyebrows meeting, “A boyfriend?”

You shook your head.

“Pending appointments,” you grin.

His body comically cloaked the significantly shorter boy from behind.

“There you are.”

Sebastian barely glanced at the 6th year in front of you even when their shoulders bumped, making the student stumble. On instinct, you moved your legs to the side so Sebastian could curl up on the floor, his head finding comfort on the meat of your covered thigh, callused hands curling on your calf as he slumped into your lap.

His hair was still dripping sweat, the quidditch uniform he had on covered with muck and dirt and a spattering of blood, and yet here he was, shamelessly sharing his mess with your clothes. You can almost hear Ominis’ disapproving voice, ‘He's a spoiled dog!’.

Ah, but how could you not when he seemed to be cursed at being so good at everything and yet so miserable doing anything else but spending his time with you. Even you can’t be that heartless.

You ran your hands on his damp hair, making sure to press your fingers on his scalp, unable to stop the soft coos from coming out of your mouth. Sebastian had always needed extra attention after his drills with Imelda, the latter determined to tun him into her very own secret weapon of destruction for this upcoming Quidditch season.

This, in turn, had cut his time with you to his utter despair.

“Can we help you?” You were too busy tending to him that you hadn’t realized you still had an audience. Your pet wasn’t the friendliest, especially with strangers of the opposite sex that stares at you.

“N-No, I was just – we were having a conversa –”

Sebastian frowned, the boy took a step back, you place a halting hand on his shoulder.  

“I’ll,” you’re sure even this silly one knows of your Sebastian’s temperament. He wasn’t necessarily the type to be awarded as The Friendliest Senior of the Year.

(“You were nice to me the first time we met.” “Maybe I’m only nice to pretty witches.”)

“I’ll just talk to you later when you’re free.”

“Or not,” Sebastian deadpanned, his grip on your calf tightening, eyebrows meeting.

“Surely it couldn’t hurt–”

“Could hurt.”

“Sebastian.”

It was a pitiful sight but you’ve spared the boy a fate worse than a bruised pride as he muttered a clanky goodbye before turning his back the two of you. Sebastian still glowering at his fleeing back.

“Do you have to be so mean?” you half-heartedly admonished him, patting his freckled cheeks. He really is so handsome, easily the most eligible bachelor in your batch, biased opinion aside.

“Maybe I haven’t been mean enough if they still approach you,” he muttered, clearly still annoyed. His eyes shift from one boy to another accusatorially like if he stared long enough, he’ll catch them in the act of being interested after you and deliver the right sentence as an example.

After the events with Ranrok, high society quickly set its eyes on you. He thought he had nipped it in the bud, sending scathing letters back to prideful pureblood boys for their gall to direct formal letters of engagement to you, audaciously sticking by your side at all times, and severely punishing anyone who dared to even think of courting you. (One even tried to challenge him to a duel. It was barely entertaining, almost downright cruel. Sebastian hopes that the boy is enjoying Ilvermorny.)

Truly, he has his work cut out for him.

Your giggle pulled him out of his unpleasant thoughts, “You should go shower, it’s about to be dinner time.”

He hummed, “Can I use The Room? Hate the boy’s lavatory, ‘s a mess.”

You ignore the quick turning of heads of the students nearest you, trying not to laugh at their scandalized faces, aware of how bad it sounded. Instead, you let him stand and take your hand as he bitterly shared his hypothesis that Imelda was a dark wizard planted to torment him while he led you to the familiar steps toward the Room of Requirement.

On the other side of the room, the rejected boy glared at his sniggering friends.

“You told me they weren’t courting!” he accused.

“In my defense,” his friend shrugged, giggling at the spectacular explosion in front of her very eyes. Who would’ve thought Sebastian Sallow would catch the idiot in the act. “They aren’t but everyone knows they’re ... exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“We warned you! I warned you!” Their other friend, the more level-headed one was exasperated. “I’m so bloody terrified of Sallow I don’t even dare to look in her direction! Do you know there are rumors of him mastering forbidden spells? It’s why he had practically spent the entire half of 6th year serving a mysterious detention service for Professor Hecate.”

His other two friend looked at him in doubt. “I thought that was because he bombarda-ed the pants out of that Ravenclaw after he was challenged to a duel –”

“Regardless! He’s dangerous!”

“But are they dating or not?”

“No one knows, okay? That’s like in the Hogwarts top 3 mysteries.” The girl snipped.

“I may know someone who might know.”

Two heads swiveled to the boy who was already staring at a regal silhouette, sitting peacefully on the couch nearest the windows and furthest from any other person in the large common room – simultaneously seeming peaceful and brooding at the same time. As if feeling their gaze on him his unseeing eyes suddenly snapped in their direction, the boys physically flinched, the girl even covering her mouth to hide a gasp as they quickly vacated their spot before they truly tested their luck with the 7th-year Head Boy.

Ominis Gaunt.

The three sighed, resigned to leave that stone unturned.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

Sebastian flustered at the pretty boxes wrapped in silk, laces, and ribbons being shoved to his face, hand rubbing the back of his neck in a mix of embarrassment and honor.

He’s mostly gotten used to the numerous attention he receives but the abrupt surge of volume between his 6th and 7th year sometimes still gives him whiplash. It’s amazing what a growth spurt can do in your social standing.

