#Time Flows Once Again (ic) ⧗

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

oh hey! i was reading a fic the other day where Wangji was once misspelled as Wangu. which leads me to: MDZS Pingu-style??? noot noot!

Do you think love can bloom on the sea ice?

[clock-corpse]

"Draw me and give me big fangs~"

(bulletfestival)

Sakuya quickly draws on a large sheet of paper rather quickly, occasionally looking up from her canvas to look at the girl several times to make sure that she has the details right. Eventually, she scribbles something on the canvas with a pencil and turns to reveal her work to Rumia.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

I THINK YOUR LOVE WOULD BE TOO MUCH ; SATORU GOJO

summary; satoru knows that you’re worried about something. he just doesn’t know what.

word count; 4.1k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, sickening amounts of fluff, (that’s literally all. that’s it. thank you for your time), you’re both down horrendous, the ”something” reader is worried about is very very silly <333, mostly satoru’s pov!!

a/n; i love this man so fucking much my chest hurts so i dug up the sappiest wip i could find in my drafts <333 you can tell i completely lost the plot halfway through but just pretend that i didn’t ok. i dedicate this to gojo nation :3

satoru feels your stare prickle at the back of his neck.

he’s rummaging through the fridge, one hand on his hip, grabbing two cans of iced tea from the bottom compartment. peach for him, lime for you. his infinity is down, the pads of his fingers meeting chilled aluminum, condensation licking at his skin.

but the goosebumps that sensation causes is nothing compared to the ones he gets from this — your stare digging into the back of his head, your attention aimed directly at him. when he turns around, closing the fridge with a bump of his hipbone, you freeze. like a deer caught in headlights. 

satoru grins.

”you checkin’ me out?”

”no,” you blurt. his smile only grows.

”aw…” he waltzes across the room, from the kitchen island to the living room, fuzzy socks against the floorboards. ”what’s up, then? something on your mind?”

with a clink, he puts the cans of tea down on the coffee table. you murmur out a breath of thanks, but make no move to reach for either of them.

now that he’s close enough to see you properly — he thinks to himself that you do look a little ill at ease. something in the crease between your brows, shying away from the eye contact he wants. something in the way your voice comes out somewhat strained.

”it’s nothing… i just —” 

you stop. gaze fleeing from his own, slipping down to your lap. he thinks you look particularly small like this. curled up on his expensive couch, curling in on yourself; gnawing at your bottom lip.

”… i’m being dumb.”

satoru hums. tilting his head, taking you in — wasting no more than a mere moment before taking action. 

you feel him plop down next to you, a shift in the weight bearing down on his couch. comforting. when you glance up, he’s smiling, patient and light. hand sneakily slipping between the cracks of your own, squeezing your palm, running his thumb over the ridges of your knuckle.

”wanna tell me about it?”

from behind the black layer of glass obscuring your frame, satoru watches you intently. watches your expression shift, drinking in the twitch of your brows, how the colour of your eyes flickers in the light. the way your soul sulks and sputters under the weight of his all-seeing gaze. 

you part your lips. slowly, searching for the right words — only to close them again.

you try once more. hesitant. 

all you can manage is a frustrated huff.

”it’s nothing, honestly,” you’re quick to backtrack, wincing inwardly. ”i've just… been thinking. i guess.”

a hum. his smile doesn’t waver. ”about what?”

you avert your gaze. biting your lip, again, turning away from him; resting your chin on the heel of your palm. avoiding his stare like it could turn you to stone. he barely picks up on the words you murmur, flowing out beneath your breath.

”i... can't tell you.”

satoru raises a brow. 

a moment passes. two, three — the silence is telling. you can hear the discontentment in his voice, despite his attempts to mask it.

”why not?”

”i… haah.” you scoot away, just a little more, turning away so he can’t dissect your expression the way he’d like to. ”i just can’t, okay?”

silently, silently, he observes you. the little of you he can see, at the very least; fixating on the side of your face, your cheek, those fluttering eyelashes. as if it could tell him something. you can’t see the way his eyes narrow, behind his shades, black glass shielding you from the weight of his scrutiny.

satoru bites back a huff. 

curiosity and impatience aside, he feels offended. thoroughly so. he doesn't like it when you shut him out, like this, when you don’t allow him to soothe you.

your relationship has been a slow one — steady, a kind of settling in he never thought he’d experience. calm waves lapping along the edges of smooth sand, washing away tiny pebbles and handfuls of sea glass; delicately coming closer. getting him used to the sensation before gently urging him to take a dip. 

that’s the kind of love you share. 

so it stings, a little, when you won’t let him return the favour. it stings in the same way his phantom scars itch on cold nights.

he knows opening up isn't easy. for you, for anyone, least of all for him — but he still finds himself feeling a little bit dejected. because he's supposed to be your safe space. the person you can trust with absolutely anything.

(if he can’t be that, for you, then what the hell is he even good for?)

he can’t help but feel the slightest tug of worry, too. seeing the tight line of your closed lips, that hardness of your expression. the unmistakable stress accumulating in the corners of your eyes.

but he doesn’t voice that worry. he simply gives your hand another squeeze, and smiles a little wider.

”try me.”

a sigh flows from your lips. ”you don't get it, satoru.”

your voice has a bite to it, now, just a little harsh. something akin to a soft hiss — defensiveness, he ultimately settles on. but why?

”it’s —” you muster up a glance his way, the slightest little peek, before turning away again. blurting out the words on the tip of your tongue. ”it’s so fucking embarrassing. you’ll laugh.”

satoru blinks.

”… huh?”

”you’ll laugh, and you'll tease me, and — ” he feels your hand slip from his own, muffling a groan as it covers your face. ”i’ll never live it down.”

you’re hiding, squirming, and satoru’s curiosity increases at an alarming rate. he leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of your face, but you don’t let him. 

now he’s nothing short of intrigued.

”i won't,” he says, simply. voice as clear as glass. you scoff into your hands.

”you will!”

”i promise you i won't laugh.”

”you always say that.” a sigh falls from your lips, deep and heavy, as your hands finally slip down to your lap. ”but you never mean it. you’ll laugh so much. i know you will.”

you bite down on your lip. he wants to cup your jaw and kiss you, mend the bruising with a swipe of his tongue — but he tactfully decides against it.

”it’s — it's so…” you trail off, fidgeting with your hands, nervously linking your fingers together. gazing down with a pout. ”so stupid.” 

”baby…”  his voice takes on a fond tone, tender and patient. everything he strives to be, when it comes to you; you and you alone. ”c’mon. you can tell me anything.” 

with a sense of delicacy, he takes your hands into his bigger ones. tucking them into his palms, bringing them into his own lap — meeting your meek eyes. 

”right?”

through the blue of his gaze, he watches you falter. watches your eyes soften, crumbling a little, as you silently weigh your options. you look flustered.

then you slowly part your lips.

”you’re gonna think i’m just joking, or whatever, but — but i mean it. i’m…” your throat bobs with a shallow gulp. ”i’m seriously worried.” 

satoru nods. ”i’ll take you seriously.”

you look up. all you’re met with is a reassuring smile, familiar dimples, the slightest hint of a kind blue behind his shades.

and you finally give in.

”i… i think i might —”

shifting and squirming, your gaze flits from spot to spot, hands still intertwined with his own. you’re caged in, forced to face him, and it only adds to your nervosity. his eyes never leave your face.

”i think… i…”

your voice comes out sounding tiny. gaze stuck to the couch beneath you, as your lips form around the right syllables, and you finally blurt out out the words you've been trying to keep at bay —

”i think i love you too much.”

…

silence.

you still refuse to meet his gaze. a red hue crawls up your neck, spreading to the tips of your ears, heartbeat pounding under your ribs. the sentence spills out of your lips like an arrow; so rushed he barely deciphers it in time.

before the silence can swallow you whole, you continue. trying not to stammer, holding back an embarrassed wince. pouting softly, brows furrowed as your clammy hands twitch anxiously against his own. ”like... to the point where… it drives me a little insane.”

and then you wait. with bated breath, too embarrassed to look up, bottom lip tensing and softening between your teeth. dreading the explosive reaction he’ll undoubtedly give you.

… except it doesn’t come.

he’s not saying a word. nothing. the silence is so deafening you could cut it in half, lingering, festering in the air around you. all you hear is your own stupid, erratic little heartbeat — refusing to settle down. 

a couple painful moments pass, before you physically can't take it anymore.

as slowly as you can muster, your gaze travels upwards — from his lap to his chest to his exposed collarbone, until his face finally enters your field of vision. you can’t resist the temptation.

(why is he being so quiet? satoru is never quiet.)

you meet his gaze. or what you think is his gaze, anyhow, because you can’t see the way his eyes are squeezed shut. what you do notice is the twitch of his lips, quivering ever so slightly, as if unsure of which direction to go — and you know one of satoru’s sharp teeth must be biting down hard to keep them in place. his shoulders are shaking, only barely, and he breathes out sharply through his nose; in a desperate attempt to keep his promise.

desperately struggling to maintain his composure. 

he makes the mistake of opening his eyes, and all that effort goes down the drain. met with the sight of your flushed face, wide eyes, shining with embarrassment and disbelief. 

like a stack of cards blown over by the wind, satoru’s poker face crumbles. he fails to bite back the wide grin that breaks out across his lips, showing off the white of his teeth, and a soft bout of fresh laughter flows from out his lips.

you gape at him. 

then your brows furrow, harshly, and you choke on a scoff. with a start, you’re scrambling to stand up, tugging your hands away from his. 

”see?” you hiss, almost tripping over your own two feet as you shoot up from the couch. ”i told you! you're laughing!”

(you sound so embarrassed he thinks he might cry.)

satoru gives up. laughter reverberating throughout his entire body, deep and loud, from the very bottom of his gut — enough to have him clutching at his sides. that only makes you flush deeper, glare harder, and all he can think is that he wants to kiss you silly.

”you promised!”

”i’m —” he chokes on a sharp wheeze, one hand reaching out to keep you from leaving. ”i’m sorry, baby, i —”

but he only ends up doubling over. sputtering with laughter, feeling the leather of the couch meet his cheek. you turn away sharply, and he pulls himself up again. ”wait — sweetheart —” 

a fond chuckle rumbles through his chest, his long arms circling around your waist and pulling you into his embrace. caging you in. you struggle helplessly, trying desperately to break free, but it’s useless — he’s the strongest for a reason.

all you can do is writhe and grumble under your breath, inhaling a familiar scent of vanilla and musk. the fabric softener he uses puts your senses hopelessly at ease, but he’s still laughing — so you can’t help but kick and struggle seamlessly.

”let me go, satoru!”

said man chokes on another little laugh, shoulders shaking, tucking you so close he can feel the pitter patter of your heartbeat against his stomach. you’re so upset with him. but he can’t stop, can't reel it back in, and every weak punch to his chest and muffled protest just makes his composure feel more out of reach. he tried his best. 

he really, really did. 

he tried so hard not to laugh.

(”i think i love you too much.”)

god. just what is he supposed to do with you, huh?

”i’m sorry,” he grins, almost entirely out of breath. ”’m not doing it on purpose, you're just —” 

a sudden fit of giggles. 

"you're so cute.”

”satoru, it’s — not funny,” you whine, practically burning up. every single sound he makes buzzes in your ear. ”i’m serious. i —”

you squeeze your eyes shut. giving in, finally, allowing yourself to melt into his arms. limbs losing their feistiness. he delights in the sensation.

”you don't get it.”

it’s a whisper, muffled against the fabric of his shirt, but he hears it nonetheless. deep breaths, he reminds himself. it’s hard to take such an adorable confession seriously, but he tries. for whatever reason, you genuinely sound troubled. 

”wait, so you —” he bites back an amused breath, but can’t hide the palpable smile in his voice. ”you love me… too much?”

a groan. you hide away, nuzzling further into his chest; your safe harbour. 

”… i told you it was embarrassing.”

”it’s not,” he’s quick to console you. ”i’m just confused.” a big palm glides across the back of your head, smoothing down your tousled hair. he pats your head softly. ”i mean…” 

a deep inhale. his heartbeat finally settles into a calm rhythm, slow and steady, lungs flooding with oxygen. he breathes out through his nose.

”is that really such a bad thing?”

”it is.” a frown finds its way onto your lips. your reply is instantaneous. ”i don’t think it’s normal. i’m just…”

satoru listens. patiently, feeling your fingers grip onto the edges of his shirt — comforting yourself with the soft fabric. then you sigh.

”i don’t know. i just can’t, like…” you grapple for the right word, moving your hands haphazardly, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. ”comprehend how much i love you.”

satoru bites back a smile. 

(his heart flutters, flutters, flutters, like cherry blossoms on a windy spring morning.)

before he has the chance to, you part your lips again; speaking in a soft voice. resigned, he thinks. ”it’s just weird. it’s not exactly bad, but —” 

you bite down on your lip. 

”... it’s scary.”

a soft coo buzzes in your ear. satoru can’t help but pull you closer, closer still, smothering you in the warmth of his embrace. conveying what he knows will be too much for you to hear in words — what he knows he couldn’t convey in the language that you speak. you feel warm, still burning up a bit. like a little firefly. 

he isn’t faring much better, though; a vague heat blooming under the skin of his nape. smiling so wide his cheeks are starting to hurt.

(what on earth did he do to deserve you?)

a firm jaw settles on the top of your head. satoru parts his glossy lips, voice flowing out somewhat breathlessly, affectionate as can be. 

”don’t you think i feel exactly the same about you?”

his pulse trembles against you. when you strain your ears, you can hear the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat, mingling with your own; still resounding in your ears. 

”… i dunno.”

satoru’s hold around you tightens, ever so slightly. something in the way he cradles you, strong arms around your waist, a low hum accompanying the light squeeze of his limbs. he can’t see your face, from this angle, but his pupils still flicker downwards — hungry for a glimpse of your expression.

then he smiles. 

”i’m terrified of you, y’know?”

you blink. once, then twice, eyelids fluttering. a moment of silence passes.

”… huh?”

”beyond terrified, actually,” his smile builds into a grin. ”i’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it. no one scares me more than you do.”

satoru pulls away, just a little, just enough to finally get a good look at you. your eyes are brimming with confusion. a large palm goes to cradle your cheek, and he tilts his head — inhaling a breath.

”i love you so much that it hurts.”

…

a soft chuckle slips from out his lips, when he catches your flustered, wide-eyed stare. sneaking a hand towards the small of your back, leaning in to press a kiss against the apple of your cheek.

”i adore you,” he whispers, smooth syllables melting into a purr. you stiffen under his touch. his fingertips trace the lines of your jaw, lips trailing down to your neck, chaste and sweet as he nips at the sensitive skin. muttering under his breath. ”you have no idea.”

and you truly, truly don't. satoru doesn't think you even know the half of it. 

you can’t possibly know what you mean to him — that your very presence makes him forget who he is, what he has to be, a weight on his shoulders he grew used to long ago. you can’t possibly know that just the feeling of your hand in his makes the distance between you feel so inconsequential. 

you are the most precious thing in his life. he doesn't think you could ever understand the weight that sentiment carries — he wouldn't want you to. 

and here you are, so awfully worried, because you're too in love with him. he still can't help but grin. you’re so sweet, so silly. the words make him feel as if his heart is crumbling.

”… i can't believe you’re real sometimes.”

something tender rests under the whisper. something frighteningly sincere. it makes you feel a little like you’ve been sliced open. it’s raw, it’s heavy and light and it’s love. it’s satoru — all his little inconsistencies, and the stability beneath it all. 

and some part of you knows that he's telling the truth. that he understands your ridiculous little confession, your embarrassing worries. satoru understands. 

that alone is enough to quell the turmoil in your chest. 

(what he gives you is a love as boundless as the sky; one that covers everything you could ever be. unconditional.)

”so there’s no need to worry.” 

he pulls back, lips leaving your skin. you still feel their warmth linger. his shades have slipped down, barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, and you can see the blue of his eyes. they’re shining like jewels, soft around the edges. consumed by love.

”there’s no way you could ever love me as much as i love you.”

gazing into his eyes, as if hypnotized by their glow, your own gleam with a mesmerizing shine. glazed over with something sweet and wonderful, something satoru wants to burn into his retinas so he never forgets it. he wishes he could wring it out of you and put it in his pocket — but it looks prettier behind your cornea.

he savours the moment, slowly, until it abruptly ends.

with a second of pause, your brows draw together, forming into an irritated furrow. lips tugging downwards into a frown. ”that’s not true.”

satoru blinks. still smiling. 

”i love you way more,” you huff. petulant, almost, something soft and amused in your tone. he thinks the sound fits you more than anything; unburdened and stubborn.

(as charming as you are, though — this is one battle he refuses to lose.)

”nu-uh,” he pokes the tip of your nose, delighting in the soft flutter of your blinking eyelashes. ”i love you more. sorry, sweetie.”

a huff. ”you don't.”

”i do.”

”you don't."

this time, you're the one reaching out, the pad of your finger landing on the tip of satoru’s nose — teasingly trailing up to the bridge of it. his heartbeat stutters, but he feigns nonchalance, raising an unimpressed brow; eyes unknowingly gleaming with mirth. 

and mischief.

you barely have time to react. one moment you're seated on satoru’s lap, the next you're looking up at him with your back against the couch. he towers over you, keeping your hands pinned above your head with a single palm. 

a familiar chill runs down your spine.

”i do,” he grins, free hand reaching towards you. recognizing the danger of a situation you've been in more times than you can count, you try to squirm away — but you don't get very far.

satoru’s fingers ghost over your sides, and panic floods your wide eyes. 

even though you know exactly what’s about to happen, a yelp still pushes past your lips when he begins to tickle you. mercilessly, fingers trailing over your most sensitive spots. all you can do is squirm, trying your damnedest to bite back the bout of laughter crawling up your throat —

but apparently neither of you are very good at that.

when the familiar cling of your laughter finally spills past your lips, flowing into satoru’s ears, his smile blooms into a grin. big and happy, childish in its innocence — not even attempting to hide his joy. his own giggles melt into your soft wheezes and desperate pleas, as you struggle to break free, straining against the firm hold he has on your wrists.

”i love you way, way, way more,” he continues to tease, halting his movement just enough to let you catch your breath. ”it’s not even close.”

even as giggles breathlessly spill from your lips, you manage a shake of your head. ”no, you —”

”wrong answer.”

he cuts you off with a smirk, and the torture starts anew. you can't get the words out, caught in your throat and muffled by a loud squeak, followed by forced laughter. satoru watches, in pure adoration, waiting for the moment you finally relent. 

it doesn’t take long.

”f — fine, fine!”

he stills. eyes crinkled, shades barely hanging on to the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to keep going. if only so he can hear your melodic giggles.

”can’t we —” you struggle to catch your breath, words stuck between bouts of leftover laughter. cheeks flushed and chest heaving. ”just call it a tie?”

satoru pauses. he drags it out, exaggerated, building up suspense. eyes narrowing playfully. ”hmmm…” 

then he smiles. a soft, resigned little thing. 

”alright, alright.” he leans forward, keeping you in place. ”that works, i guess.”

and then his lips meet yours. soft and glossy, tasting of cherries, a pleased sigh against your mouth. you’re still panting a little, but he doesn’t seem to mind — slow to pull away, with a drawn out mwah, grinning boyishly at your disheveled state. he lets your wrists go free.

an unimpressed look is all you give him, quick to melt into a soft chuckle. 

”well, that’s that.” you push yourself up with your elbows, fixing your tousled hair. ”now we can forget this ever happened.”

satoru raises a brow. 

”oh, i dunno about that,” he purrs, voice ripe with mischief. a teasing glint flashes in his eyes, as he scrutinizes you, and it’s enough to have your face heating up again. the sight makes him coo. ”you love me so much you can't comprehend it, huh?”

you blink. it takes a moment for your expression to shift, from bafflement to embarrassment — but he thinks it’s all worth it when it does. barely restraining the urge to kiss you again.

”satoru…”

a giggle leaves his lips. reaching a hand out, he pinches your cheek. ”you’re cute.”

with a roll of your eyes, you swat him away; unable to bite back a smile. “quit it.”

”aw.”

he looks so smug. you can’t help but want to bite back, somehow — so you muster up your most shit-eating grin, a distinctly teasing lilt coating your sugar-sweet voice. 

”you love me so much that it hurts, huh?”

satoru blinks.

endearment blooms, in the depths of his cerulean eyes. he watches you carefully, awfully amused — thinking to himself that he must be rubbing off on you. what a scary thought.

”yeah,” he breathes, a sigh laced with sincerity. cupping your cheek with the palm of his hand, settling on the option he knows will fluster you most. ”i do.”

this time, you’re the one who blinks. once, twice, before letting out a groan — slumping against his broad frame. satoru chuckles, breathlessly, consumed by you; by every move you make. all six of his eyes aimed directly at you.

(if he gives you the sky, then what you give him is a love as steady as the ocean; one that’ll drown every bit of his sadness. entirely unyielding.)

”can’t you ever just let me win?” you mutter, breathing in his cologne and tugging at his shirt. pressed up against him, on his couch, safe and secure. right where you should be.

he noses at your neck, pressing a little kiss against your pulsepoint. a quiet, quiet offering at the altar of your soul. ”nope,” he hums, smiling cheekily. 

”i love you too much for that.”

[katz-rambles]

Aphrodisiac sex with Viktor has taken over my brain. So I'm gonna write about it 🤭.

My first Arcane fic!! Wooo!! I hope I wrote his character well!

(nsfw, fem!reader, use of aphrodisiacs, alcohol mentioned, masturbation, oral (fem and male receiving), dom-ish!reader, sub-dom!Viktor, Viktors a tease, friends to lovers?, I think this is it!)

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚˚₊‧꒰

The night started out normal, enough. You went out with some friends for a nice girls night out filled with drinks and gossip, and it was an amazing night. You're relatively tipsy by the time everyone is ready to go home, it's about half past midnight, and the only thing you can think about is going to bed. That is until, about half way home. A sudden spark flows through your veins, creating a dull fog in your mind. Maybe you had a bit more to drink than you thought you did.

You've decided to walk a tad bit quicker to get home. A small apartment in the downtown of Piltover, it's a nice size and not too expensive, especially since you're sharing it, and the fact that there's only one bedroom inside just adds to the fact. You're just glad that Viktor doesn't mind sharing a bed.

You have to fumble with your keys for an embarrassing amount of time before you can actually unlock the door. It's silent inside the apartment, there's no sign that Viktor has already come home. Although, that wouldn't surprise you, ever since he and Jayce started to work on the Hextech, you've been seeing less and less of him in your shared apartment.

You push off a shower until the morning, it can wait a few more hours, it's too late. When you enter the bedroom, you almost scream when your eyes focus well enough to see someone sitting at the small desk in the room. So he is home, you rub your temples and sigh. He’s always staying up late. You don't want him to hurt his back, more than he already has, by being in such an awkward position all night. So you gently grab onto his shoulders to try and wake him up, his shirt has slipped and your palm rests on the bare skin, the warmth that comes from him could burn you. From such a simple touch that foggy haze fills your head once again, when Viktor is in a better position you'll get a drink of water. You tighten your grip on his shoulders and carefully shake him, a sad attempt to wake him. You would just carry him to the bed, you're strong enough, but you don't want to irritate his leg.

“Hey, Viktor.. are you awake?” You whisper, when you feel him stir. No response comes from him, but you're not going to give up any time soon. So this time you try a different method, you crouch beside him and lift up his head to try and see if he's awake, and he's not. Of course he's not. But you're determined to save his back from his hunched position. Each time you try something different and your hand makes contact with him, you can feel another spark flow through your veins and the foggy haze in your head gets stronger. Maybe this time you'll just splash him with ice cold water, but that'll probably give the poor thing a heart attack.

“Viktor, come on. You can't stay like this,” you groan and try to shake him awake, once again to no avail, and your feet are starting to ache from crouching in your heels for so long. At this point you're starting to give up, and you try to shake him one last time. Your hand rests on his waist this time, the other on his arm, you can feel the warmth of his body, along with his scent, a mix of oil, metal, and his shampoo that creates an intoxicating smell that you'll never get enough of now, from this position and, as much as you may hate to admit it, it sparks a dull throb in your core. “Vik.. please?” You shake him, trying to ignore the fire that's sparked inside of you, and this time he does wake up. A shallow gasp escapes from him as he pushes his head up and rubs the back of his neck. He lets out a low groan and looks over at you, the noise has you thinking about just how he would sound if you had your way with him.

This time it's his turn to shake you from your, not so innocent, thoughts, and he pushes himself up from the desk, now standing while you're still crouching. The position puts you at the perfect level that your thoughts start to wander again. “Just how much did you have to drink?” He chuckles as you stand yourself up, one of his hands reaches to press against your forehead, and it burns. You can't tell if it's him or you that's warmer, but the contact has a familiar pulse starting at your core. Just before he's able to say something you push his hand away from yourself. “Enough,” you reply, trying to shake the feeling away.

He scoffs and leans against the desk, and you can't deny how fucking hot he looks. His hair is messed up, his clothes have wrinkles in them, and his hands, god his hands, have traces of whatever he was using back at the lab on them.

You decide to take a shower now, maybe this way you can deal with the problem of your hormones raging like a horny teen. The warm water feels like it's been sent straight from heaven and down on your aching muscles, you can feel yourself relaxing under the water. You let your hand drift to your breasts and massage the flesh of one and then the other, feeling your nipples harden under your palm. Each touch you give yourself, you let yourself imagine that it's Viktor. You place your free hand over your mouth to silence your gasp when you push a finger inside your hole to find yourself dripping from such light touches. You curl your finger up to try and hit that one spongy spot inside you, and when you finally find it, you hope that your hand muffled the loud moan you let out. You slowly add another finger, wishing it was his instead of your own. You set a steady rhythm of your fingers, while grinding your swollen clit against your palm. You bit down on your hand in a sad attempt of silencing yourself, silently praying that the mix of your palm and the running water will be enough to not let your moans escape the bathroom. You start to speed up your fingers as you feel your orgasm get closer, desperately grinding against your palm for the friction you crave against your clit. Soon enough your orgasm crashes down on you, and you let out a loud moan. Now you're left panting from the aftershocks of your orgasm, yet even after that, the haze and pulse is still evident. Maybe you should just sleep it off.

The shower you had was relaxing and when you come out you find Viktor sitting up on the bed, with a book in hand. You crawl into bed beside him and lay your head onto the pillow, closing your eyes and relishing in the cold feeling of the fabric against your, still burning hot, skin. Even after a long shower the feeling hasn't stopped, and now being right beside Viktor, it's seemed to double. “Are you okay?” Viktor asks, when you lift your head up from the cold release of the pillow, all you can muster is a nod, if you open your mouth you're afraid you might just moan, you can feel his body heat from under the covers and his scent is evident in the bed. “I'm fine, Vik, think I just had a little too much to drink,” you laugh and rest your cheek on one of your arms, “but I'll be fine after a good sleep.”

Viktor sighs and lifts your face up, his hand holding your chin. He studies your face and you can feel your face heat up from his intense gaze. “Hmm, you don't seem fine. You're practically burning up,” he states. The way his accent sounds when he speaks has you clenching your thighs and hoping he doesn't see you doing so. He keeps your face in his hand for a few more seconds before he finally lets go, “maybe it was one of the drinks you had making you burn up.” He brushes some stray hairs out of your face and he shuffles so you're both laying down, he pulls your face closer to him and squints his eyes at you, before he can say anything else you pull him closer and kiss him, feeling his reciprocate the kiss just spurts you on more and you thread your fingers in his hair.

He rests a hand on the curve of your waist and when you feel it you pull away and feel yourself internally panic, “holy shit, I'm sorry. I have no fucking clue whats gotten into-” Before you're able to finish your scentance he pulls you back down and kisses you. His hand trails down your waist towards your thigh and he strokes the side of your thigh, occasionally giving the fat of your thigh a squeeze. “I told you. It was one of the drinks.” He mumbles against your lips and grabs your hip and pulls you closer, you take the hint and quickly climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and he groans when you grind down on his semi hard erection.

You pull away from his lips just long enough to tug his shirt off, quickly doing the same with your own, before connecting your lips again. You start to trail kisses down his jawline, towards his neck, leaving a kiss on his adams apple, and moving to the side of his neck to leave more kisses and occasional harsh sucks to form a mark, savouring the noises he lets out every time you do. Being careful to not hurt his leg, you move yourself down to trail your kisses lower and lower until you reach the hem of his pants. “May I?” You ask breathlessly and he chuckles, “you practically tore off my shirt, you think I'd say no now.” He scoffs, a teasing undertone to his words that causes the throb in your core to heighten. You pull down his pants and boxers to let him dick out, wrapping your hand around the base and giving him a few strokes before you wrap your mouth around the tip, licking up the bead of precum that's settled there. He groans and tangles his fingers in the strands of your hair, not pushing or pulling but just resting his hand there. You start to bob your head, making sure to tease the tip, relishing in the noises he's making, a mix of delicious groans and whimpers leave his lips and it spurs you on more. He thrusts his hips up and the tip hits the back of your throat causing you to gag around him, his fingers gently tug on your hair and when you look up at him he lets out a loud groan. You use one of your hands to reach down and rub your clit, matching the pace of your fingers with the pace of your head. He thrusts his hips up again, this time a little rougher, and you know he's getting close. You swirl your tongue around the tip and he pulls your head off him. “No, when I cum, it'll be inside you.” He says, and you whine at the loss of friction when you pull your hand away from your aching clit. He pulls you to him and kisses you, savouring the way you taste and groaning when he tastes himself on your lips. You pull your pants off and straddle his hips again, lifting yourself up and lining his cock up. You give him a few strokes and slowly start to sink down.

The stretch is delicious and you moan when you've lowered yourself all the way. He brings one of his hands to your thigh and rubs it, you place your hands on his chest and start to lift yourself up. You whimper as you do so, adjusting to the stretch. A few seconds of just having his tip inside you, you lower yourself back down and repeat, slowly getting faster and rougher with each bounce. Soon you're riding him, one of your hands is on his chest, supporting yourself and the other rests on Viktors hand that's squeezing your thigh. You speed up a bit more and he groans when he feels you clench around him, his head falls back onto the pillow. His hand leaves your thigh and he brings it up and starts expertly rubbing your clit, for a second you find yourself jealous of his experienced fingers.

“Viktor! Fuck.. please don't stop!” You moan and clench around him, his hips start to rut up to meet your bounces. You both know that you're close and you know you aren't going to last very long. Your moans start to become more frequent and at a higher pitch, one of your hands leaves red scratches down his chest as you feel your orgasm get closer. Your nails dig into his skin and you bury your face in his neck, biting down on the sensitive skin when your orgasm hits you, your pussy pulses around his cock and with a few more thrusts up he's cumming inside you, his muscles tensing and he's moaning.

You both lay with each other for a few seconds before Viktor speaks up, “do you feel better?” He chuckles when you nod, you're still panting and you rest your forehead against his, a sheen of sweat on you both. You whimper when you push yourself up and feel his softening cock slide out of you, the globs of cum that drip out of you make you whine. He grabs your hips and pulls your pussy closer to him. “I can't have you dripping on the bed, we just changed the sheets.” He groans and pulls you so you're sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at your folds and tracing your clit. You can feel the vibrations of him laughing when you squirm on top of him, his hands have a tight grip on your hips, ensuring you don't move too much. You thread your fingers in his hair, tugging on it as you start to grind your hips on his face. He ravages you, eating you out like a starved man. The curve of his nose bumps your swollen and sensitive clit deliciously and you pull on his hair at the feeling, when you do he groans into your pussy. He doesn't slow down or even hint at stopping as you can feel your third orgasm of the night creep up on you.

“Fuck! Viktor.. ‘m so close!” You whimper and grind your hips down on his face, the obscene slurping noises that come from him just fuel your arousal. You tighten your grip on his hair and your thighs tense around his face as your orgasm hits, your squirming as he helps you ride out your orgasm. He laps up all of your juices until you're trying to push yourself off from sensitivity. “There we go,” he sighs when you move off his face, he has a sheen of your arousal around his mouth and he licks his lips and smirks at you, “now you won't drip on the clean sheets.” You laugh and he pulls you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you, you can taste yourself on his lips and it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

“How did you know it was the drink?” You ask him, feeling your eyelids grow heavy with each word that leaves your lips. “Aphrodisiac, it was easy enough to figure out when you came out of the shower. You're not as quiet as you think you are,” He smirks when you groan at him. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, one of his hands rubs your back, drawing random shapes and figures, and successfully lulling you to sleep.

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny- pt. 10

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9]

“This you?”

Danny glanced at the stone tablet in Spoiler’s hands and groaned, Phantom form flickering with embarrassment as his face got even more neon green. It was indeed him.

——

The first Atlantean and Ghost King encounter went something like this:

Imagine Danny, sleep deprived. Easy enough. Now, imagine Danny, trying to corral a ghost that had a penchant for sea life.

“Alabastor, I swear to Ancients, if you don’t get back here, I’m gonna make you into ghost sea-food boil!” Danny yelled as he chased Alabastor through the ghost zone. The crustacean shaped ghost cackled, skittering along the Zone.

"Make me, Phantom! You have not seen the might of the sea!"

"That's it, soup-time, crabby!"

Danny dove after Alabastor, chasing him face first into a temporal portal and right into the sea.

"BEHOLD!" Alabastor rumbled, claws raised and sea churning around him. Danny flew at him, noticing the screaming people below. He quickly raised a dome of clear ice to protect their entire city before returning his attention back to the giant crustacean. The distraction cost him, as Alabastor blasted him with a beam of his power. "THE MIGHT OF THE SEA!"

"SOUP!" Danny bellowed back, Alabastor's power forcing him into a giant crab form, aside from, hilariously, his head. Danny, always quick to adapt, slammed a massive claw straight into one of Alabastor's eyes and popped open the Fenton Thermos with a feral grin. In but moments, Danny manages to soup Alabastor but not before slamming him down onto the unbreakable ice Danny had just made.

Carefully turning by skittering sideways, he unmelted his ice.