“Thank you, ladies. I really appreciate it.” He flashed them a polite smile, genuinely flattered and touched at the thoughtful presents even if they are a bit overeager.

Swoons and giggles erupted from the small crowd, so dramatic yet so entertaining.

“Excuse me, Sebastian?”

From the middle of the crowd, Blaine Marune a fellow 7th year pushed herself to the front. She was a popular girl, sought after by many of his teammates. He cocked a brow at her Slytherin shirt when she was a Gryffindor, the team Sebastian was playing against. Was she dating someone on his team?

“Can you sign my shirt?”

Gasps scattered on the ground at her bold request, especially since she stretched out her shirt so the space by her chest was extended. He had to give it to these Gryffindors, they sure do live up to their name.

“Your girlfriend wouldn’t mind, would she?”

He frowned at the implication, suddenly hating the inquisitive eyes snapping between them, clearly curious as to his status. “That’s –”

“She’s here! Look!” A voice from behind the crowd gasped.

Sebastian swiftly turned his head, barely catching your eyes just as you slipped inside the tower that held the stairs to the bleachers up above. Mindlessly, he forgot all about the little scene that was unfolding between him and the Gryffindor and turned away from his gaggle of admirers to walk to the edge of the field, jumping on his broom to fly in front of you when you seemed to take a wrong turn to the other side of the bleachers.

“Wrong direction, darling. I saved you your seat,” he grinned even as you ignored him, walking a leisure pace as he floated beside you.

“I’m not sitting next to your admirers,” She quipped, still refusing to look at him, marching with a purpose. “Darling.”

She’s jealous. Sebastian beamed, flying closer so he could reach out an arm to stop her steps.

“Don’t be like that,” his words were soft yet the grin in his face couldn’t be tamed even if he did try. “You know I like it when I can see you at all times.”

Giggles and whispers were murmured from the seated crowd behind you.

“She’s here!” “The Felix Felicis is here!” “There’s no way those Gryffindor bastards will beat us now.”

The burn in your face doubled in intensity as you tried your hardest to ignore such embarrassing remarks.

It started with a silly coincidence.

In one of Sebastian’s first games last year, you had been running late, roped in a last-minute hunt for a large Ancient Magic hotspot that had abruptly appeared on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. When you entered the Quidditch Pitch the game was in full swing. However, your entrance had caught Sebastian’s attention which coincidentally also happened to be the moment the Snitch flew straight towards you. It was one of the shortest games in Hogwart’s centuries-long history as he had gotten a hold of it inches away from your face. The team included you in their celebration by throwing the two of you in the air.

From then on, it was duly noted that Sebastian’s performance remarkably improved every time you were in attendance. It didn’t help that the one time you didn’t attend one of his inter-school practice matches they had lost by a couple of points to Durmstrang.

Imelda had damn near made you swear on an Unbreakable Vow that you would watch every single one of their games from then on.

Hence, being Sebastian Sallow’s Felix Felicis became your position and moniker throughout the entirety of Quidditch Season, and as embarrassing as it was, it would seem your usually level-headed friend had either gotten roped in the ridiculous suspicion or was enjoying your obvious mortification a bit too much as he had taken every opportunity to snatch the same damn seat that practically showcased you to the rest of the crowd and in turn ensured he would be able to see you at all times.

“Sallow! We’re about to gather!” Imelda screamed in the middle of the field.

“Give me a second!” He turned to you. “Please, pet?”

Damn him and those brown eyes.

Harshly, you grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him till he was forced to maneuver his broom sideways, face an inch from yours.

“You better not embarrass me,” you threatened, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on the opposite direction, straight to the seat that had been unofficially yours. Lucky charms get special privileges after all. “I want a photo with that trophy, Sallow.”

Sebastian hovered in the air frozen, hand on his burning skin, until a ball hit him square in the back. “Today, lover boy.”

He gave Imelda an apologetic look before calling over an underclassman.

“You there, 5th year!” The boy was quick to jump out of his seat, heart hammering in his chest at the Seeker’s sudden attention. “Call over Head Boy Gaunt and tell him to make sure no one unpleasant sits in my section.”

The boy nodded, understanding. Everyone knows Sallow’s unofficial section where all his friends from different houses sit – every single one of them as intimidating as him. If he had gotten a galleon for every time a professor mentioned one of them either in praise or in warning on what not to do, he’d rival Ominis Gaunt in wealth.

Most importantly, she would be there. The lucky charm and Sallow’s dearest companion – though jury is still out whether they had been courting all this time or not.

From what he’d seen he’d bet on them getting married by graduation even with the lack of formal courting. They didn’t seem to be the type to care for convention. He had even heard suggestive rumors that they basically sleep in the same room every night, though that has yet to be proven.

“Yes, of course, Sallow!”

Sebastian watched the boy scamper down the stairs, no doubt to relay his message to his dear friend who won’t be too pleased of his misuse of Ominis’ position.

Oh well, all’s well that ends well.

He blows you one last provocative kiss as he departs the stands before he flies up to where the rest of his teammates are positioned, ready for the game to start, pleased with the fact you would be fuming from the attention his grand performance would bring.

A jealous darling would be bad luck after all.

And he had a trophy to win.

“And the Triwizard Champion is Sebastian Sallow from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, House Slytherin!”