"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly to the gawking civilians below.

"Suh-ree? What is suh-ree?" A brave woman asked.

"Oh," Danny uttered as he realized that he should probably switch languages. His giant crab body and small itty bitty human head swayed in an unsure motion. "Sorry means "my apologies." I had not meant to involve you. I am Phantom."

"It is alright... thank you for protecting us... God Phantom?"

He grimaced. "Not a god."

"King, then." She stepped forward. "May I ask of the ice?"

——

Spoiler, sensing weakness like the Riddler to a riddle, leaned in. "Did you know they have a traditional dance to honor the god that gave them the unbreakable ice that protects Atlantis to this day? It goes like this," Spoiler stepped back and did the dance, complete with exaggerated arm movements and, embarrassingly, the scuttle walk Crab!Danny was forced to learn with his new crab form.

"We shall never speak of this again," Danny huffed.

"But King Phantom, the God of Eternal Ice and Protection, how could we not celebrate your iciness?" Spoiler simpered, Black Bat not too far away and shaking with laughter. The purple donning vigilante did the scuttle dance once more, picking up bottles as she went a small circle around one of Bludhaven's rock beaches.

Danny scowled and plucked the tablet away from her, hair flowing an a more agitated direction. His jumpsuit burned brighter. "Why are you two menaces in Bludhaven? I thought your territory was in Gotham."

"Nightwing asked for back up and we were in the area." Spoiler, blessedly, stopped the walk to answer him. "By the way, are you and Danny dating?"

"Pardon?" He asked, insulted but highly amused.

"Oh, you know, he has your number, and you only ever talk to him outside of us, and how you guys have a high level of communication." Spoiler said leadingly.

Oh, Danny knew what this was about now. He found out their identities and now these two are interrogating him because he liked them best. They thought they were so clever. Well, they clearly haven't gotten to know Danny at all if they thought he was going to make good decisions.

Danny tilted his head, making sure his face gets as eerie as possible, shadows elongating and eyes burning just that much brighter. The neon green of his face shone even brighter against the suddenly dark landscape of the place. Black Bat stood up, laughter seizing immediately. Spoiler tensed.

"I have a riddle for you. You are good at those, are you not?"

Spoiler blinked but gamely said, "Bring it."

"What do these things have in common? An arguing couple, papers on a stranger's desk, and Star City's robbers."

"..." Spoiler slipped into her solving mode. "Stolen goods. Stolen hearts?" She guessed.

"No. The answer is that they're all none of your business," Danny snarled. His form flickered. "Keep your questing away from Danny- Daniel, vigilante. Your duty is to protect your city and help her," Danny swept an arm out. "Stick to that instead of inserting yourself into places you are not wanted."

Then, with a toss of an ecto-crossed recorder that held the verbal report he'd promised Nightwing towards Black Bat, Danny blinked out of the visible spectrum and flew above the two.

"... Shit, I think I pissed him off."

Black Bat nodded. "He was defensive."

"Yeah... did you hear that slip? Oh, they are so dating."

Danny grinned. He couldn't wait for Tim to interrogate him soon.

——

"You're kidding."

Danny shook his head, maniacal grin still on his face hours later. He'd taken the liberty to call his best friends before classes started for the day.

Tucker groaned. "Danny, I can't believe you're messing with Batman. Why are you like this."

"Look, I need your help."

"Oh no, keep me out of your dumbass plans, Fenton," Sam pointed at him through the screen, immaculately painted black nails threatening.

"Okay, if you go along with my plan, I'll give you Dr. Isley's number."

"Deal," Sam said immediately, changing her tune at a drop of a hat. Or, at a drop of a number.

"What about me?" Tucker asked, offended. "I deserve compensation for my work too, dammit!"

"I'll give you Tim Drake's number and persuade him to let you have a crack at Wayne Industry's tech basement."

"Deal, what are we doing?"

Danny's grin spread even wider. "We're dating. And, you two? You're Phantom's exes. Tucker, you say good stuff about me. Sam? You make up terrible things about me. But we're all dating each other and I'm dating Phantom on the side."

"I hate you," Sam deadpanned. "But fine, it's not that hard. I've got tons of embarrassing stories about Phantom. You better get me that number, Danny, because you know Dr. Isley was my gay awakening."

"For Tim Drake, I'd be willing to puff up your ego." Tucker said solemnly.

"Perfect. I'm cleaning his brother of ectoplasm today. so expect a call later! Love you guys!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, boyfriend." Sam clicked off the call.

"Think Tim Drake would be interested in a date?" Tucker asked Danny.

"Nah, I think he's got his heart on Benard."

"Damn," Tucker sighed. "Guess I'll have to mend my broken heart with the tools of a state-of-the-art lab, right, Danny?"

"Yep, see ya!" Danny hung up. Today was going to be a good day.

[queenpiranhadon]

A/N: You all voted on this poll, and this poll, and this poll, and after a LOT of voting, I present you this :) BIG thanks to @that-multi-fandom-hijabi for beta reading this go follow her writing acc rn (@novaaaaaa-writes). Here's my masterlist!

Warning(s): Enemies to lovers trope, mentions of burning, stabbing, blood, bad descriptions of both fire of water (ice, snow ?) bending, Zuko is whipped, just a little confused about it, reader is a baddie, water benders unite (not me tho), reader is GN but written with f!reader in mind, reader looks non-threatening, is underestimated a lot, this takes place at the end of season one, I think that's it

Pairing: Prince Zuko x GN!Reader

•──•°•❀•°•─── ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀʙᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ───•°•☁︎•°•───•

“You shouldn’t be here” you glare, your gaze sending shivers down his spine. 

But that could just be because of all the snow and ice surrounding the both of you. 

The fire prince remains unfazed though, his amber eyes sweeping over your form- assessing the threat you posed. 

He could take you down in seconds. 

Zuko doesn’t respond to your jab though, because he knew you were wrong. He had to be here, it was the only way he could finally receive his father’s favor- as the heir and as the son of Firelord Ozai. It was his duty, his honor. 

And he wasn’t going to let a non-threatening waterbender get in the way of that. 

Reaching back, he unsheathes his dual swords, the glint of the waning moonlight reflecting the dangerous glint in his eye. 

And yet you didn’t back down.  

Pooling some water from your waterskin, you assumed the stance you had trained yourself to take whenever you honed your skills. One with the water, one with the ice.  

‘Power should flow, not force itself” Master Pakku had told you once.  

People had always underestimated your skills, saying you were better suited for healing. But after showing Master Pakku how you could use your bending to control the falling snow around you, he gave you a chance.  

He had told you to let the power settle in your body before releasing, instead of forcing it out immediately. Conceal and then control. 

You met Zuko’s fiery gaze with an icy one of your own. You were going to protect your home.  

With a yell, you form flurries of snow, whipping around your form as you channel your strength to change the form of your flurry, snow turning to water, water turning to sharp daggers of pure ice.  

Zuko scowls, setting his hands ablaze and you run at each other, fire meeting ice.  

Time slows down, as the intensity of your elements picks up, until all you could hear was the steady thump – thump – thump – of your heart, and the roar of crystalline knives swirling around you. 

Flames lick the side of your leg, wincing as the raw burn of the fire sears through your skin in white-hot pain. Razor sharp icy shards cut into Zuko’s skin, finding chinks in his armor, piercing his flesh and drawing blood. 

The snow beneath the both of you was dotted red now, both of you staring at each other, panting heavily.  

“You really shouldn’t be here.” you repeat again, but this time, it was barely a whisper, swallowing down tears as the cold wind of the Northern Water Tribe stung your gaping wounds. 

Zuko growls, grunting in pain as he pulls a shard of ice out of his skin.“I don’t take orders from a little waterbender” he spat, venom dripping from his words. 

You reciprocate with a snide comment of your own. “This ‘little waterbender’ just sunk 5 icicles into your skin.” 

Zuko was just about ready to tear your head off, hands igniting with vermillion flames before you collapse, the burns along your thigh and calf were much more severe than either of you realized.  

You choke out a sob of pain but keep your control of the water left in your waterskin. You couldn’t die, not today, and not at the hands of the prince of the Fire Nation.  

Zuko’s heart throbs unexpectedly, the look on your face too familiar for comfort. The face of someone who worked so desperately hard, only for all that effort to go down the drain. But he didn’t care for you. He couldn’t- couldn’t grow attachment to a non-threatening waterbender. Yet you sat there on the snow, dotted with blood, with that raw look in your eyes. His flames extinguished, without him meaning to.  

You flinched as he threw his swords down frustrated, impaling themselves into the nearby snow mound, standing straight up. 

He stomps over to you, and you frantically move back, but your leg flares up in pain again, and you yelp, hissing in pain.

“Stop moving, you’ll make it worse.” he says, glaring at you, but not as intensely as he had before.  

You want to scream, kick him, punch him, anything, but your body betrays you as he sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you to the nearest place he can find, where he can keep you safe. You feel his strong arms hook under your knees and under your back, holding you securely to his firm chest. Even through his armor, he radiates warmth, a gentle heat, unlike the flames he threw at you merely minutes ago.  

He hates this, with every fiber in my being, his voice screaming at him to drop you and burn your frail body to a crisp, vengeance for the blood dripping from his own body, but he keeps moving, step after painstaking step. 

You try to stay awake, you really do, yet channeling so much energy from your battle, the numb throb in your lower leg, and the comforting heat radiating off the fire prince who refuses to look at you, you slip into unconsciousness.  

Zuko feels a weight press against his chest, and he huffs, honey-colored eyes catching onto the details of your face, the curve of your nose, the apples of your cheeks, the slight pout of your lips as you nuzzle into his armor unintentionally, how pretty you were when you were at peace. 

He stops himself there, reprimanding himself for thinking such things. He can’t have feelings for the enemy. 

And yet, even as he and his troops head home, battle wearing and dejected from the loss of a major battle, Zuko can’t help but think about his little waterbender.  

*** 

When you wake up, the kind woman tending to you tells you all about the mysterious and handsome man who carried your sleeping form across the entire Northern Water Tribe because he didn’t know where the healing center was.  

[ireadvintage]

🍒 An Excerpt from Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin 🍒

"Giovanni had awakened an itch, had released a gnaw in me. I realized it one afternoon, when I was taking him to work via the Boulevard Montparnasse. We had bought a kilo of cherries and we were eating them as we walked along. We were both insufferably childish and high-spirited that afternoon and the spectacle we presented, two grown men jostling each other on the wide sidewalk and aiming the cherry pits, as though they were spitballs, into each other's faces, must have been outrageous. And I realized that such childishness was fantastic at my age and the happiness out of which it sprang yet more so; for that moment I really loved Giovanni, who had never seemed more beautiful than he was that afternoon. And, watching his face, I realized that it meant much to me that I could make his face so bright, I saw that I might be willing to give a great deal not to lose that power. And I felt myself flow toward him, as a river rushes when the ice breaks up. Yet, at that very moment, there passed between us on the pavement another boy, a stranger, and I invested him at once with Giovanni's beauty and what I felt for Giovanni I also felt for him. Giovanni saw this and saw my face and it made him laugh the more. I blushed and he kept laughing and then the boulevard, the light, the sound of his laughter turned into a scene from a nightmare. I kept looking at the trees, the light falling through the leaves. I felt sorrow and shame and panic and great bitterness. At the same time—it was part of my turmoil and also outside it—I felt the muscles in my neck tighten with the effort I was making not to turn my head and watch that boy diminish down the bright avenue. The beast which Giovanni had awakened in me would never go to sleep again; but one day I would not be with Giovanni anymore. And would I then, like all the others, find myself turning and following all kinds of boys down God knows what dark avenues, into what dark places? With this fearful intimation there opened in me a hatred for Giovanni which was as powerful as my love and which was nourished by the same roots." Scene art of Giovanni and David walking the Boulevard du Montparnasse created by the talented @emilypaik​. Commissioned for Tumblr by Vintage Books in celebration of the James Baldwin Centenary.

[reilemon]

🦪Iridescent Scales🦪 heads up - audio is nsfw-ish

♡︎synopsis: You help Rafayel with whatever he's going through (mermaid heat).

♡︎pairing: Rafayel x fem!reader

｡°⚠︎°｡MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY)｡°⚠︎°｡

♡︎cw: temperature play, blowjob, multiple orgasms (both Rafayel and reader), creampie

♡︎word count: 1.5k

♡︎a/n: Ofc I had to write a spicy version for Ebb and Flow.

♡︎ special thanks to my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for reading and helping me with this

divider by @cafekitsune

"Don't hold back. Share your warmth with me." Rafayel breathes out, his hand clutching your wrist.

"..." You're confused by the request, almost a plea. Before you can say anything, his hand starts guiding yours from his satin cheek, over his neck, down his exposed chest...

You try to free your hand when you realize where he's going. "Rafayel - !" But his hand doesn't let you move.

"You're burning up! I need to get you some ice!" With that you manage to free your hand and hurry towards the kitchen.

For whatever reason, your boyfriend didn't have any ice packs in the freezer, so you filled a resealable bag with ice cubes. You might go grocery shopping for him tomorrow, if he doesn't get better.

You slowly approach him as you notice that his eyes are closed, but they flutter open and he turns to you when you sit down next to him. He doesn't say anything, just lets you gently rest the ice cold bag on his neck. He's still wearing that uncomfortable frown, as he's looking at you, studying you, like he's waiting for something.

Even if this condition, whatever it is, only happens once a year, you still feel bad for Rafayel. You wish you could take away the pain.

You switch the bag to the other side, and you press your lips to his forehead. Still burning up.

"I wish there's something more I could do." You softly murmur.

"I've told you..." He groans and grabs your free hand and starts leading it down again. And you stop him again.

"Rafayel, I'm not gonna take advantage of you!"

Now he frowns at you in both discomfort and confusion. "I'm not intoxicated, am I? And I'm both telling you and showing you how to help me."

Is it how he used to make it go away? You don't want to make him even more upset by asking that. Even if he says it will help, you're still hesitant about helping him in that way. An Ice cold bath would certainly help the most, but he's too tired to move and you can't drag his dead weight to the bath.

You still have ice though.

With a new idea, you open the bag and take out one ice cube. Setting the bag aside, you work the rest of the buttons and open the shirt, exposing his torso.

His breath hitches as you slowly drag the ice cube from his collar bone and his toned chest. Rafayel pants as he watches you take another ice cube, the first one melting on his hot skin in seconds. You take two, three more, the ice gliding and melting over the ridges and valleys of his muscles, goosebumps sprinkling his pale, glistening skin.

You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the damp and cooled skin under your touch, thinking you made some progress, but his chest is still rising and falling rapidly.

Rafayel whispers your name and takes the hand on his chest, this time gently, bringing it to his lips, planting a soft kiss. "Touch me, please."

And how can you deny him, when he's looking at you with those mesmerizing, pleading eyes.

"Okay." You give his lips a small peck. "But you need to tell me if you start feeling uncomfortable."

He nods, agreeing to your condition, and pulls you by the back of your head in a deep, desperate kiss, while the other hand frees his hard member in mere seconds.

You don't want to tease him, as much as you love doing that to him, you know that now is not the time. You're going to indulge him, and you love that even more.

Rafayel hisses against your lips, as your still cold hand wraps around his so fucking hot dick. You whisper a small sorry and he just shakes his head and continues the kiss, tongue darting out to lick your lips, and to slide inside, meeting yours.

Your hand, already warmed up, slowly starts stroking him, your finger playing with the tip, spreading around the precum, so much precum, that was leaking out. You spread it around, making it easy to pump his cock, going up and down, twisting your wrist, rubbing the sensitive swollen tip.

And it's getting harder for Rafayel to keep his lips locked with yours, moans and pants following your every move.

You're no better. Watching his flushed face with those beautiful scales, while his cock is throbbing under your touch, has you holding back moans, your mouth salivating, and your panties soaked.

Telling yourself that he needs this, you get down on your knees, sitting between his thighs. Rafayel watches you in awe, as your tongue goes from the base towards the tip, licking and swirling, followed by your plump lips wrapping around, working your way down. He curses under his breath as you suck and slowly bob your head, his hand resting on your head.

"Fuck, princess, you're - haah- doing so good ..." He chokes back another moan. "Touch yourself for me, please..."

And you do just that - your free hand buries itself inside your panties, two middle fingers sliding between your folds, then zeroing in on the bundle of nerves, going up and down, and around. You moan around his dick as you pleasure yourself, the vibration and the lewd sight driving Rafayel crazy. His hips thrust upwards with more vigor, the cockhead hitting your throat more, and you let him use your mouth and throat however he wants. The sensation of his dick hitting the back of your throat, while moans are spilling out of his lips, with your fingers in your panties, makes you so desperately aroused, so needy for more.

With one last thrust, hot semen fills your throat and mouth, tears pricking your eyes as you choke a little. There's so much of it that some of it still spills down the corners of your mouth.

Swallowing, you pull your lips away from his still hard cock before you start overstimulating him, and you take your hand out of your soaked underwear. Rafayel brings you up and makes you straddle. He brings the hand covered with your essence to his lips and wraps them around your digits, eyes closing as he savors your taste.

He pulls away from your fingers and cups your cheek. "Get yourself off on my dick."

You almost yelp at his words. "But - You -?"

He throws the blanket from the sofa onto the floor, sweeps you up in his arms and lays you down on top of it. He tugs off your pants and underwear in one swift motion, picks you up, and you're on top of him again. His breath fans over your lips as he lines his cock against your dripping entrance. "Use me, pretty girl. I'm all yours."

The frown from before is gone, and is replaced with lustful daze in his eyes, the only thing on his mind being chasing each other's high. And you're not sure if it's your skin adapting to his heat, or if his body temperature has actually gone down. The burning red on his cheeks and chest is still present though.

He makes the decision easy for you as he pushes his tip past your entrance, and like a reflex, you slide down his length, a slight sting following the motion but is replaced with waves of pleasure as you start moving your hips.

"That's it doll, just like that." Rafayel admires you from below as you roll your hips, your clit grazing his pelvis as he thrusts up in your rhythm, moans leaving your alluring lips. His hands, clinging to your hips, dig into your supple skin in a bruising grip, as he feels another orgasm building up.

You whimper as he sneaks his thumb between your bodies, rubbing your sensitive nub, and you hold onto his still clothed shoulders. "Don't stop - !" You pant and within seconds you lie down on top of him, waves of your orgasm leaving you breathless, letting him move you to ride out your high.

His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly against him, his feverishly hot body making you sweat. Rafayel grits out "Can I cum inside you?"

You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck and nod, sloppily kissing the smooth skin and delicate scales, tasting his sweat on your tongue. You're held in place as he pounds into you, his dick hitting your sweet spot over and over, his pelvis slapping against your clit. Your pussy throbs with another orgasm, and with strangled, breathless moans, Rafayel fills you up, the twitching and his cum - all of it making you lightheaded.

With the last few slow thrusts, Rafayel pulls out, the emptiness and cold air against your leaking entrance making you shiver.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, resting on either side of his head. You brush away the curls sticking to his forehead. You softly whisper, still catching your breath "Are you okay?"

He smiles and caresses your cheek "Yeah. But I'll feel even better if you can spend the night by my side."

[slytherinslut0]

quiet reckoning. chapter two

summary: its winter. you begin to accept the solace, until on a random night in january; you dream.

warnings: 18+, smut MDNI, mind manipulation, tom riddle is a fucking god (sorry), oral f!rec, PIV, so much angstttt, tom riddle is broken and he’s tired of fighting, outdoor sex, ooc tom for some but remember there are decades of history between these two.

masterlist and other chapters.

It's winter. The first of the season is a soft, unassuming thing, nothing like the hard decay of fall. Snow blankets life and covers old memories of summer fading to fallen leaves—and you've always marvelled at it, the way frost clings to the pines—how the crystals dance in sunlight like they're celebrating.

Warmth lies dormant, hidden under the cold, yet nature still finds a way to make the quiet beautiful.

This, you think, reminds you of Tom.

In the early days of winter you spend as much time outside as you can manage, but the cold seeps in eventually—a bitter thing with the edges of frozen steel—so you give yourself grace for the rest. There's a satisfaction in the easy routine you fall into—no garden, no yard work, just stoking the fire and chopping wood, eating and reading and going down to the market when you decide an apple pie sounds nice.

Sometimes, late at night, you sit by the fire and think about all the things that have changed—sometimes, you sit by the fire and think about the things that haven't.

You try not to hate yourself for how small the latter list seems to be.

Mattheo doesn't come in December. He writes only twice—once to tell you about his wedding, and again to say he won't be able to visit after all. You try to ignore the hollow feeling in your gut as you read that last letter, but when he sends you your favourite sweets for Christmas, you decide to forgive him.

You begin to accept the solace. The kind of quiet that fills the cracks of a life left behind.

Until, on a random night in January, you dream.

It's one of those dreams that feels hyper-real—you're outside, somewhere that feels both unfamiliar and inescapably known. It's dark and snowing, your breath leaving plumes in the air, and everything—the scenery, the chill, the silence—washes over you like something you feel more than witness.

You turn slowly, looking around—your senses stretching to the stillness of the trees, the soft fall of snowflakes, the ring of silence pressing in on your ears. Then you start walking, guided by something you can't name but instinctively trust. It doesn't take long before you hear it—the steady flow of water—so you push through a stand of snow-covered trees and find a narrow creek, its edges crusted with ice that glints under the moonlight.

The feeling of familiarity hits harder, and when you look up, that's when you see it—like a ghost that is your memories—the orphanage, sitting in the distance, rising from the shadows of the night.

This is your childhood. And for a strange, suffocating moment—you feel like you're home.

But there's hardly any time to process any of this before you're moving again and find yourself kneeling at the waters edge—snow sticking to your jeans, peering down through the frozen surface into its depths. You think of Tom. You think of Mattheo. You think of the memories rippling past.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer magnitude of your longing, Tom is beside you.

"Cold, isn't it?" His voice is soft, low, as if the silence around you demands reverence.

You don't startle; you know this is a dream. You're half-aware of it even as he settles by your side, his knees brushing snow like yours, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Instead, you exhale slowly, your breath turning to mist in the night.

Dreams don't need logic, and this one would never work if it made sense. So you give in to it, the way you'd always given in to his whims when you were children.

"It always is." Your voice echoes like a memory.

He hums in acknowledgment.

You don't look at him, not yet, but you feel him lean back—palms pressed into the snow, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head tilted up towards the sky. For a moment, you're both quiet, watching the frost turn the trees around you into statues of silver and ice.

It's then that you realize you're not cold. You're not anything, in fact. There's no ache, no heaviness, only the soft stillness of a moment suspended outside of time.

That's how you know it's a dream—because if it were real, you'd feel everything.

"You always loved the cold." He tells you quietly. You don't take your eyes off the trees. "I've yet to decipher why that is."

"It's the constant that life has never been." There's a quiet honesty in the words, the kind you'd never have dared to say when awake. But here, like this, you think you're allowed to speak the truths you bury. "Winter has never been anything but what it promised to be."

You hear him make another sound of agreement. You want to look at him, to see what might rest in the hollow of his cheek and the curve of his jaw, but something stops you.

Some instinct warns that if you do, you'll lose him.

"Winter reminds me of you." He whispers. You close your eyes at the need the words stir. "You've always been my constant."

In the silence following that, a part of you whispers; I wish you'd never said that. But this is a dream, and for a time you give in to the part of you that says; I wish you said that more.

"You've always been mine."

It feels like a memory that was never real. Like a lie. He's never been yours in the way you wished he was, but he has definitely been a constant.

Either way, you don't elaborate, regardless of how much you want to—this just makes sense to you in ways you're sure he already knows. Tom has always been your winter—soft like snow but not quite as pure. Cold like frost, the type that burns. He's the still in the chill that wraps around you, that sticks to your skin long after the warmth has crept back in. He's the devastation, the beauty. He's always been your winter.

He doesn't respond to that, and for a time, silence is the companion of the night. You wonder, faintly, if this is all dreams ever are—fragments of memory, shards of longing, the reflection of your heart's deepest corners.

You wonder, faintly, why you're dreaming of him now.

"Are you really here, Tom?" You ask without thinking, without knowing. It’s the part of you that knows he’s capable of anything. “Is this your way of visiting me without the commitment?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him smile. It's sad without being entirely tragic, somehow. "Have you dreamt of me before?"

What a question, you think. When haven't I?

"In pieces, in fragments. I dream of youth. Of memory. I feel you in every dream." You answer, thinking of the times you'd wake and feel him from your childhood. But you haven't felt him like this. Alive and real and lucid. "Never like this."

He's silent for a long time. You know without looking that his eyes are still turned to the sky. That's when you realize the truth of it: you've answered your own question.

If this were only a dream, if this were merely a version of him conjured by your mind, he wouldn't be so quiet. He'd be saying all the things you've always wanted him to say. This is a visitation.

After a moment, you feel him look at you, and that's when you cave—something desperate in you seeking his eyes, those onyx fucking eyes you've missed so much—and once you find them, you see the stars and snow reflected in the glass of them and your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your heart.

He's beautiful like this—older, aged, weathered—he's so fucking beautiful it hurts.

"This might be the most transparent you've ever been with me," you choke out, attempting to lighten the moment, to push down the ache that's rising in your chest. But your voice wavers, betraying you. You've loved this man for so long, you've forgotten how to pretend you don't. "You look like you've seen all the things I've been too afraid to say."

He studies you then, his face bathed in moonlight that paints his skin in shades of frost and shadow. He looks like something out of a dream, like an angel of winter under the guise of a devil.

He's always been both, you think, in a way only Tom could accomplish.

"You make a habit of not saying the things you want to," he says quietly, as soft as the falling snow. You look back at the creek, trying not to get lost in this feeling that's almost like the first time he'd kissed you. "I thought coming to you like this would help you break it."

You know this isn't real, not in the way you wish it was. This is manipulation—a spell, a trick of his mind and yours, something he's managed to do through magic that's lost on you and a dream you can't control. But your mind isn't the master here, not in this realm—so when Tom puts a hand on your cheek that is as warm as summer in the dead of winter itself and turns your face to look at him, all you can think—all you can want—is to lean into the touch.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you want everything. "Tom—"

His knuckles brush your cheek and you lose your tongue. The feeling of it, real and fucking steady, makes your skin burn where he's touching you, clawing its way back into your chest like it never left.

He says, softly, "say the things you've been afraid to say."

You exhale slowly, like the words stuck in your throat are too hot to hold. Your mind is racing, a million moments in memory where you wished you would have said what you felt. His eyes are searching yours, and you're half-terrified of what he'll find in them—

"I'm in love with you." You whisper, before you have the sense to stop yourself. "I've been in love with you, for as long as I can remember."

You watch his eyes and the way his jaw works when he hesitates. You'll remember this moment forever, you think, even if the things before and after it are lost to time.

"Keep going," he finally says, running the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

You close your eyes against his touch, trying to hold onto the sound of his voice. You've fought so fucking hard, for years, to ignore it but fuck—you've missed him—you've missed the way he makes you feel. You've missed this, even the ache it makes between your heart and your throat.

"I think of you all the time," you say, timidly, opening your eyes again. "There hasn't been a moment since I left where I wasn't missing you. I dream of you—of us—I dream of your voice and your hands and the things you've done to me." You see him breathe out, very slightly, and it makes you feel braver. "I dream of the way you used to kiss me. I dream of who you were, who you could have been. I dream of the way you looked at me in final year before you broke my heart. I hate you for it still."

He's still watching you, and his eyes seem even darker and more intense in the shadow. His hand drops from your face, landing on your knee because you're practically in his lap—you hadn't realized you'd been leaning into him, seeking out the warmth of his skin like you'd been starved for it.

The ache in your chest is so strong it makes you dizzy and you're half-terrified that he won't say anything to that.

Until finally, he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

There’s a pause. It's perplexing that somehow he looks both like the eighteen-year-old you've loved all your life, and the twenty-five-year-old stranger he's become in that time. You think, faintly, that it's not fair.

You exhale, and the sound of it hurts. "You say that like you don't exactly know what you did wrong."

You can feel the heat from his skin through your jeans—he's too close yet too far away, and the part of you that loves him and the part of you that hates him seem to be tangled tightly in the space between.

"I never knew how to love you," it’s an admission, and his voice is soft and broken enough to make the pain in your chest subside. "I never gave you the chance to teach me."

There's a million things you could say to that, a million ways you could react to those words. You don't really have the strength to say all of it, and you certainly don't have the mental to service all the grief that comes along with it.

"You did." You whisper, trying to hide the crack in your voice. "You've known."

You shift, angling your body closer to him. He's still watching you, and for the first time since that final night at his manor, you sense that familiar trace of softness in his eyes—that part of him that's been gentle for you since you were children.

"Not the way you deserved."

You take his hand, trying to ignore the way your fingers fit against his like they were carved from the same tree; his skin is rough, scarred and calloused, but it still feels like it always had, despite the years.

Safe.

"You've seen my life now." You look at his fingers as you say it, "do you think that is what I deserve?"

There's a moment of stillness between you—in which you wonder if this is the part where he wakes up out of guilt—but then you feel his fingers press harder against yours, like confirmation.

"You deserve to be happy." He says.

You're so hot you're not sure how the snow isn't melting beneath you. You're sure that's something in his control.

"And what do you know about being happy?" You say, looking up.

The moonlight is catching in his eyes and they're soft in the corners just as they were when you were young. So much has changed and so much hasn't. Part of you feels like crying, but instead you shiver when his hand runs up your arm, following the shape of your shoulder and the side of your neck, and you feel all the nerve endings in your body light up like a matchstick against the friction.

You think, faintly, that you'd forgotten this—how he could touch you without ever really touching you.

He exhales. "Only what I learned from you."

There's a part of you that wants to scream at that, at the way he can say those things and look at you and make you believe it, even if just for a moment.

"I haven't been happy in years, Tom," you say quietly. "Have you?"

His eyes flick to yours, and for a long while, the only sound you can hear is the cracking of the ice filled creek, and both of your exhales.

"No," he finally whispers, and you feel his thumb brush against the skin of your cheek. "I haven't."

You turn, angling your face into his palm. There's something heartbreakingly honest in his voice—something in the way he says it that makes you question the years you've spent wondering if he'd felt anything about you leaving, about the way he made you go.

Your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat. It's easier to imagine it's real like this, like everything else.

And then, when you decide to open them again, the scenery around you has changed—it's bright, it's summer—there's fireflies and warmth and whitetails running through the field past the creek toward the orphanage. Tom's hand falls to rest in the grass, and you turn to look at him—

He's watching the fireflies with a look on his face, soft and wistful like he's never quite managed to be before in his life. You watch the insects hover around his hair and for just a second, you think he looks more alive than any version of him you've seen before.

"Tom." You whisper, your own voice scaring you.

He turns to look at you when you say his name, and the expression in his eyes is something completely foreign to you. You've seen him hungry, and arrogant, selfish and even angry—but here, awake in a summer childhood memory dreamworld of his own making—he looks fucking vulnerable.

"Hm?" He raises an eyebrow.

Your breath catches before you can answer, like the feeling of seeing him like this—unguarded and unburdened—is catching up to you. He's beautiful under the moon and snow and he's beautiful under the sun and summer grass. It's unfair, you think, just how fucking beautiful he is.

"Will you ever come see me?" You force the words out before you choke on them. "For real, I mean."

He's silent, but you feel the air around you go incredibly still when you say it—like those few syllables had just caused the whole world to go quiet. Tom blinks, and for a moment you're afraid he'll say no.

Actually, a part of you is praying he'll say no—while the other part of you is praying he'll say yes.

Finally, he shakes his head. "If I did, I'd never leave."

You suppose he might not have realized what he's said, that it's just something that had come out of his mouth without thought. But somehow, it sounds more like the truth than anything he's ever said to you in a very long time. You're lost, suddenly, in the fantasy of him staying with you, of having him by your side to watch the summer nights and the winter mornings and anything and everything in between.

A part of you wants to break down at the thought. A part of you wants to yell at him, to make him see how selfish it is to offer you that.

You open your mouth to say something, but before you can find words for anything, you feel his hand on your cheek again, and your brain suddenly goes incredibly blank. He's leaning in closer to you—close enough that you can feel the heat from his lips and you're aware of how your own heart is racing—

"The next time I come to you," he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. "I'm never leaving you again."

The words make you almost dizzy, but before you can react to them, his mouth is on yours, and fireworks go off behind your eyes. He fits against you like he always has, like the two of you had been built to always have your bodies slot into eachother. You bring your arms up, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him selfishly closer.

He inhales against your mouth and his fingers grip harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip with a bite that makes your whole body shudder. He kisses you like he's afraid you're going to disappear, his tongue hot against yours, his hand twisting into the hair at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until he can kiss your throat in the way he used to when he was aiming to leave you mindless.

His touch makes you feel like you're burning. You're so fucking disarmed from his lips on your neck and his skin on yours that you can't think—can't speak when he urges you back in the grass and moves between your thighs—one warm hand snaking up under your shirt, leaning slightly to watch the way your chest heaves with each ragged breath; and when his fingers skim your breasts you let out an involuntary gasp, arching into his touch.

"God, you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs drawing down to drag his mouth over your collarbone. "Time has been so good to you."

He keeps your body trapped against the grass beneath you, the sky going dark overhead. He's taking his time, you realize, with his lips on the hollow of your collarbone and his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, taking his time to worship you in the way he'd done hundreds of other nights before all this time between.

"Tom," you manage when he moves to run his tongue along your lower stomach. "You—" you can't even say it, not like this, not with his lips warm against your flesh. "This isn't real—"

He looks up from where he's working to mark a bruise at the edge of your jeans—something dangerous and dark lighting up his eyes in the moonlight.

"Does it feel real?" He rasps. "Can you feel this?" His tongue skims your belly again before he sinks his teeth in, and you gasp. "Can you feel me, sweetheart?"

Your mind can't find any words. You'd forgotten how he'd reduced you like this, how he makes it feel like you can't fucking think.