Green confetti and fireworks exploded all over the stadium overwhelming Sebastian as he tried to catch his breath and not let his knees buckle under his weight when all the adrenaline left his body. He belatedly realized that the cold, golden trophy had been shoved in his hands not until he was lifted by fellow schoolmates up above their arms in celebration and was staring at his own gobsmacked reflection in the shiny hardware.

More familiar faces and deafening cheers accosted him as he was brought into the section where all Hogwarts students were gathered. Only when he was put back in the ground to be showered with pats, congratulations, and splashing of fizzing butterbeer did his brain finally catch up with the rest of his body.

Immediately, his head started swiveling, looking for the face he needed to see the most, his instincts screaming at him that she was near. She has to be. She promised.

From the back of the crowds – there she was. Her beaming face, humbly waving from behind as if she wasn’t the reason he had fought so hard for this victory – that it really should be in her name and it shall, for he will lay this victory on her feet, first of his many devotion for the rest of their lives.

In haste, he shoved the trophy to the nearest body, uncaring of who was able to grab it as he pushed and shoved anyone on his way to you. The rest of the world blurred. He cared not for the gasps, shrieks, or protests – not when he saw the beam in your smile as you jumped into his arms – the golden ring that was hanging off a simple chain on your neck clanged with the similar one hanging off his own when you jumped into his arms.

The wedding rings he had prepared, ready for the day the two of you turned into adults in the eyes of the law and were permitted to be married. It would be for mere formality, his heart after all had been tied to yours the moment your eyes met.

“I’m so proud of you.”

He’s never felt satisfaction as fulfilling as this moment.

Finally, he has earned it – has earned the right to say it.

“I love you.”

This love was finally his.

The papers were printed in a few days. Bold letters with a bolder headline:

Triwizard Champion and Hero of Hogwarts Secretly Betrothed!?

Right below such an accusatory headline was the photo of the two of you framed almost too perfectly in a café’s window, Sebastian pressing a kiss in the unmistakable diamond ring he had bought with his winnings while you beamed at him.

It has not been a kept secret that many noble families have vied and proposed for the heavy hand of the Hero but all were rebuffed. All but one. Sebastian Sallow, a promising orphan from a fallen house seemed to have Championed the heart of the lady just as he had conquered the challenges of the Triwizard Trials. As remarkable as it is, his distinct lack of proper lineage, colorful history of delinquency, and the whispers of his preference for obscure magic would truly prove to be a challenge he might not be able to slay quite as easily, especially for a bride as coveted as –

“I am going to fucking kill that wench!”

You slammed the newspaper on the table, making Grace choke on her tea just as Ominis winced at your colorful choice of words, quickly conjuring up a silencing charm around your table lest you make it harder for his lawyers if you actually do deliver the threat.

“I know you’re upset –”

You glare at Grace. Upset barely covers it.

Finding that you have not insulted it enough you crumble the bundle of paper in your hand, even going as far as to grab two that a couple of fourth years were reading before throwing them to the fire in a huff, screaming an Incendio on the fireplace just for the satisfaction of seeing it all turn into soot in a blink.

Ominis quickly sends an owl.

She should still be in Hogsmeade, your mind runs. You’ve heard that the unpleasant reporter had made a home in one of the apartments in Hogsmeade once the Tournament started.

It should be easy, you try to suppress your maniacal grin as you turn, marching straight into the stairs that should lead you to the nearest floo, ignoring how quickly the other students parted for you as your head ran all types of scenarios on how you can absolutely gut that waste of space. She had unfairly targeted Sebastian from the start of the games, pointing out flaws on his runs even when he had won the stage, cruelly bringing up his 'upbringing' in Feldcroft, and even bringing up how he wouldn't be able to give it his all while still grieving his twin sister and should be replaced.

That fucking wench.

You’ve had enough practice breaking and entering through the many locks in Hogsmeade to be able to sneak into her abode. A simple hex would be child’s play, maybe you should curse her to lose one finger every time she writes a bad word against your beloved or maybe a limb or you should just do the wizarding world another favor and make her illiterate.

Once you were on the grounds you summoned your broom.

The punishment should fit the crime.

“Levioso.”

Before you could fly you found yourself already levitating up the air, from below Sebastian was way too pleased at your shrieks and foul mood.

“Let me down, Sebastian!” you kicked.

“I would but I would rather we not spend our lives running away from the ministry if you kill that journalist, my love.”

So, he has read it. The fact that he was able to see those vile words made your blood boil harder. Sensing your temper and the fact that you were about to break out of his spell he plays dirty.

“Accio.”

You shriek at the speed but the comfort of his arms was almost enough to quell the itch in your hands to curse that bloody witch into a pulp.

Almost.

He tightens his hug, playfully pulling you off the ground with a grunt and swaying the two of you gently. “Still upset?”

You push your blunt nails on his back and he chuckles. “It doesn’t bother me, you know.”

“It should!” you snap, a blast of your ancient magic smashing a statue to pieces that he quickly fixes with a ‘repairo’ without so much as a glance at the shrieking fifth years that had nearly gotten blasted with it. “It bothers me.”

That they think so lowly of him – him! A man worth ten –  if not hundreds – of those pompous pricks from noble houses who offers nothing but their ‘pure’ blood and rotting riches like it was enough, like it could buy your heart and pride.