"Yes," you gasp, but the word is mostly air. "Fuck—god, Tom—"

You can't say more than that, not with his mouth where it is, so close to where you're aching for him. He huffs against your skin, not mocking, but low and satisfied and smug like it's always been.

You're going to die like this—you think faintly, when his fingers finally undo the buttons of your jeans and the summer air hits the skin of your thighs.

"Do you want me to stop?"

What a terrible, devastating question.

"I—" you gasp, arching off the grass as he tugs your jeans off your legs. "No. Please—"

He laughs, and when he does it makes your whole body shiver.

"That's my girl," the words muttered into your inner thigh. "I've missed you like this."

His tongue skims over the edge of your underwear and you're lost at the feel of it—vaguely aware of the fact that you're making far too many noises and you think you look obscene—half-undone and writhing beneath his touch, but you don’t fucking care, not even slightly.

"Please," you gasp again when his tongue dips further down, a word you're half-sure you've been saying for ages. "Please, please—"

He's torturously slow with every single little movement, kissing over your pelvis and between the creases of your thighs, taking his time to taste every inch of you like he's savouring it. You're shivering and shuddering and begging for him, you're so out of your mind you're half-sure you're going to cry.

Until finally—finally, he brings his mouth to the place where you'd wanted it to be, tugging your panties to the side and lapping up your slit—and you let out a sound that's barely even human.

"I've missed you like this," he repeats against your swollen clit. "Fuck, how I missed this."

You're half-aware that you're probably pulling his hair and making noises that aren't fit to be spoken, but god fucking dammit—you're burning up with every touch, and every movement of his tongue sends sparks to your eyes. You think you're delirious, half-sure that you've been reduced to gasps and whimpers and "please, please, please—" but it's all you can do to keep his name in your mouth, the way you're sure he'd always wanted it.

"Tom," you gasp, as he laps up your slit until his tongue swirls over your clit again, as he seals his lips around it. "Fuck! Oh—"

A part of you thinks that you would like to stay like this forever—half-undone and out of your mind in some weird dream-like state of his creation with him between your thighs and his hands holding you as his, surrounded by the fireflies and the summer in the grass where you first kissed as kids.

"You taste so good," he growls against you. "I never stopped wanting this—"

You're close now. So close you think you'll burn up in a fire and engulf the grass and the trees and the fucking air itself—but Tom seems to be able to sense that, too. He presses a hand on your pelvis, holding you steady, reminding you that he's catching you as you fall.

"So good—so, so good—" he murmurs, lapping up your slick. "Let go for me.”

You think you would have, either way—but when he tells you in that voice, when he's looking at you like that in this state of his making—you let go for him without a shred of hesitation, because you'd always known, if nothing else, that you don't own this.

The summer, the grass on the hill, the pleasure coursing through you—it's all his. It's always all been his.

You come back to yourself in pieces—first, the sound of his voice, dangerously rough, then the feeling of him pulling away and shifting until he's hovering above you again—your vision clears enough to take him in, and you think he's impossibly holy like this—with the fireflies lighting up behind his hair, with the look in his eyes and the taste of your need for him on his mouth.

"I love you," he murmurs, running a hand over your jaw. "More than what's in this heart."

He leans down, kissing you again, and you have never been so out of breath in your life. You don't have air in you to kiss him back, nor have you even the strength to try—you can't believe what he just said—this can't be—

"I love you." He repeats it, as if he heard your doubts. You know he did. "Hand to a god you know I don't believe in. I'll die trying to prove it to you."

Something breaks apart in your chest. You raise a trembling hand to his face, trying to take him in— his eyes, his jaw and his mouth, his body tense between your thighs. You want very badly to be sure this is real—that he means what he's saying, even if it's only for tonight, even if he'll forget it as soon as it's over.

"You'll remember this when you wake up?" You don’t know what to say first. "You'll still—"

The look in his eyes goes sharper, his own hand coming up to take yours and press it against his chest—right above where his heart is. You can feel it beating, impossibly fast, like he'd just run a whole marathon.

"Does it feel like I'd forget?" He asks. "Does it feel like this is not real?"

God, it's so close to real—him on top of you and his heart beating against your hand and the feel of his skin against yours and even the taste of yourself on his mouth—it's so fucking real—real enough to make you half-sure you're going to burst into tears.

"Tell me you mean it," you whisper, voice broken into fractions. "Please, please—just say—"

"I'll remember it when I wake up," he cuts you off, leaning down to kiss the skin below your ear. "There are very few things in this world I forget." He drags his mouth down to your neck, his teeth leaving a bruise you're sure will be there in the light of morning, his hands finding the sides of your hips again. "I forget even fewer of the things involving you."

You gasp out a sound that's half a sob, half a whimper because you cannot believe him and you want to believe him so badly you don't know what to do with yourself.

"Why now?" You manage when you've found your voice again. "Why now—why couldn't you have said this before—"

He lets out a dry, broken laugh against your skin, and you can feel it when his chest shudders against you.

That's when you realize he's afraid, too.

"I was a coward with all the wrong aspirations," he admits, pressing the words into your collarbone, your jaw, as if he's trying to get as close to you as humanly possible. You're still acutely aware of the fact your lower half is bare against his. "And every time I've come to realize that I'm still in love with you, I've always run away from it."

You're still trying to remember how to breathe when he moves, shifting his weight and rolling over so that you're on top of him, straddling his hips. It takes you a moment to process it—you're suddenly so dizzy again now that you can feel him, hard and solid beneath you.

Every inch of your body suddenly feels like it's aching for more of him.

"Tom—" you gasp, the words sticking somewhere in your throat. "I—"

"You're too good for me," he murmurs, his long fingers skirting over the hollow of your spine, making your whole body tremble. "You've never been anything but the only good thing in my life." He rolls his hips up against yours, his eyes fluttering when you moan. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm yours if you'll have me. I'm yours if you won't."

You think this is the most he's ever spoken. You think back to when he told you to say all the things you've always been afraid of saying.

You wonder if he's doing that now.

"You're an idiot," you manage to say, finding your voice again, the breathless words coming out as a half-sob. "You really are an idiot—"

You gasp when he jerks his hips up against you again, and you can feel how much he wants you in the grunt that slips out of his mouth.

"I know I am," he says through grit teeth. "I'm cowardly and foolish and idiotic all because I'm in love with you." Another jerk of his hips, harder this time, pulling you closer. "And I cannot, for the love of god, figure out why you don't hate me more for it."

You gasp out a broken sound that's half a laugh, half a whimper, arching involuntarily against his touch in a way that makes you sound unhinged.

"Does it ever occur to you," you manage through the aching need for him, "that I fucking love you despite it all?"

He makes a sound against your skin that's so rough and broken and aching that you'd think you're killing him—

"Perhaps I did," he grunts, shifting as you finally decide you've had enough of this and move to undo his trousers, tugging them down and freeing him. You fucking sob at how real he is—how real he feels in your hand. "I just—mmf—assumed you'd realize better one day."

Your brain feels very much like it's short-circuiting now as you wrap your fingers around his dick and give him a light squeeze, trying to get used to the feeling of him again and the way he twitches against your palm. He lets out a strangled sound as you do, one hand coming up to bite his knuckles to drown it out, and you can't believe you have that kind of power over him.

It's a thought you'll need to consider later.

"Looks like we're both idiots, then," you murmur, and you're not sure you have the strength to form any other words as crawl back up, guiding him to your greedy aching cunt, and sink down.

You think he'd probably let you drown him right here and now without even blinking, with the way he lets out a sound that's almost animal, his breath coming out in shuddering gasps against your shoulder as you take him in. It takes you a moment to adjust to him, his ego made flesh—and as you start to slowly ride you realize you'd half forgotten that anything in this world could feel so fucking good.

"Fuck—" he gasps, and you think he's never sounded like that before. "That's it. That's good—"

You've never seen him look this way—not like a man hiding oceans behind his eyes or a god about to smite his creation—but an entirely mortal man falling to pieces beneath you. Everything about the way he touches you screams I need this, I need you—and he's always been the better one at speaking through his body.

You find your pace after a moment, slow and steady, trying to give yourself time to adjust to him while also trying to find that angle that makes you go just a little out of your mind.

"Tom—" you moan, head falling back as you bounce—looking up at the night sky. "Fuck—make it winter—"

You've forgotten how it feels to be so full. Your eyes are half-open to the night sky, where Tom's magic had crafted the summer around you—and you're not sure where the words came from, but they're half-sobbed and a thought you're not sure you should've said out loud—you wonder for a moment if he'd even heard you over his own moans and the feeling of you around him—

But then you feel it.

The first snow. A light fluttering of white snowflakes, falling from some place you can't see or find. The fireflies fade out with the falling flakes that cover the sky and you can see your breath but you don't feel the cold. You just see the beauty of it. You'd be stunned if you weren't so sure that this looks like what you've always known him to be—winter made flesh.

"You'll have everything," he grits out, jutting his hips up to slam into you deeper. "Anything you want—"

You're not sure you can put together the words to say anything in return to that—everything and anything, he'd give you, and you'd like to know when exactly he broke that carefully crafted part of himself that's supposed to not love—or when you broke that part of yourself that tried to stop loving too much.

You're not quite sure how you can say this will be enough when you're already so sure you'll never get enough of this, of the way it feels when he's this deep.

But amidst all of this, your brain has gone blissfully, blissfully silent—the only thing that's going through your head is his name. Every thought you've ever had, you're sure, is just a synonym of his name—every letter that's ever been made, somehow leading back to his name—every word and every story and every language and every poem somehow all trying to say; Tom, Tom, Tom. I am fucking in love with him.

"Harder," you gasp, and he complies like he'd die if he didn't—flipping you over so you're on your back beneath him.

You're a broken, moaning mess in the snow as his dick splits you open—half-dazed by the way he's looking at you now, as if he's still somehow in disbelief that you're in this position—that you're under him and you can still love him, that you've seen every side of him and you want more.

"This—fuck," he moans, his snow covered lashes flutter. "This never left my mind. You—never—"

You think you're drowning in him. You're certain you're drowning. He’s everywhere—the snowfall and the trees and the sky—surrounding you in an a world carved out of himself and you're met by the thought of how much it doesn't surprise you.

"Tom, oh, god, I don't—I need—"

"I know," he gasps. "I know, I know, I know—"

You moan and clench and think again how he's never sounded this broken. He's never sound this desperate. He's always been so stoic in every single god damn way and you think now, as he's buried in you and over you and all around you within the winter dreamland of his fucking creation—you think you finally understand that he knows he's broken.

"You have me." He says.

You think it's a promise, and you think it's a declaration. One he's never made with as much conviction behind his eyes as he had right then. You think you've never been this certain of anything in your entire life—that there's snowflakes on your lashes and clinging to your hair and he's never looked this beautiful and you've never been this sure of it when he says he's yours.

"I love you," your words broken on a moan as he slams deep, teeth digging into your shoulder. "I need to cum—Tom—fuck—"

"Say it again," he gasps, his voice rough and raw and guttural as he slips his hand down to your clit, fingers swirling over it. "Say it again, I need to hear you say it—"

Your hands grab at the snow and at his shoulders—you're not sure you're ever going to remember how to say anything else ever again—

"Tom—Tom, I love you, I love you, I love you—"

You can see the moment you say it that he breaks, and you love it—you love being the reason why, having some of the power over him for this one single second, seeing the look in his eyes that tells you he'll give you anything you ask for, no matter how much he's ever tried to deny it before, how much he's ever tried to be anything else to you but someone to love you back.

You say it again—I love you, I love you—and it's the only spell that's ever broken him.

He cums with your name in his mouth and you marvel at it because fucking hell he's different—like a man falling apart, like a man who's been holding back for so long it aches—you think this is the only piece of him that no one else in the whole world has ever seen or gotten to touch, and it's yours, all yours—so with that, you're cumming too, climax shattering the both of you at the same time, and it's a long moment before either of you move or breathe or blink. You just lay there connected until the clarity starts creeping in, and you realize this place is crafted by his subconscious.

"You can control your dreams," you finally whisper, after a long moment of nothing but the distant sound of snowfall and the occasional night creature. You're still breathless, still dizzy, your eyes still half-opened and unseeing as he's still buried inside of you, his hair tousled and still sticking with snowflakes.

He makes a sound that's half a laugh and half a gasp at that. Probably because he can’t believe, after everything that just happened, that that is the first thing you choose to say.

"I can." He says, slowly pulling out of you.

Now it's your turn to laugh. "And do you always lure girls to your dreams to have sex with them?"

"No," he murmurs, and you think it's a simple enough answer, before it's followed by a pause. "Just you, I suppose," he adds a beat later, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

You try and shove him off of you, but it's half-hearted—you've forgotten how to move your arms.

"Prat," you murmur, no real venom behind it, because you like his smirk, and you like the way he laughs. "So this is all...a product of your subconscious, then? You conjured me into it?”

"Yes and no." He says, and you feel him pull you closer to him, your body half draped over his as he stares up at the sky above you. "I'll explain when I come to you."

"And when will that be?" You ask, your head dropping against his shoulder, your eyes already fluttering in exhaustion.

"Soon," his lips find the top of your head. "As soon as I can."

You're drifting to sleep—you can feel it in the edges of your mind, but everything is blissfully quiet there, and you like the feel of his fingers in your hair.

"When you come, bring me a plant.”

He makes another sound that's half a laugh and half a chuckle at that, as if he's more fascinated by your request than anything.

"Any plant will do?" He asks.

"Preferably a flower." You manage to murmur as your eyes slip closed. "Something that can withstand winter. That will revive come spring."

You can hear the smile in his voice before you completely surrender to the sleep that overtakes you.

"You'll have it."

And you know, in between the edges of consciousness and sleep—that no one else has ever seen him this way, and no one else ever will. And that's the thought that you wake with, even when you find yourself alone, in your cabin, snow falling outside your window.

[quixotical-lymbo]

Pairing: D-16/Megatron x gn!Reader Rating: SFW Summary: After witnessing your conjunx endura descend into madness, you're left alone with your thoughts as the city of Iacon slowly begins to rebuild anew. However, your lover visits you the night he was banished from the city.  Warnings/Tags: Bittersweet, slight angst, cybertronian reader, pre-established relationship, possible corruption, ambiguous ending, and spoilers for the Transformers One movie.  Word Count: 1200+ words 

Something was wrong. 

You knew something was wrong when you felt something burst within your spark chamber. Your digits brushed against the space where your T-cog would be and…

You winced as the pain shot through the bond again. You could describe it as the feeling of sharp pieces of Energon flowing through your circuits. Hot and angry, then as somber as ice. 

Working in the Energon mines meant that danger could be lurking around the corner at any given moment. 

You understood this fact well, especially when working in the same crew as your sparkmate and his best friend. 

The rambunctious duo always had something going wrong for them as the cycles passed. Sometimes you ended up with the short end of the stick when you joined in on the 'fun.' On the other, you were watching from the sidelines as the two would get punished for their (mostly Orion's) schemes. The emotions shared through the bond were as warm as joy, slight pinches coming from D's annoyance, and the gentle touch of the love you two shared discreetly. 

 

So, why were you only sensing pain? 

What was happening to your lover? Was he safe? Did someone hurt him? Where was Pax while your conjunx endura's chaotic turmoil nearly made your optics teary? 

Where was he? 

Where was D-16? 

 

—--

Orion was shorter….the last time you interacted with him. 

Now? He easily towered over the crowd like a sore digit. You were beside yourself as your strained audials to listen to his words. 

Betrayal, Sentinel, Change. 

They were empowering, not quite heavy but it certainly stirred hope among the miners as they cheered. 

But, what of D-16? 

For a moment, Orion's optics met yours and confirmed your fears.

Something had happened to D-16. 

Here in the open for all of the citizens of Iacon to see was the fall of Sentinel Prime. His end? An impostor sharing the face of your mate who claimed the title of 'Megatron.' 

Who was this stranger with the face of your lover and why couldn't you feel him through the bond anymore? 

You remembered trying to tug at the bond, pulling and twisting to get something to react in response to your desperation. Your optics never strayed from the figure who stood above all of you. 

Yet, nothing came. Wait…

You could have sworn you saw 'Megatron's' optics scanning the crowd before they found their way to yours. 

Time slowed for the first time and you tried to search for anything, something in that stranger's optic for any presence of D-16. 

For a moment, the fiery glow of those optics dimmed. 

Then….

He turned away and never looked back in the direction where you stood again. 

Not even after Orion Pax, now Optimus Prime, banished him from Iacon. 

Your spark broke that day. 

Darkness covered the desolate area where most miners spend their nights in recharge. You stood before your conjunx endura berth, digits caressing the chipped stickers he had collected over time of his idol. The lights shining from your optics misted and you leaned closer to rest your forehelm on the space that once belonged to D-16. 

"____." A voice spoke from behind you.

You spun around and threw a punch, but the massive servo enveloping your servo stunned you. 

"D…?" You murmured in disbelief. 

'D-16' narrowed his optics and didn't respond when you pulled your servo out of his. 

"It's...Megatron now." 

"Right, right, sorry…I'm a little late on the new…this," You threw your hand up to gesture to his shiny, new frame. 

'Megatron' didn't appear amused at your sass and even drew closer to you. His steps felt daunting with each step he took as if the ground of the miners quarters would buckle beneath his weight. 