If they knew –

If they knew it was him who cleaned your blood and licked the jagged wounds in your spirit in the quiet of your lowest nights, that it was this boy who pulled out the rubble of a girl after the war – carefully piecing it together until you felt like a person and not a hollow husk filled only by nightmares, that it was this lowly orphan they sneer at who had become your chain to your sanity – your family.

Would they still look down at him if they knew it was only his kindness, and his love, and him who stopped you from giving up on them? That if someone as beautiful as him could exist in the wizarding world then it was a world worth saving.

Sebastian frowns at your upset. Ominis had grossly underestimated how the article had affected you, he would be touched if he wasn't so angry.

“It shouldn’t,” he gently carries you like a bride – his bride – under the largest tree by the Beasts Class classroom, away from the prying eyes of a crowd, overlooking the lake. The songs of the breeze and birds were the perfect soothing balm along with his soft coos. “They can write about me all they want at the end of the day it is me who is coming home with you.”

He’s sure you’re aware that his overly sweet words are all to calm you down but you fall for it anyway, smiling on the skin of his neck. “I should have her tongue.”

He shushes you, pressing his fingers on your waist till it tickled, he smiles on your hair when you slap his shoulder. “Don’t you think you’ve terrified the freshmen enough with that mouth of yours.”

It doesn’t escape you that the other students have transferred their fear of Sebastian’s murky past to your present wicker-short temper. You are aware that it is only because of your impeccable grades, immeasurable talent and a sprinkle of Fig’s legacy that the headmaster has not suspended or expelled you for your insolence.

His palms run a soothing patten on your spine, letting you continue to bury your head on the crook of his neck to lull you into a calm.

You suddenly pull yourself away, looking straight at him. “Are you sure you don’t care? I promise I won’t get caught.”

He chuckles at that, pressing a kiss on the crown of your head before leaning back on the trunk of the tree, pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t worry,” he smiled. “As long as you still plan on marrying me nothing will ever bother me at all.”

“I reckon she's calmed down?”

Sebastian doesn’t bother to mask his stormy expression now that you have fallen into a nap, sparing Ominis a glance as he sits on one of the empty wooden crates.

“I was sure I’d catch the two of you digging up a shallow grave by now.”

Sebastian glances down at you, shaking his head. “Haven't you heard? I’m a changed man.”

Ominis chuckles at that. “Well, their vile words shouldn’t matter anyhow,” Ominis sighs, grateful at least that this betrothal had managed to calm at least one of his dearest friends down. “She’s yours now.”

The boy’s words made Sebastian think.

Think back to the first time he met you: the curiosity, the anticipation, the instant tug on his soul the first time your voice had pulled him out of his own head and you stood in front of him while the growing foreboding feeling that meeting in that room, in front of the fire was meant to be, bloomed in his chest.

He was young enough not to recognize love for what it was but not stupid enough to not act upon it. Monopolizing you and your attention, wrapping his being around you until people could no longer separate the two of you as individuals, guarding his precious hoard ferociously from wolves and thieves until he grew into the man who could claim it.

She’s yours now.

When he really, really, thinks about it, it almost makes him laugh. He always thought he'd lead a simple life. Get a decent job, marry a modest girl, and settle down into a humble life. Grand delusions weren't for him, that was more Anne's forte and he wasn't destined for a greater purpose, that was for Ominis.

And he was satisfied with that, honestly and truly thankful for it. He thrived in the shadows, after all.

But he met you and damned himself by falling in love with the one person he shouldn't have -- the one person he could never deserve even if he lived the rest of his life as a saint.

He loved a grand adventure personified and in a lickety-split threw away all of his dreams of a quiet life -- jumping straight into a den of goblins and trolls and certain death. Hit the ground running in a race between bachelors to get to you, to earn the honor of deserving your love. And even mercilessly overwhelmed any contender to your hand until it was uncontested that it was only him who could stand beside you.

It was only he who earned it.

She’s yours now.

In quiet moments he sometimes couldn't quite believe just what happened to his life in two years.

Because he never thought he'd fall in love with a brilliant witch vied by the world or that, out of all hands stretched out to her, she would hold his, that she would love him back.

She’s yours now.

Sebastian would beg to disagree.

It was fate. (He made it so.)

It was written. (He rewrote it.)

She’s always been mine.

[venomnyx]

THE FOOL CARD - Josh Washington x F!Reader AO3 // Spotify Playlist

WORD COUNT - 3.1k SUMMARY - You've been sneaking around with your best friend's older brother since summer. If it's supposed to be easy and casual, why does it feel so foolish? TAGS/WARNINGS - friends with benefits to lovers, female anatomy reader, teasing, alcohol/drinking, cursing, unprotected p in v sex, brief mentions of asphyxiation, creampie, josh has feelings first, dialogue heavy? NOTES - this is a self-indulgent fantasy smutty dialogue pracitce that isn't edited bc who has time for that these days. ignore overuse/repeat words if u love me. fan of josh since '15 only now i have the ability to do something about it

“You don’t really believe in that stuff, do you?” Josh asks, leaning against the doorway, casually sipping a beer.

You glance up from the cards spread out in front of you. Ashley sits opposite you, deer-eyes round with awe from when she held off of your every word, hinting at her friendship with Chris potentially becoming something more. A small smile grows on your face as you gather the silky cards together and slot them back into place.

“You’re not just saying that because you’re scared, are you, Joshy boy?”