Backing up against the berth put into perspective how smaller you were compared to the mech. Megatron stepped closer and closed the distance between the two of you. He raised a servo near your faceplate, a low growl left his intake as you turned defiantly. 

 

"Did you not see why I had to do this? Why I had to become-" 

"-Ha!" You snorted and snapped your helm to look at him. "You mean when I tried 'seeing' you earlier? I'm pretty sure I wasn't the one who cut off their sparkmate from the bond  for no reason." 

"And another thing." You pushed against the edges of the berth and stepped forward with your chassis bumping against his. The larger mech could easily shove you back, but retreated as you approached. The silver mech mesmerized by the way your optics flickered into a darker shade only to snap out of it when you questioned him with, "Why did you return to me? Why now? I was certain you'd abandon me-" 

"-do you think so lowly of me as well?!" Megatron pushed back. His servo stretched to catch you when you stumbled, but dropped it when you flinched from his approaching touch. 

His servo was clenched as he drew it back to his side. Digits rubbed together to replace the lack of heat that usually came from your frame held under his grasp.

With a tilt of your helm, you asked, "I don't know anymore…one moment I'm happy spending the rest of my days with my sparkmate, but he disappears, and then returns as a power-hungry tyrant…what else am I supposed to think of you, D…no…Megatron?" 

Megatron did not speak, not that he knew how to. 

Silence fell upon the lovers, neither willing to break the tension. Not until now. 

"I came here…to see you," D-16 yielded. His soft voice easing the suspicion gnawing at you ever since he arrived, finally your frame went lax as his face became familiar. This was your conjunx endura, the one you bonded with and not whoever was there previously. 

"To ask if you'll join me, my love." 

"What?" You hissed. 

"Come with me," Megatron urged. "I have risked everything coming back here for you and I will not ask again." 

You brought a servo to your helm and felt a pit grow in your tanks. 

"Join me because I promise you…" Megatron leaned down to hold your gaze, "...the next time we see each other will be the end of us." 

"I…" You glanced at his servo that reached for you, most likely for the last time. Your optical ridges furrowed and Megatron's optics shimmered with delight as your servo fell over his. The larger servo enveloped the smaller one and pressed the palm of your servo against his spark chamber. Right over the area where Sentinel's previous cog was ripped out of him. 

The memory struck a chord in you. Becoming the thing to make you sober from the high of what this relationship could have been. Should have been. 

It could still happen, only if you said yes…but what fate would fall on Iacon if you joined the one bot desiring the destruction of the new era? 

Megatron watched the conflict swimming on your face, his thumb caressing the back of your servo as the other came up to settle on your waist. 

 

After a while, you gave him your answer. 

😼 - I do not give permission for anyone to translate, copy, republish, or plagiarize any of my written works. I provide no permission for any of my literary works to be used in artificial intelligence. banner(s) by @kodaswrld !!

[prael]

Respite

Kinktember Day 29: Ice Play

Fromis_9 Hayoung x male or female reader smut

words: 2,775 Kinktember Masterlist Happy Hayoung day!

The heat is one of those inevitable annoyances in life. We spend all of our existence looking for its antidotes. We live in air-conditioned buildings, fan ourselves, wear the lightest materials, consume iced treats, and immerse ourselves in pools or the sea. We often seem obsessed with the cold. Yet what do we seek with it, other than respite?

There are certain sensations to which our biology gives us very little protection: the scorching blaze of fire and the bone-chilling frost of ice. Some individuals may take pleasure from being subjected to extreme temperatures—such as burning candle wax or, in Hayoung's case, melting ice.

Sweat on her skin, droplets decorating every inch of her flesh in a glistening glow. They move ever so slightly as she breaths, and occasionally one may fall, running down her curves, sinking down her well-toned body until they trail off her body and onto the bed below her, soaking into the towel.

This is a rare occasion where an ice-cold touch will be both a respite and a source of pleasure.

You see Hayoung open her lips, to ask, "What are you going to do?"

"This." You slip an ice cube into your mouth and lower your lips to hers.

Hayoung accepts you, accepting the coolness you carry with your mouth, and your tongue tangles with hers in a brief dance. So quickly does the ice melt once her heat takes it, so quickly the cool touch vanishes as she warms her gift from you. You place another in your mouth, this time kissing the sides of her neck. Hayoung breathes a sigh of gentle relief.

You run your mouth over her neck, kissing and pressing the ice against her skin, the water expelled from your mouth and replaced with her sweat. You taste it on her skin; there's an effervescent tinge that stirs your desire in the back of your mouth. You run your mouth over the sensitive crook between her shoulders and her collarbone and she gasps, twitches, and shuffles slightly under you. You stay until the cube completely melts against her.

There's this hot, humid air that rises from her skin and threatens to engulf you.

"Does that feel good?"

She nods quickly, then eagerly accepts her next ice cube when you offer it on her tongue. You take another for yourself too, purse it in your lips and place them just below her chin. You drag it down her body, your head trailing behind as you leave a faint watery trail down her front, between her breasts. Hayoung lets out short pants as you pull your lips painfully slowly down her skin. Down between her abs. As you run out of ice, you allow the cool water to drain from your mouth and drizzle over her hot skin, letting it flow off her and hit the towel beneath her.

"That tickles," Hayoung laughs.

"Oh, does it?" You place another cube into your mouth and press it to the side of her neck. 

"Ah... Yeah, I like it." She gasps as it makes contact. This time you drag it down her again, but heading right towards the small mound of her breast. And the soft fleshy mound rises up with each breath, then sinks with every gasp in pleasure. When you finally arrive at her pink bud, she winces, and gently whines, yet allows you to carry on. You brush over her nipple a few times, back and forth while it starts to harden under your cold kiss. It grows perk and tender with a light redness.

Hayoung keeps smiling, laughing, every now and again looking down and watching you carefully rub your ice against her. Sometimes when you look up at her, the sight of her teeth buried into her wet lip fills you with a sense of hunger.

You work another one, in much the same way, starting by the other side of her neck. She moans a quiet sound of pleasure followed by a simple, "Yes." She squirms more and grips the sheets as the ice nears her other nipple.

"They're s-sensitive, you know," she stammers as you approach, almost apologetically, perhaps, she can't quite get her words out.

You make a few teasing brushes at the bud before finally closing your lips around it and taking it fully into the ice-cold depth of your mouth. Her reaction is immediate, she rolls her head back and clenches her body.

Then when you release her, it elicits a small whimper of loss.

You take one of her hands in yours, and with the ice cube in your mouth again, you start at her wrist, messily trailing ice-cold water across the skin. You reach her upper arm, then dip into her armpit—where it really tickles her. With your free hand, you delicately tweak at her nipple—the now freezing wet nub only adding to her arousal as you press on. Repeated licks of her armpit are enough to make her squirm, as she laughs out half-hearted pleads to stop.

You repeat it again, as you did before, to her other arm. Licking up sweat and replacing it with ice-cold kisses and tiny droplets of water. She tastes sweet and salty—her body worthy to feast on.

You stand and look over her. Her arms spread to the side and everything above her waist soaked in your kisses. She's still flush with heat, burning up, even after your cooling efforts. She seems to burn ever hotter, an inviting presence, and she lays, wet and glistening with trails of water following her contours and pooling under her. She pants softly.

You tease her, "You're wetter than the ice, right now, aren't you?"

Her smile widens and her eyes smile too, her embarrassment turning to eagerness, she bites her lip, "Mmmm," her confirmation is brief but deep and heavy with desire.

Her eyes follow you hungrily as you move back towards the side of the bed, and pick up a pair of cubes. You take them directly to her breasts, encircling her little nubs.

"How does that feel?" you ask softly, playing with them.

She bites her lip, exhales deeply, and struggles to give a tangible response.

You trail them down onto her abs and watch as they tense up under you. You feel her muscles tighten under your touch. Hayoung's breathing grows heavier in anticipation as you near her hips. And there's a smile she flashes you—knowing what she wants you to do, and knowing you have some intention of doing it.

You enjoy the way her tight little waist reacts to the change in temperature as she twists and arches herself up. Her smooth, well-trained curves, her naked body. When the cubes melt away to almost nothing, you trace wet fingertips over her v-line, teasing at the curve of her hips. 

More ice in your mouth, and a new target. "These feet must be so sore. Did you work them so hard today? Does it hurt?"

"So sore," she affirms. "I danced for hours."

You lift one of her legs, bringing her foot up to your mouth. And you run your tongue along its base, up, to her toes, and back down again. She whimpers softly and flexes her toes. You catch each of them, one by one in your mouth, and nurse them gently. "But you were amazing up there," you add.

Hayoung mumbles in embarrassment, hiding her face in her hand.

You let her rest the sole of her foot against your face, as you lick and kiss at her, soothing her tender soles and relaxing her muscles. Hayoung peeks through her fingers, "That tickles so much," she says with a quiet laugh. You massage the ice-cold water into her skin, massaging her muscles with firm, sweeping movements and she sighs a comfortable, pleasured sigh.

You kiss your way to her ankle—admiring the toned softness of her leg as you look down. You rest it on your shoulder and bring her other foot up to repeat the same actions. Caressing her sole with cold licks, massaging, and pressing them against your cheek. "Relaxed yet?"

"Mhm," she moans with a delightful approval.

After repeating the massage on her other foot, you set them on your shoulders, and with ice in each hand, you massage her legs with firm strokes. Up her thighs. Drinking up her deep exhales and moans as you travel further and further up, towards the end of her legs, where you take a pause at her inner thigh. The skin is delicate, soft and tender. And the heat that rises from it quickly melts the ice.

Hayoung knows where you want to go—where she wants you to go—so when she sets her legs back on the table, she spreads them wide. Her pussy is flushed and warm and looks so soft and inviting. She bites her finger while she waits for you. You leave her for a moment, going back to collect one more ice cube from the tray, returning to between her legs.

"You look so tasty. Do you want me to kiss it?"

She smiles at you, nodding.

"How many people were watching you today? You deserve a reward, don't you think?"

She nods again.

"So many people looking at these toned legs. These tight abs..."

She nods, her cheeks flushed with desire.

"Are you happy to have such a hot, sexy little body?"

She bites her lip. "Are you?"

There's a mutual smile between you as you lean in towards her. You hold your mouth just above her pussy and wait. Wait until a drop of icy water falls from it and lands between her lips.

"Ah." Her voice quivers as it hits her. She tries to spread herself as best she can for you, tilting her hips. You wait for more to fall onto her. Each droplet is followed by a small yelp and a series of squirms. Satisfied, you lean in to start just below her navel, trailing the ice cube towards her hips, making slow sweeping arcs in both directions as you tease her. Closer and closer you get to her pussy, which quivers and flexes each time you pass over the soft flesh just by its sides.

Finally, you plant your cube at the very top of her slit, letting it melt and pour down her sensitive opening. It runs over her and down between her cute little ass cheeks and into the towel below. She finally lets out a full, true moan of satisfaction—like she's been waiting forever. She wriggles her hips up and down, enjoying the sensation.

"Your moans are so cute," you tell her, planting your lips on the inside of her thigh.

You can't hold her off anymore, the pleading desperation in her whines, the writhing of her hips, so you take another cube, and this time plant your lips right over her swollen, hot clit. Hayoung winces and nearly leaps, lifting her legs and hooking her ankles around your back, holding you tight, forcing you to accept her, as though she didn't want to give up the source of her pleasure.

The cube quickly melts into her sensitive nub, she squeezes and quivers under the sensation. "It's so cold and... mmm!" Her sounds, her cries, the desperate heaving of her chest, the hotness that flows between her legs.

It's made her so sensitive that she reacts instantly to every movement of your mouth, even the slightest change in pressure. Cold licks to her pussy have her mewling and arching her back. She clutches the bed tightly, almost in pain—the most pleasurable pain you've ever given her.

Your jaw grows sore, but it's okay—she doesn't last much longer after that.

"I'm... ah! I'm..." You can feel her energy rising inside. Rising. Pushing back against you.

She thrashes her head from one side to the other, clenches her legs and twists her ankles, her stomach heaving, her skin abuzz with little sparks of electricity, the salty sweetness of her arousal runs freely as she erupts.

And she clings to you, clenches her thighs around your head, tight, tight, tighter as waves of bliss rise through her. It washes over her body, sweeping every muscle with pulses of ecstasy, her mouth lets out a glorious, freeing cry. Hot liquid pours from her pussy and over your chin, sweet and tantalizing, as you bathe her in kisses, suck and tease her sweetly sensitive nub, savouring the flavour of her excitement, even as she grows more and more overstimulated. Until the pulses fade and she relaxes—too spent to hang on.

You pry her thighs from your head and stand to see her fully as your eyes drink her in—how beautiful. She breathes deeply, smiling, staring upwards. She gives herself time to come down, panting hard and melting back down to earth.

She's barely having a moment to recover and you're already placing more ice in your mouth and holding some in your hand. You take your mouth to her nipple once again—taking her by surprise. She reacts weakly, laughing as you work on her.

When you put your hand between her legs and touch ice to her clit a second time, she lets out a quick scream of shock and then twitches and writhes. A delicious look of surprise and amusement mixed in her smile and voice. "So soon?"

You respond by rubbing the ice against her pussy, dragging it up and down. Over her hole then back to her clit. Back and forth, up, down. Hayoung arches herself and tries to pull away—but not because she doesn't want it. Because it's overwhelming, but so enjoyable, that her nerves struggle to keep up. She finds it difficult to speak, struggling for air. And she turns into an erotic little mess under your touch.

You kiss her breasts as you start to work your fingers harder against her, and her entire body starts to rock up and down with the motions. She reaches out, digging her fingers into your hair and drawing your face against her breast. "Yes! Please!" She moans. And so you keep at it, you kiss her and tease her and take advantage of how sensitive and weak her body is. You allow her pleasure to bloom out over her—blossoming bright and colourful.

By now, the ice has melted entirely, and you focus entirely on stimulating her clit with your fingers—quick, urgent circles. Just the way you know she likes it.

Again you can feel her build up her energy, rising high, above the horizon and preparing to unleash a cascade. You bite her gently and work your fingers so quickly, that all she can do is emit a guttural moan of desire, so overcome with pleasure she cannot properly vocalise anything more.

When the dam of her lust breaks and she's sent floating down the river, it's only your name that she manages to cry.

Hayoung cums so hard that her body seizes up entirely. Fiery tingles sweep over her limbs. Waves crash down within, sending her reeling, eyes closed, open-mouthed and moaning long and low. She grips tightly into your hair while pleasure pulsates within. The sound of her bliss echoes between the walls of the room. Finally, her pleasure drains away. Her voice fades out and her body goes slack.

You try to lift yourself up to observe the fruit of your labour—but she holds you close.

"Oh god. Wait. A minute," she forces the words from her lips. "Just... don't move."

As Hayoung drifts through her post-orgasmic haze, you feel her heartbeat through her bare, sweat-kissed skin. It slows as she relaxes. Her chest rises with every breath, and she flutters her eyes to try and fix the world before her. There's an easy smile that comes so naturally, and she has to breathe several times before the words, "That was perfect," can come.

You might not have actually cooled her down some, but relief came in a different form. A beautiful form.

"It's okay," you tell her. "Just lie down and rest. I can get the shower ready."

She agrees without a word.

You take a moment to bask in the sight of her before you step away. She glows in post-orgasmic bliss. Her slender naked body is bare in all its beautiful, wet glory. This gorgeous, ethereal goddess, this divine human, who graces us, who we, by some luck are fortunate to live among—to watch on the TV, to listen to on the radio, to watch perform and give her life to the dance. And you, by some greater luck, are fortunate to make her feel the deepest of pleasures.

[clock-corpse]

"Hmph. Back in my day, all I had to do was block out the sun to get Reimu's attention. Crashing the housing market? Whatever happened to putting lives in danger? These incidents are so weak."

[toournextadventure]

when you love it pt.2

Summary: Learning to accept yourself again is a hard task. Thankfully, you've got two lovely Outcasts to help you

Word Count: 5.4k Warnings: swearing, talk of blood, typical vampire violence Pairing: Wenclair x Reader (part 1) A/N: Surprise, this is not the last part, there will be one more. So sorry but... it gets better

“Have you ever eaten somebody?”

Ah, there they were. The Little Bane of your existence, as you had come to endearingly call them over the last few months. A menace at best, the little wolf had, for some unknown reason, made it a point to attach themself to your hip. Even on the full moon, the pup would sniff you out and remain with you until they turned back into the headache they truly were.

Admirable.

“Why do you ask?” You asked without looking down to meet their eyes. The eyes of an Addams, you thought.

“Mother said people go insane after eating human flesh,” the child said. “I’m trying to collect evidence to prove her wrong.”

The question was pure Addams.

“I believe it’s only if they eat the brain matter of a human,” you said, finally looking down.

“So you have then?” They asked. “Eaten someone?”

“What do you think?” You asked.

Their head tilted just like Enid's as they thought of an answer. After all this time, you were still finding more and more similarities between them and their mothers. It was almost comical. The toothy grin, the troublesome look in their eyes. A perfect mix of two perfect women.

“No,” they finally said. “I don’t think you have.”

You smiled, showing your fangs. “Correct.”

You both looked back out toward the scenery in front of the cabin. Winter was always the most beautiful time, if anyone asked your opinion. The snow coated the trees in the finest powder, creating an almost constant appearance of fresh snowfall. To the back of the cabin was a lake that froze over so thoroughly, you could skate for hours and never fall through.

Though falling through was always an adventure of its own, you would admit.

Perhaps you could get Enid to skate with you again. Oh, wouldn’t that be grand? It had been ages since you had last danced together upon the shimmering ice. The amount of trust that came with such an act… would you be able to skate as before? Could she put her life in your hands once again?

You deflated; you wouldn’t blame her if she couldn’t.

“Have you ever had blood from someone you know?”

Each cell in your dead body froze.

Teeth ripping through flesh. You could hear the blood pumping from the wounds, pouring out over your hands as you tried desperately to stop the flow. Your own blood cascaded down your throat, erasing any satisfaction you had previously received.

You could still smell the blood. It made your mouth water.

You still wanted more.

“What do you think?” You asked, looking back down at them.

They didn’t look away in contemplation. No, they kept their eyes locked with yours. It was uncomfortable. They had Wednesday’s stunning brown eyes. Eyes you had stared into night after night before watching the light slowly fade from one mistake. Just one.

“Yes,” they said.

“Aunt Yoko’s here!” One of the other children yelled from the house.

You looked back out to the scenery before your Little Bane ran off to join the others.

“Correct,” you mumbled with a sigh.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the feel of her blood falling down your throat. The heat that pooled in your chest and had your dead heart wishing to beat. Each inch of scar tissue embedded in your skin ached at the memory. She’s just inside, your Instincts whispered. Just a sip.

Your lip caught on your fang as you snarled at the thought. An animalistic sound; pathetic. But the sound made you feel as if you could quiet the Instincts. You would not drink from her again. Had it learned nothing from the last time? There was blood in the fridge, you would survive just fine.

Heavy footsteps came up behind you.

“Aunt Yoko wants to speak with you,” your Little Bane said.

You exhaled slowly and nodded to yourself. Of course she would. She had never truly been your biggest fan. Vampires don’t trust other vampires, she had said, if you remembered correctly. Which you did. Her Instincts may have dulled over the generations, but her intelligence remained as sharp as ever.

“Lead the way,” you said.

Your Little Bane’s lip caught on their canine, so reminiscent of Enid you wanted to laugh. At times, the child was pure Addams. Every cell of their being practically screamed it. Yet, at moments like this, you were reminded that Enid was also an Addams in her own right. And that child, though outwardly appearing as Wednesday, was Enid’s little copy.

In the past, Yoko Tanaka had never intimidated you. After all, why would she? Her family had gone soft, adamantly refusing to drink from a source regardless of its humanity; or lack thereof. There had been a few instances during your college years where she had debated your own family beliefs, questioning the primality of it all. And it was, you wouldn’t deny it. Drinking from the source was what your ancestors had done, and the Instinct continued to flow through your veins whether you liked it or not.

You had silently agreed with her, though you would never let her know.

Now, however? After what Enid had jokingly titled The Beatdown - which neither you nor Wednesday found very humorous, but if that was how she coped then who were you to deny her such a trivial thing - Yoko terrified you. And given how she was looking at you as you walked closer…

She was aware of it.

“Tanaka,” you said with a polite nod and smile.

Her arms crossed tighter over her chest.

“In the car, pup,” she said in a tone that contradicted her body language.

“Aunt Div is in my spot,” they said without hesitation.

The immediate change in Yoko’s body was comical. She turned to look into the car where Divina - with whom you shared no ill will, though you knew it was no mutual feeling - was sitting in the front passenger seat. Her head was facing the back of the car where she was, supposedly, talking with the other Addams children.

Yoko rapped her knuckles against the window. “You’re being displaced, babe,” she called out.

Divina’s shoulders slumped, but she promptly unbuckled her sit and got out of the car. The look she gave you was anything but polite as she slid into the middle seat, pushing one of the children into the back. They were all laughing and smiling; truly Enid’s children.

“Good luck,” your Little Bane said to you.

“Thank you,” you mumbled back as they climbed into the car and shut the door, leaving you alone with Yoko.

How enjoyably torturous.

“Hello, Tanaka-”

“-Cut the bullshit,” she interrupted. Straight to the point as always. “No one wants you around them.” Her finger jabbed into your chest. “No one trusts you around them.”

“I understand,” you said.

“No, I don’t think you do.”

A wet gasp-

-snarling-

-relief-

-pain-

“I very much do,” you mumbled.

“I should rip your heart out now and eliminate any chance of the past repeating itself,” she said. Silence hung thick between you before she pulled her arms back to her body. “But I won’t, because Enid would cry and Wednesday would bury me six feet under.”

“This is my house, Tanaka,” you said. “I am more than prepared.”

“You’d better be,” she said as she started moving at a glacial pace toward the driver’s side of the car. “Because I’ll kill you and curse your entire line if you touch a hair on either of their heads.”

The threat was enough to have you shiver. Oh, if you failed and your family was cursed? They would never forgive you. They would start hunting you for sport, and it would be no less than you deserved.

Yoko stopped before opening her door.

“Not that I’ll need to,” she said. “You’re proof Enid can do it herself.”

Her words bounced around your skull as the car finally pulled away, taking all the Addams children with it. A part of you was almost… disappointed. You had grown to tolerate them over the past few months. They were rather enjoyable at times even, constantly inviting you for games. Or movies, once games had quickly become outlawed due to the… unruliness.

“I wish I had gotten another goodbye hug,” Enid said, appearing beside you seemingly out of nowhere.

You should have been able to smell her approach. Wolves were… not the most pleasant. Not horrific, simply not as appealing as humans. She had asked you to describe it once, what the difference was between her and Wednesday. Like a Christmas candle during the heat of summer, you had explained. So not like in Twilight? She had teased.

She’s my Christmas candle, you thought with a smile.

“It’s only for a weekend,” you told her. Her eyes sparkled. “Then you can have hello hugs instead.”

Her smile could have illuminated the world. “I do like hello hugs.”

“Come inside,” you said with a gesture toward the cabin, “I believe it’s going to snow.”

Enid’s joyful disposition had never waned over time. If anything, she almost seemed more joyous and carefree. Something lightened its load on your chest at the observation. You hadn’t ruined her outlook on life. She was, for all intents and purposes, outwardly okay.

A werewolf was across the room, hovering over Wednesday even as it transformed back into a person. Back into Enid. Her bare skin was shredded.

Wednesday was precisely where you had left her earlier; sitting in your small library, a book in hand and a cup of tea on the table. It was one of your more obscure books, having come from your long line of ancestors. In other words, from some murderous Frenchman’s basement. The pages were probably stained with blood.

“I had almost forgotten the joy of silence,” she said as Enid practically fell into her lap. With practised ease, she made way for her wolf without taking her eyes away from the book.

“It’s too quiet,” Enid said with a sigh.

You walked over to the record player you kept in the corner of the room as your married women talked silently amongst themselves. It was endearing to hear them talk of their young. To talk as if they truly loved them. What was that like, you wondered? To care for your young in such a deep, conditionless way?

Cold fingers ran against the thin spines of records in their cases, unsure of where to stop. Would they have ever had children if you had stayed with them? Younglings had never been in your future; you wouldn’t dare bring a child into your bloodline. But they seemed so very happy and content with their choices in life. Perhaps it was going to happen for them regardless.

Without looking, you picked a record out of its case and gently placed it on the player. Could you be trusted around their whelps? The children themselves seemed unconcerned, but what about Enid and Wednesday? Would they trust you? You weren’t even sure if you wanted them to trust you. Children were creatures you had yet to conquer.

You had attacked them. Both of them. The women you loved. They were bleeding out. Because of you.

The beautiful sounds of jazz fell from the record playing, encasing the room in a warmth that had previously been absent. Deep down you knew it wasn’t the music that made the house feel correct. But things were still new - again. You weren’t ready to make that admittance just yet.

“What are the plans for this weekend?” Enid asked when you sat in the second chair in the room. Only a small round end table was situated between you and your girls. Could… you still call them that?

“We should enjoy the silence while we can,” Wednesday said.

Enid huffed. “You know they aren’t that bad, Willa.”

They continued to bicker - lovingly, of course - while you just sat and watched. Unlike the soiree those few months ago, they were far more relaxed. Casual even, if you had to put a word on it.  Enid was bundled in warm clothes - funny, considering she ran hot - and Wednesday was in a simple black sweater and leggings.

Everything about them in that moment reminded you of college. When you would all relax in the evenings. You were usually stuck with your nose in a book, terrified you wouldn’t manage to pass your classes, let alone the bar exam. But you could never properly focus because Enid and Wednesday were always around, bickering like an old married couple even from the very beginning.

Would you ever have that relationship with them again? Simply existing with them without fear of injury or betrayal. Whether it was just you or all of you, there was tension so thick in the air it was suffocating. You didn’t want to keep a tense, cordial relationship with them. Though, it did no good to dwell on the fact. You would respect their wishes until your dying breath.

Something warm grabbed your hand. Something with claws that pressed deep into the palm of your hand. There would be indentations left behind. If she didn’t ease up, perhaps a spot or two of blood. With you, she had never learned to manage her strength; there was no real need.

You never minded.

“What do you normally do?” Enid asked.

You exhaled slowly. “I sit here, listen to jazz, and work.”

“Both of you are so boring,” Enid groaned. “It’s our one full weekend without the kids,” she continued. “We can’t waste it by working.”

“I’m not working,” Wednesday said as she placed the book down on the table and looked at her wife with the softest of smiles. “I’m reading.”

The way they looked at each other was mesmerising. It was pure, unadulterated love. You hadn’t known either of them back when Wednesday was - as Enid so endearingly described - emotionally stunted. You two hadn’t been as outwardly romantic as Enid - she set the bar rather high - but you would’ve never considered her stunted. Especially now, watching the way she looked at her wife.

“We should do something,” Enid said. Her hand squeezed yours; her nails pricked your skin. “All of us.”

“All of us, you say?” You inquired. She glared at you.

“What a scandal,” Wednesday chimed in.

“I forgot how annoying you both are,” Enid mumbled to herself with no attempt to hide her little smile.

Her smile. The thing you had looked forward to seeing every morning before everything had crashed down around you. Even on the worst of days, you knew her smile would be enough to fix everything. Just the same as you hoped you could have fixed everything for her.

Until you couldn’t.

Outside, you could hear the snow starting to fall.

“What is there to do around the cabin?” Wednesday asked; her eyes never left Enid’s. “So our winter wolf doesn’t get too antsy?”

Another squeeze of your hand, digging the sharp, colourful nails deeper.

“Well,” you drew out the word as you thought. “There’s a frozen lake down the path.” Enid’s ears perked up slightly. “Or the town over usually has a winter market around this time.”

That was what did it. At the mention of a market, Enid practically jumped up from Wednesday’s lap. You kept your eyes on her even as you saw Wednesday smile out of your periphery. Her hands clasped together and she looked between the both of you with an excitement you hadn’t seen from her since before that night.

“Grab your winter coats, we’re going to the market!” She proclaimed excitedly.

You looked over at Wednesday with a raised brow but didn’t bother stopping your smile. She smiled back; anything for your wolf.

—---

It had only been a year or two since you had last attended the market and, as such, everyone still remembered you. As such, it was a little more complicated to get through everything than you had initially thought. With everyone stopping you to talk and catch up, you felt like you were holding Enid and Wednesday back as opposed to letting them have their fun.

The sweet older lady who ran the flower shop was still talking to you when you saw Enid walking off, leaving Wednesday to sidle up beside you. Had she done that on purpose? Clearly, she hadn’t just abandoned Wednesday, right? Not in your care, at least. None of you had trusted you two alone just yet.

Even though it hurt, it was a necessary precaution.

Finally, after what had probably been an hour of conversation with the sweet flower lady, you managed to separate with a polite goodbye and a promise to stop by next time you were in town. Whether she knew of your… infliction or not, you had no clue. It didn’t matter. At least she was kind.

“Where did our pup run off to?” You asked as Wednesday all but led you through the market.

“She saw some hot cider,” Wednesday said softly, stopping at one of the little booths. “She can never turn down a sweet treat.”

“Oh, I remember. We spent far too much money on her sweet treats,” you grumbled.

If you had kept track, you would have been horrified at how much both you and Wednesday spent on Enid. It hadn’t been with the intent to brag, or show off, you just wanted her to have everything she wished. Most of the time, that included drinks and sweet treats. And you were nothing if not eager to please.

“At least it’s not chocolate,” Wednesday said in a voice so soft, you wouldn’t have imagined it had actually come from her.

She was looking down at some of the trinkets at the table. They were brilliantly made, and you smiled politely at the woman in charge before standing behind Wednesday. Over her shoulder, you could see it wasn’t particularly anything interesting. Not to her.

Her body tensed up when you brushed against her. This close, you could hear the blood coursing through her veins. It was enticing. More than enticing. Your fingers twitched with the very thought of tasting something so delectable once again. Pain pricked at the inside of your lips as you re-positioned your fangs. It would be a simple thing.

The scars on her neck looked angry; they held shame not even thousands of years of instinct could fight. You had done that to her. You had nearly killed her. She was deathly still as you lifted a shaking hand to lift the collar of her coat, hiding the guilt you could never erase.

“You look cold,” you said softly, pulling your hands back to clasp them behind your back.

You both knew you were lying.

“I’m quite warm, actually,” she said. “I figured you could tell.”

You swallowed loudly. It didn’t ease the ache that was growing in the back of your throat. If anything, it made it worse. Each time she breathed, you could see the pulse in her veins. Enid wasn’t around. Surely you could handle it this time, you were far more mature this go around.

“I still believe I was correct,” she said.

Your head tilted to the side. Correct about what?

“Your fears of being a monster are unwarranted,” she said as she gripped the blade tighter. “You wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Right.

“We must remember that night very differently,” you said as you looked up; there was a mirror in front of you. She couldn’t see you, but you could very well see her. “I remember proving you wrong.”

You weren’t prepared for her to lean back into you. To be touching you after so long. She was cold; not from the snow starting to fall. And as ridiculous as it sounded, she felt like she trusted you. Did she? After you had very nearly killed her, could she trust you?

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said softly as she pulled your arms to wrap around her waist.

“My dear,” you whispered into her ear, “I very much did hurt you.”

“Yet I’m still here.”

You barely held back a laugh. “All that means is Enid kicked my ass.”

“And I would do it again.”

Part of you urged you to pull apart from Wednesday, like you had just been caught doing something you shouldn’t have. There was nothing wrong with holding her again; hell, your girls had practically encouraged it. But the last time Enid had seen you both together was… not pretty.

Wednesday was bleeding out from more than one bite mark.

“What are we talking about?” Enid asked after she practically squeezed herself directly in between you and Wednesday.

“Your sweet treats,” Wednesday said effortlessly. “Is it worth it?”

She wrapped her hands around the paper cup and shrugged her shoulders high. “Always.”

“I think there’s some chocolate covered strawberries a few booths away,” you said while Enid continued to shimmy her way into more warmth. “White and dark chocolate.” Both women’s eyes lit up. “My treat.”

Wednesday looked at you with soft eyes. A look she hadn’t given you since… it was nice. Without uttering a single word, you were left with a warmth in your chest that your dead heart could never replicate.

“Lead the way,” she said softly.

—---

For reasons unknown to you or Wednesday, Enid was still freezing hours after getting back to the cabin. Hot tea had been made. And remade. And remade again. Then you had finally given in and lit the fireplace, as well as setting up a pallet on the floor in front of it so she could curl up and try to warm her fur.

And she was still shivering.

“Cara mia, please.” Wednesday’s voice carried from the living room to the kitchen. “Will nothing ease your cold?”

Enid hummed. “I know something that could warm me up.”

Her quiet giggle was all you needed to hear to know what she was implying. Your darling pup was the most insatiable creature you had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Perhaps that was why she seemed to fit so well with two other partners; it would take at least two to keep her satisfied.

Outside, the front porch creaked. If you hadn’t already been accustomed to the sound, you would have brushed it off as wind. After all, it was still snowing steadily outside. But it wasn’t the sound of snow falling onto the porch. No, it was something else. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

In the living room, you could still hear the soft sounds of Enid and Wednesday enjoying their time together. As you passed, you could vaguely see them on the pallet in front of the fireplace. Every aspect of it reminded you of your times in university, each living your own lives, yet doing it together. Perhaps you could get back to that again. Surely their children wouldn’t mind another… parent? Hmm, that wasn’t quite right, you could figure it out-

“-Hello, bon ami.”

If you hadn’t been frozen in place, you would have slammed the door in his face. What the hell was he doing? In your home? No, he wasn’t supposed to be there. He was supposed to be back home, hunting humans for sport like everyone else. He knew better.

“You gonna let me in?” He asked in his thick accent that charmed some and repulsed others.

“Go home, Bas,” you said quietly.

“Why? You got company?” He inhaled deeply. “Oh, I’m a’comin’ in.”