With another sip, the corner of his mouth ticks up with intrigue. He shoulders off the doorway and saunters over, eyes never leaving you.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says cooly, sliding onto the stool that Ashley scoots out of. She shoots you a knowing look, a glimmer in the ring of her green eyes, a flush to her cheeks as she scurries back into the chatter-filled living room.

“Tell me,” he begins, lounging back in the wooden chair with a low, shadowed look on his face. A long sip of beer, a generous amount of lash-lidded eye contact. “What does my future hold?”

“Your future?” You smirk, skillfully shuffling the cards in your hand, cheeks warm when you lose the competition of holding his confident stare. The tarot cards are glossy and thick, a high-quality deck gilded with gold that you’d nabbed from a crystal shop that stunk of coconut incense and white sage.

A card flies from the deck, landing face-down. You reach and flip it over, revealing The Tower—a crumbling structure, lit with a devastating fire.

“Sudden, eruptive change.”

He leans closer, interest piqued. “What kind of change?”

“Well… let’s ask the cards to clarify,” you continue, reshuffling until another card leaps out. You pick it up, revealing a heart, daggered with three, long swords. “The Three of Swords. Heartache, and pain.”

He scoffs humorously. “The only heartbreaking and painful thing about this week was Chris eating my leftover pizza.”

You hum, unconvinced. Another card.

Ten of Cups reversed. Familial despair.

“It feels like a warning,” you say, trying not to look at the blatant picture. Familial grieving, pain, loss. Clearing your throat, you glance back up at him. “Almost like everything you know is about to change.”

“Hm. Seems ominous,” he replies, entirely not convinced. “What about my near future?” He perks a suggestive brow, licks the dry of his lips. “What are the cards saying about tonight?”

You roll your eyes, feigning indifference, but your hands tremble when you pull two cards. The Moon, and The Lovers.

“Hmm… looks like the cards are saying…” you faux scan the cards, then glance over your shoulder to ensure there aren’t any eavesdroppers. When you’re satisfied they’re distracted, you return with your chin propped on two folded hands and a small, mischievous smile.

“Your room. Midnight?”

His lips stretch into a grin. “Y’know, if the cards keep saying things like this, I might just become a believer.”

You mirror his smile, tucking yourself in tight as you lean closer to the counter.

Hannah walks in, playing with her fingers nervously, and you instinctively lean back. She glances between you, Josh, the cards, and twists her feet against the tile seams.

“You want a go, Han?” You ask. She nods, but appears apprehensive.

“Come on, Josh, client confidentiality. Get outta here. Scram.”

Josh laughs, once. “Alright. I’ll leave you ladies to it.”

Your eyes flicker to him for a moment. He nods with a poker face like steel, raises his beer in acknowledgement of his sister, and leaves the room without a second look.

It’s cruel, how he walks away. Cruel like it’ll never mean more to him.

Ashley, face pink from cocktails, corners you when you return from the readings, hand pawing at your arm.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Ash. What’s up?”

She leans closer, voice lowering. “Do you have a crush on Josh?”

You’re mid-sip of wine when she asks, and you sputter a cough.

“Excuse me?”

She grins. “You know. Do you like like him?”

Ever the butt of the joke, your defensiveness flares like the prickle of young flames. Is she teasing you? Your fingers tighten around the glass stem.

“No, I know what you meant,” you reply, face warming. “Um, no, Ash. I don’t have a crush on Josh.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? I could totally set you guys up. I mean, I told you about my crush on…” she glances around, tactically lowering her voice. “…Chris. So, you can trust me!”

“Ash, I think everybody knows about your crush on Chris.”

She blinks like a doe in headlights. “No, they don’t,” her gaze slips away. “Do they?”

You sip from your glass. “Everybody except Chris, apparently.”

She whacks your arm gently. “Shut up! He might hear you!” She scolds, embarrassed. You chuckle to yourself, eyes drawn to your cup as you mindlessly swirl the drink.

“But, seriously, it’s probably good that you don’t have a crush on Josh. Hannah and Beth would kill you!” She laughs.

Your blood turns icy as your mind is suddenly overwhelmed by a flurry of hook-up flashbacks, and you take a healthy, guilt-numbing swig of your drink before replying.

“Haha. Yeah. You’re probably right about that.”

Two glasses of wine later, you excuse yourself for the bathroom and veer off path when the coast is clear to Josh’s room. His door is ajar, feeding through a slim slice of warm lamp lighting onto the dark hallway.

A familiar routine— a scratch for the itch, a hit for the craving. Can’t keep your hands off him, not since the first time. You’d be in so much trouble if the twins knew you were hooking up with their older brother, but the scandal of it all gives you hot flashes between the thighs.

Hands tickle up your sides when you sneak in. A flat palm over your shoulder to click the door shut.

“You’re late,” he teases.

You stifle your giggles. “Yeah, well, unless you want everybody finding out about whatever we’re doing, then you’ll have to be patient for me to find my moment to sneak off.”

He closes the space between you, pressing against your chest to tilt you against the dresser, feeling small beneath his frame. Knees locked around his hips when you hop up.

“Would it be so bad?” He murmurs, immediately kissing along your neck, hands greedy on your waist. “You know… if they knew? About us?”

Us. A word like hot coals, fingers instinctively recoiling from the topic. Excited butterflies turned to anxious wasps in your belly. Casual moments bleeding into lingering stares, “we’re just friends” to eye contact and hand-holding when he makes you cum.

You think Emily knows. She’s quick-witted and perceptive whenever you leave the room, eyes sharp like a bristled cat ready to pounce.

“What’s there to know? We’re just friends,” you say, and he hums sceptically in response. You clutch his shoulders, warm beneath wine-numb fingers. “Besides, Hannah and Beth would kill me—”

“So, that’s it?” He grins, pulling away just enough that you can feel his breath fanning across your clavicle. You smell alcohol and peppermint gum and your head spins from the proximity.

“I’m just your dirty little secret?”

He’s making fun of you.

“Shut up,” you whine, breath laboured from the tingly feeling he produces against your skin with his mouth. Arousal so severe you feel like you’re sixteen again, a hormonal ball of teenage puppy fat and insecurity.

“Fine. How’d Hannah’s reading go? What’d she wanna know?”

You sigh with frustration, trying to nudge your hips closer to his. “Josh, please don’t talk about your sister when I’m trying to fuck you.”

“Oh, just like that, huh? Like I’m a piece of meat?”

“Isn’t that what you signed up for, pretty boy?”

He nips harder. “You think I’m pretty?”

A severe eye roll. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Well, I can be pretty convincing,” he mutters, pushing the hemline of your skirt up your thigh. “Your dress is cute. You wear it for me?”

You had— all butterflies and anticipation at the thought of easy access. A short, black milk-maid thing, as well as enduring an everything shower the night before, sore from vanilla-sugar exfoliation. Soft for him.

The words escape you in a stuttered breath when he thumbs up to your panty line, tipping it to the side.

“You wish.”

He noses against the column of your throat when he slips a finger against you, shuddery breaths when the slick gathers on his palm.

“Always so wet,” he strains, tipsy touches circling your clit, pressing into the honeyed entrance. “You’re insatiable, you know that? Can’t get enough of me?”

No.

“Mm… don’t flatter yourself. Consider it convenient.”

He tilts his head. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”

“Stop— stop being such a dick,” you pant, muscles seizing against the sudden onslaught of building pleasure.

“Thought you liked me a little mean.”

He slides a singular finger into you, all molten and tingly as he knuckle-fucks you.

“Oh God, shut up.”

He sucks pressure onto your neck, affectionate with a hand on the small of your back. Your insides clench, aching with the urge to be filled, a desire his fingers would never be fully be able to satisfy.

You palm the growing mound behind his denim. “Need to feel you.”

He leans back, looking at you boyishly, pausing the work of his wrist.

“Right now?” His voice peaks. “But you’re hardly ready—”

“Gotta be quick.” You tug on his belt buckle and challenge his eye contact with lowered eyelids. “I can take it.”

You’ve rendered him stun-locked, shy.

He blinks. “Fuck— shit, okay,” he reaches for the zipper on his jeans, already steel-hard when he releases himself. He nudges closer, but you’ve never done it like this before. Not without a condom.

“This okay?” He asks hurriedly, the strain to his voice a sobering splash.

The wine blurs the line you promised not to cross. You glance down to where he fists himself, hastily spreading your slick across his length, and your lower belly flips.

You nod, bottom lip captured between your teeth. “Fuck. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Josh—”

“Alright, alright, needy.”

He slips a hand over the curve of your ass, propping you firmly on the dresser and nestling further between your thighs, notching his tip against your wet heat before pushing in. A sharp inhale accompanied by a hand on his chest, urging him to go slower.

It’s a tight stretch as you adjust to the weight of him pressing inside you, nails digging reflexively into the meat of his shoulders.

“Easy, I got you,” he murmurs, hand sliding up from guiding himself inside of you to the wall beside your head. His mouth captures yours as he sinks deeper, a balm to soothe the sting.

You don’t normally kiss. Not often, usually only when you’re drunk. It felt too intimate at first, too weird— because two “just friends” fucking each other’s brains out certainly wasn’t, but you sigh-melt when his tongue slips past the parting of your lips.

He rolls his hips shallowly once, twice— until the burn turns honey-silk, sheathed heavily in your velvet. He’s panting when he leans back, reaching up for purchase, something to ground himself. He instinctively goes for your waist, second-guesses himself, and leans a hand against the wall.

Dark eyes search for yours in the haze. “You alright?”

You slide your hands underneath his plaid shirt. “You trying to be romantic or something?”

He rolls his eyes. “Quit it.”

You bite down on your lower lip, suppressing a grin, and dig the ball of your foot into his ass to pull him closer.

“Get on with it, then.”

He obliges with a groan, pistoning slowly at first. A gentle back-and-forth, slickening himself up all sweet for you, precarious where he tries not to make the dresser rock too much. Helplessly his fingers cling to you, digging into the plush of your thigh, thumbing along the crease where the skin meets your hip.

He reaches to cradle your face and parts your kiss-wet lips with a thumb. You suck him into the cup of your mouth, tongue curling around his skin. You’ve never blowed him before but you’re sure he pictures you pretty on your knees with the way his eyes darken.

His thumb releases with a pop and he presses it against your clit, puffy with need.

The rhythm catches up, and soon you’re panting as you rock against one another. Arms clinging to the broad spread of his shoulders, legs squeezing around his waist. You could stay here forever, you think— drunk on the way he fucks you like he cares what you feel, what you think. Attentive, giving. Better than any exes and you’re sure he knows it— why else would you stick around?

Your best friend’s older brother.

“We should stop doing this,” you concede, words strung high across a moan. “Ashley thinks I’ve got a crush on you.”

A tilt of his head. Something flickers on his face, sparkles in his eye when his lip quirks up. Amusement.

“That right?” He breathes, teeth flashing. “Cute.”

“Jesus, right there—”

Panting breaths melt together between a symphony of curses. A roll of your eyes as your head tilts forward, nails digging into his tense biceps, bracing yourself against the pulse at your centre as his spit-silky thumb circles your clit.

He swallows thickly, throat bobbing against your temple. “Well… do you?”

You pull back from the crook of his neck you’d buried yourself into. “What?”

“Have a crush on me?”

You sock his shoulder. “Don’t make it weird.”

He grins, followed by a roll of his hips. “Oh, right, because that’ll make things weird.”

“Just— just keep doing that, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Footsteps and laughter.

Your eyes widen, nerves doused with adrenaline. “Someone’s coming—”

Josh’s hand snaps up and clamps across your mouth, his hips shifting to continue their pace but careful to mind knocking against the dresser. Eyes low and dark as he leans closer, cheeks flushed as he squeezes your face.

From outside the door, “Yo, where’s Josh?”

“He said he was going to get more beer!”

It’s Chris and Mike.

“He’s been gone for a while. Do you think he’s passed out in his room?”

Your brows scrunch, torn between the thrill of fear and pleasure. A moan squeaks behind his palm, every thrust a countdown. Josh mime-shushes you, licking his lips and glancing over at the door as footsteps pass by. Nothing but a piece of wood between you and a secret spilt.

You whimper, pussy turning to liquid heat between your thighs, fizzy with ecstasy, clamping down hard around his hips. Cobra tight around the lava sink and drag of his cock.

“Nah, man. Let’s check the wine cellar.”

The footsteps continue down the hallway, easing your adrenaline with each step as you turn gelatinous in his arms. He releases you at once and the oxygen runs to your head with a dizzying force, eyes wild as they address you.

“Did you…?”

“Mhm.” It pitches high, and his eyes widen with the realisation.

“You liked that. Do you want us to get caught?”

You tremble with the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Maybe I just liked you choking me.”

His brows raise. “Wait. Really?”

You smile wickedly in response, leaving the question unanswered— you aren’t trying to give him any ideas, but you feel that bubbly-wistfulness in your belly at the thought of his hand around your throat the next time he takes you.

You’re not meant to daydream or hope for the next time; this was only supposed to be a one-time thing— just shy of your nineteenth birthdays, fucking yourselves through a dry spell, but you’ve been jumping his bones since the Washington’s invited you to stay with them last summer and he showed you how to smoke your first joint.

You’re a sweet girl, their parents said. Hannah and Beth couldn’t have been more excited that their best friend was coming to stay for six weeks. They hadn’t suspected a thing.

That was last August. Now you’re here with the others for the annual winter getaway— the lodge all to yourselves, and you’d not even lasted a night before you’d tip-toed into his room at 1 AM.

Josh grunts into your neck, cock twitching within you, sliding in and out of your slickened pussy like water.

“Where should I…”

A vulnerable split-second of eye contact. Shivery energy zips between you and something atmospherically shifts, like a moon falling into orbital alignment. The space behind your rib cage becomes soft and malleable, gravity tugging on your heartstrings.

The Fool Card.

A dangerous cliff edge that you’re too wrapped up in the moment to take mind of. You’re already in this deep— might as well fling yourself over it.

You dig your fingers into him. “Inside.”

His eyes flash wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah— fuck, Josh, let me feel you.”

“Oh, shit. Okay. So fuckin’ hot.”

He thrusts with more urgency now, brows knit, teeth bared. Sharp when they slide along the skin of your shoulder.

He releases a cute grunt when he comes, nose buried in your neck, cock pulsing strongly inside of you. A sharp little rut of his hips, pushing himself deep, milking dry what remains.

Panting breaths mingle together, misty with post-sex sweat. You stroke the back of his exertion-damp head, cradled gently against your shoulder, his knuckles white as they brace against the dresser.

This is usually the time when you clear your throats and tug your clothes back on, but when he lifts his head to look at you, there’s something soft and sticky-sweet in the post-clarity lax of his features, the seraphic upturn of his brows.

“Can I kiss you?”

You blink at him. “Josh…”

Something visibly deflates on his face. “Sorry, sorry, I overstepped, I forgot the 'rules'—”

You grab him by the neck, thumb affectionately along the line of his jaw, and capture his mouth against yours. When you kiss he’s still sheathed to the hilt, chests pressing together, and you suddenly don’t feel so drunk anymore.

Everything narrows down, vision tunnelling. You’re suddenly not in a lodge with all of your friends, not propped up on his dresser, not just friends with benefits. You can pretend in the safety of his bedroom, making out like lovers, because when it’s this dark it’s just him, him, him, an utter mind-reeling consumption, so warm and soft and tender you feel shame trickle down your spine.

It’s not supposed to feel this good.

Spit strings between your mouths when you pull back.

“We should… go back to the others. Probably wondering where we are.”

He pants, gazing down at your lips. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We should do that.”

It’s cruel, the way he looks at you. Cruel like this means more to him, too.

dividers credit @saradika-graphics // mdni graphics credit @arcielee

[tini5]

Rafe and his walking cotton candy cloud gf. °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*────୨ৎ────°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

Rafe leaned against the doorframe, the soft pink cotton clinging to his toned chest, as she twirled in front of the mirror, holding up yet another pink dress. The entire room was awash in various shades of her favorite color: Pink. 

The flowers on the bedside table - the ones he got her, and the shoes scattered around the floor.

Rafe watched her, his eyes soft, a rare sight. "You really do love pink, don’t you?" he teased lightly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

She spun around to face him, the dress in hand. "And you love me," she shot back, playfully sticking her tongue out.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to her, his arms easily sliding around her waist. “I do,” he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “And if wearing this ridiculous color means seeing that smile on your face, then I’ll wear it every day.”

Her smile widened, and she reached up to smooth the collar of his polo, her fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. “You look good in pink, you know. Brings out your eyes.”

His laugh was low and warm. “You say that about every color you make me wear.”

“Well, that’s because you look good in everything,” she replied, standing on her tiptoes to brush her lips against his.

Rafe deepened the kiss, one hand threading through her hair while the other rested at the small of her back, pulling her closer. 

When they finally pulled apart, she giggled, "Come on, wanna go to the country club, get the Cosmopolitan." she said, her voice dripping with excitement. 

Rafe groaned, his head tilting back in mock despair. “That pink drink again? You’re killing me, princess.”

She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You know you love it."

He sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fine, but only because you asked.”

“Because you love me,” she corrected, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“Yeah, that too,” he murmured, his arms tightening around her. “But don’t push it. You owe me after this.”

She just laughed, knowing full well that no matter how much he groaned, Rafe Cameron would do anything for his pink-loving princess.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

As a girl who LOVES pink, I had to write this. The new pictures have me in a chokehold!!!

[astraystayyh]

the premise : u apply lipgloss on felix because ofc he suits glossy lips except it takes an emotional turn???? because felix is perfect sorry. this is fluffyyyy and the sanest reaction to this man being ur bf (and these pics. these pics....)

“lixie, stay still,” you giggle, body nestled between felix’s legs. He's leaning against the bathroom counter, hands propped on the sleek ebony marble as you apply a shimmering lip gloss to his lips.

“but don't you wanna know what changbin said to me?”

“of course i wanna know what creative pickup line he used on you today. of course i do, baby,” you smile and he rolls his eyes at the sarcasm dripping from your tone, his tongue poking against his cheek before gliding in (fake) annoyance over his lips.

“but…” he muses, tilting his head to the side, his hands finding your waist once again (they've been away for two minutes too long).

“but when your mouth moves i can't technically apply lipgloss to it.”

“maybe you're just a bad make-up artist,” he teases, before quickly planting a kiss on your temple. “kidding baby. you're the very best at everything you do.”

“you're actually incapable of being mean,” you laugh heartily, your thumb swiping across his chiseled jaw.

“i am very much capable of being mean,” he pouts, his eyes widening slightly, golden light spilling into his pupils— it refracts into an arrow delving straight into your heart.

“you can't say this in the softest voice and expect me to agree.”

“i am very much capable of being mean,” he repeats, only this time his timber is many many octaves lower. his voice reverberates straight through your stomach, a deep melody orchestrating the untamed butterflies in your stomach.

“this is the equivalent of a kitten throwing a punch to me,” you pull his face closer, and he shakes his head, mouth shut tightly as you reapply the glitter infused gloss on his lips, going delicately over his cupid's bow. his eyes are boring onto you, yet you don't shy away from his gaze. it is a kind one— like a blanket knitted with love thrown over your body.

“done,” you whisper, hands trailing up to his hair, blonde silky locks akin to threads of sunlight. you think he must be favored by the stars— how they stored the sun inside every component of his being for him to keep safe.

“you have the prettiest lips,” your voice is suddenly hoarse, thumb grazing slightly over his lips, ones shaped like a heart— akin to the one freckle he has right underneath his eye.

it wasn't enough for him to have the kindest soul, no, love needed to be etched onto his skin too.

“felix,” you rasp out his name.

he catches your tears before you sense them falling, swiping his thumbs delicately on your cheek. “angel?”

“you're an idiot.”

“am i?” he brings you to his chest swiftly, your nose buried in the orange blossoms and sea notes of his skin— your home, the one you'd recognize in blindness, in despair, in safety, in love.

“i wanted to apply this lipgloss on you because shimmer would suit your angelic lips and then we'd make out. but you just had to be so beautiful and pure that it makes me wanna cry.”

“I'm sorry,” he says and you giggle, more tears spilling from your eyes.

“see, this is what i mean. why are you apologizing. this is so silly and you're so perfect and i can't believe you love me.”

“well i do,” he leans away, kissing your forehead tenderly. the sticky lip gloss lingers on your skin. “i love you so much, angel. i will only ever love you.”

“promise me?” you ask in a feat of vulnerability almost foreign to your being.

“i promise.”

you believe him.

“thank you. please don't put this lipgloss near anyone else or it'll make them cry too.”

“i think that's just you baby,” he grins, his thumb swiping over your thigh comfortingly, then, his nose brushing against your own. “kiss?”

you close your eyes, a sigh of relief, of longing escaping your body. “please.”

to be loved by felix— maybe you're the one favored by the stars after all.