He pushed his way past you into the cabin. If your mind hadn’t felt like mush, you would have had the good sense to stop him. Or at least to have warned Enid and Wednesday. But no, you were simply stuck wondering how he had even found you in the first place.

“I smell a rougarou.” His smile was sadistic and his fangs were sharp. Lethal. “What if Daddy found out, huh?”

“How about some tea?” You asked, gesturing to the kitchen.

He tilted his head to the side and looked at you. Just looked. Was that what Wednesday had seen in you that night? No, surely you had been more vicious. Nothing curious about you, that was for sure.

“Got some of that boudin left?” He asked.

You nodded once.

“Lead the way.”

He continued to look around as you did your best to lead him as far away from your girls as possible. If he wanted to make a pop-in visit, fine. But you weren’t going to let him torment everyone else in the cabin. He could have a cup of tea, some boudin, and be on his way back home.

“Make it the good way?” He asked as he practically fell into one of the chairs at the table. “I’d hate to have to help myself in this house of yours.”

Without waiting for him to finish, you tossed a bag of blood onto the table. It slid across the smooth wood until stopping directly in front of him. He didn’t even look down, just kept his cold eyes glued to yours.

“Keep your teeth to yourself,” you said.

He laughed while you turned back to the stove. The sooner you got the tea going and could get him fed, the sooner he would leave. That was all you really wanted. Things were going well, and Enid and Wednesday were in good moods. You didn’t need him to ruin it.

The stove lit with a single spark, and you gently placed the kettle on top. It would still take a minute to boil, and you had it all planned out. You would grab the blood and boudin from the fridge. Put the food in the oven, make the tea, and get him fed and out of your house.

But you should have known better.

“I smell meat,” Enid said as she practically skipped into the kitchen.

And stopped short when she saw someone at the table.

“Oh, couyon,” he said with a smile toward you once Wednesday walked in. “You naughty thing, you.”

You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest. Wednesday was looking at you with her “explain Or Else” look. Something you hadn’t minded before, but now? Now it made your skin crawl. Like spiderwebs caught on every inch of your body, and you couldn’t get them off.

The pan slid smoothly into the oven, and you started the timer.

“This is Bastien,” you said with a lazy gesture toward the parasite at the end of the table. “My brother.”

“Baby brother,” he corrected quickly. “And you two must be the delectable little snacks.”

“Told you to keep your teeth to yourself,” you said with a raised brow. You quickly looked at Enid with far softer eyes. “Food will just be a few more minutes.” Then to Wednesday. “I’m making tea.”

Carefully, slowly, both Enid and Wednesday sat down at the table. Across from each other, but not near Bastien. The whole time, he watched them like a predator. Biding his time, the way he had been taught. You met his eyes.

His gaze towards your girls turned softer.

“So,” Bastien said as you turned back to the stove and grabbed the kettle. “Which one of you gave my sweet sibling all those scars?”

You poured some blood into the bottom of two mugs.

“I did,” Enid said. “So don’t try anything or you’ll have some to match.”

Bastien howled; a deep, obnoxious belly laugh. It… was nice to hear. As much as you didn’t want him there, he was your brother. Baby brother, as he constantly reminded you. There was comfort in the sound of his laugh; there always had been.

“That’s good, I like that,” he said, still failing to keep his laughter in check. “So that means your witch was the blood bag.”

You practically slammed the mug onto the table in front of Bastien. He looked up at you again, tilting his head to the side. It reminded you of Enid. He reminded you too much of Enid. No, you weren’t going to be phased. You knew the vampire charm; you wouldn’t fall for it.

“Serve yourself,” you demanded.

“Come on, cher,” he said as you proceeded to pour tea into Wednesday’s and Enid’s mugs. “I’m just askin’ if that’s what you almost died for.” You set the teapot on the table and walked back to the oven. “Simple curiosity.”

“Almost died?” Enid asked.

You didn’t turn around.

“The scars didn’t give it away?” Bastien asked.

You grabbed the kitchen counter.

“How did you know?” Wednesday asked.

He started talking, but you couldn’t hear him. You didn’t have to. The entire night was engraved into every fold of your brain, etched into the walls of your skull. No amount of alcohol, or nicotine, or blood, or the occasional line would erase. It stayed there, taunting you. Teasing you.

Blood pumped in your ears. It was loud, but not loud enough to ease the growls and screams that were bouncing off your skull. The trees soared past you. Each step of your foot was jarring as it practically bounced off the hard ground.

Wednesday’s blood still coated your lips.

The pain in your throat was harsh; it wouldn’t heal fast enough to ease the ache. Miles and miles flew by without you ever noticing. The sun rose, then set, then rose, and finally set again. Each new day was a blur. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

You hoped Enid was okay.

And Wednesday was alive.

Oh. The thought of Wednesday, lying there with your teeth marks in her flesh. Blood pooling around her; her life pooling around her. All because of you. Because of you. You killed her. You killed one of the loves of your life.

Panting breaths came faster. You killed her. Everything slowly came to a stop. The bark was rough under your fingers as you leaned against a tree to stay upright. Around you, the bugs from the bayou were loud in your ears. Still not louder than the fight.

You killed her.

Possibly killed Enid as well.

You killed them both.

Something scratched against the soft tissue inside your throat. It grew and grew until you couldn’t tell where your exterior wounds ended and the interior ones began. Only when you inhaled deeply did you discover the cause.

“What you screamin’ for, cher?” Daddy said, appearing out of thin air. Or directly in front of you. You didn’t know. “Thought you were up at that fancy university of yours.”

“Looks like you brawled with a hunter, little monster,” Bastien said. “Did you at least get a snack out of it?”

A snack.

Wednesday.

You leaned over and expelled every bit of blood you had gotten into your body. It didn’t make you feel any better. If anything, it only exacerbated the sharp pain in your chest to see just how much you had taken from her. From your girl. Your Wednesday.

A chunk of the countertop broke off in your hand. The kitchen went silent. You blinked slowly before looking down. It wouldn’t be an easy fix. But you could do it, it would just take a weekend or two. Hopefully you wouldn’t have to replace the entire counter.

“Boudin’s burnin’, cher,” Bastien said softly from beside you. When had he gotten there? “Go sit down, I got it.”

Niceties would get him nowhere. And yet, you still went and sat at the table between Enid and Wednesday. They were looking at you, you could feel it. But you couldn’t take your eyes away from the scar on Wednesday’s hand.

The scars you had caused.

You killed her.

“I know I asked for dinner,” Bastien said, “but I think I should head out for the night.” His hand rested on your shoulder; it was cold and soft. “It was nice meeting you both.”

He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. His lips - much like you believed of your own - were cold. It wasn’t long before he pulled away. His footsteps were loud against the wooden floor, slowly getting softer and softer until the door opened and clicked shut.

Leaving you alone with your two girls.

Your two girls you nearly killed.

A monster.

[dear-ao3]

hey wait im also new to f1 but i saw the other ask and i was curious abt what you meant when you said no one will ever do it like nico rosberg?? also retiring after your first championship win is insane lmao what a power move

nico rosberg is just. he’s insane. he’s cunty. he’s wonderful. he possesses sass and audacity unlike any other. we unfortunately do not have time to get into his whole story (my lunch break is only so long) but here’s some highlights:

-technically he’s a nepo baby. his dad, keke rosberg, won the world championship in 1982 and they remain one of the Few father son duos to both win a world championship (don’t ask me who the others are idk but i know they exist)

-he and lewis hamilton met when they were kids in the late 90s sometime and were gokarting teammates at some point in i think the early 2000s? (not fact checking i don’t have the time rn) and they were Besties. they’ve talked about this before, mostly in older interviews, but the gist is that both of them were outcasts from the other karting kid in opposite ways (nico was the son of a champion and rich and lewis was from nothing and pretty much the only poc most of the time) and that drew them together and they were Menaces according to legend. everything was a competition and they trashed hotel rooms and ate pizza and ice cream and kellogg frosties and went to greece and dreamed of being in f1 together

-nico signed with williams in 2006. his teammate was mark webber. and nico had long flowing blonde hair (this is important). he crashed at one race and mark webber said “britney’s in the wall” cementing the nickname britney, like britney spears. jenson button (another driver) said later on that they called nico britney because he was “very pretty” (do with that what you will)

-he was just. insane. cunty. constantly looked like a european bond villain. wore god awful shoes. whole bit. once he stayed in his car when it got craned off the track cause he didn’t want his hair to get wet. which is insane cause he’s wearing a helmet it would have gotten equally as not wet had he gotten out.

-anyway, lewis made it to f1 in 2007 and they had their first podium together i think that year (?) and it’s cute and fun and oh boy you’re not ready for what these two have coming

-lewis won the championship in 2008 (but he almost won in 2007, his rookie year) at mclaren.

-nico went to mercedes when they recentered the grid in 2010. his teammate was michael schumacher, who was fresh out of retirement. (yes the michael schumacher, 7x world champion). michael fucked with nico endlessly according to legend, including making him piss in a bucket pre race because he would hog the bathroom until the last possible second. nico still out preformed him most of the time, and the car was mid as hell.

-michael retired part 2 at the end of 2012. and who replaced him but lewis hamilton

-so the two of them were teammates again. the cards were absolute Stacked against them. because yes they were besties yes they’d known eachother forever but the first person you’re judged against is your teammate. and you’re trying to beat your teammate. and lewis already had a championship. nico wanted a championship.

-2013 was relatively chill. the car was kinda mid. they did well but not fantastic and did some fuck ass pr (highly reccomend looking those videos up)

-2014 they had a car that could win. and they started fighting eachother for wins. they played all kinds of mind games against eachother and withheld stats and nico ran illegal engine modes (supposedly) and lewis said they were no longer friends after nico supposedly wrecked his monaco qualifying one year but they claimed they still supported eachother and were friends off track. lewis won in 2014 and in 2015. but nico was right behind him and he wanted to win a championship, he didn’t want to be a number 2 driver

-so in 2016 nico did some insane shit. he stopped sleeping with his wife so that he could get better sleep or something, he did weird things to cut weight, he basically did everything and then some to win. and then he did. he won the championship and then at the prize giving ceremony announced he was retiring. he didn’t tell lewis this.

more after i get off work :)

[niki-phoria]

NOT EVEN THE GODS ABOVE CAN SEPARATE THE TWO OF US

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: hurt comfort word count: 731

notes: set in the re4 castle, leon cries (kinda), reader cries, not proofread so pls forgive any mistakes !!

summary: leon can't bare the thought of losing you for a second. so what happens when you disappear for four hours in a haunted, monster-filled castle?

four hours. it’s been four hours since leon found himself in this hellhole. four hours of mindlessly wandering through seemingly endless corridors of concrete and stone. four hours of agonizingly tracing and retracing a maze filled with monsters. it almost reminds him of the haunted houses you’d drag him to, all too eager to bring him along to experience some fake scares for once. 

it’s been four hours since he lost you. 

an unrelenting chill blows past him again, causing goosebumps to arise along his exposed forearms. monsters don’t care about the cold, he supposes, though it would be nice to have his jacket. with his adrenaline slowly wearing off with each step he finds himself more and more susceptible to the unrelentingly cold castle. 

studying the monotone bricks ahead, leon’s mind wanders. he’s distracted. you shouldn’t have even been on the island, much less this close to whatever monstrosities linger far too close for comfort. what if you’re hurt? what if those monsters have somehow gotten to you. what if… the worst has already happened?

leon sighs. his eyes flutter closed for a second as he sends a silent prayer to a god he isn’t sure he ever really believed in. please be okay. if anything happens… take me instead. please be okay.

his heart leaps when he notices a soft scuffle. it’s nearby. something - or maybe someone - is in the darkness. leon’s hand instinctively draws to his knife. his fingers dig into the handle as he grips the blade tightly against his side. ready. 

he moves like an animal. a predator - ready to strike at any moment. the stone bricks behind him are ice cold as he presses his back against the wall, silently waiting for his prey. 

there’s another step. then another. and then -

“y/n?” he can almost feel his heart cease its beating in his chest. he blinks once. twice. like you’ll disappear in the milliseconds it takes for him to open his eyes again. his knife clatters to the ground in his shock. leon’s fingernails dig into the thick fabric of his gloves. he has to resist the urge to pinch himself in fear of waking up from whatever fucked up dream this is. 

“leon.” your voice wavers. a second passes. then another. and another. 

and then you’re running at him, all but tackling the man as you jump into his arms. leon stumbles backwards slightly. his combat boots scrape against the concrete floor as he scrambles to maintain his balance. he’s unfortunately not fast enough; the momentum sends both of you tumbling to the ground. 

leon’s back aches from where you both slammed into the cold floor below. he’s sure your knees do, too. you’re both covered in dirt. a layer of sweat and grime stains the fabric of your shirt. your hands are bloody and bruised and your arms will be littered with a variety of new scars by next month - you’re sure of it - but it doesn’t matter. because you’re real. 

you’re really here. you’re really wrapping your arms around his shoulders. you’re really burying your face into the crook of his neck. you’re really here.

“y/n.” this time his voice is louder. his body moves before his mind does. wrapping his arms around your waist, he sighs, taking in the feeling of you finally back in his arms once again. leon slips his hands underneath the fabric of your shirt, tracing his fingertips along the ebbs and flows of your back. 

leon squeezes his eyes shut; his grip around your waist tightens. his heart cracks a little more with each new tear he can feel drip against his skin and stain into the fabric of his shirt. gently rubbing his hand against your back, he hopes that with enough loving touches and whispered reassurances he’ll be able to mend your heart back together. 

leon is desperate. dull nails dig into the skin of your hips, as if the lack of separation between your bodies now will make up for lost time. “you’re here,” leon whispers. he isn’t sure if you can hear him. he can barely hear himself over the noise of his own beating heartbeat and your quiet sobs. “it’s okay. i’ve got you.” stray tears escape his own eyes before leon has the chance to stop them. “i won’t let anything happen to you ever again. i promise.”

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my resident evil masterlist <3

[serendipitous-girl]

𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞

⊱✿⊰ summary: your family wants to protect you but its impossible with the life you all lead

⊱✿⊰ warnings: kidnapping, minor torture, it will be angsty, almost dying, spitting on your face, the joker deserves his own warning tbh

⊱✿⊰ notes: this is for skye because she wanted some angsty batfam stuff and here we are. I am just shitting on the page and hoping words form at this point. I hope you enjoy and feel free to send me requests. Also this is a platonic fic sorry if you were hoping for romance action

⊱✿⊰ tags: @kozumesphone @fizzywashere87 @fashionablysouly @witherwallflower @goldierey

@finleyforevermore @baecakie @gergthecat @mqstermindswift @anyas-shitposting69 (comment on this or send me an ask if you want to be added to my DC taglist)

"Well, well, well. Looks like baby bird got caged." The clown sneered, leaning close to your face. You scrunched your nose and tried to scoot away despite the ropes scratching your wrists raw.

The Joker's finger runs along your cheek, a horrific grin on his face as he stared at you. You tried to keep a brave face, you tried to act like the domino mask over your eyes was really a shield. You tried to act like your dad, Batman.

Maybe it was your fault you got kidnapped. He said you weren't ready to go out and patrol with your family, but you went away. You stole one of Damian's mask and put on the most costume adjacent clothes you owned.

"Where should I start, little one?" Joker asked, breaking your train of thoughts. Placing blame would be set for another time. Not now, its not time yet. "Should I give you a smile that matches mine? Should I turn you into a firey decoration before dear ol' daddy bat gets here?"

You winced, trying to prevent the ice filling your veins and the fear weighing your stomach down. The Joker grabbed a knife from his table that had numerous weapons littered on top. Carefully the cold metal of the blade brushed against your skin, not harsh enough to cut just yet. He wanted to scare you first.

•───────────•°•❀•°•──────────•

"I am going to kill that son of a bitch." Jason growled as soon as he heard the news. Bruce gathered the family in the batcave, and explained the Joker had kidnapped the youngest of the family- you.

"Jason, I understand your frustration but we can't act with haste. I won't let her face the same fate you did. I won't make the same mistake twice." Bruce replied, already dressed as Batman. He was doing his best to stay professional despite his fear being ever present.

"I don't want to wait too long either." Dick added, crossing his arms over his chest. Everybody was tense, wanting their sister to be safe once again.

"I'll find where that stupid clown is keeping [Name]." Tim said, standing up and rushing towards the computer before anybody could even reply. Barbara silently followed, knowing she would be the most help to Tim.

Bruce looked at all of his family and nodded, "We'll find her and get her back."

•───────────•°•❀•°•──────────•

Your throat was hoarse and tears had dried on your face. There was no point to fighting it anymore, you only hoped he would kill you soon.

"Aw but doesn't the bird look good with her wings marked?" The Joker chuckled, slicing yet another line into your arm. The cuts were deep, sure to scar, and they were deliberate. You could only guess what he was spelling on your arms.

With the amount of blood flowing down your arms like a red river, it was to no surprise you were fading in and out of consciousness. That would be nice, at least you wouldn't be awake while he tortured you.

You almost settled into the pain, eyes fluttering close to let yourself rest, when you heard a crash. Glass was broken and there was yelling everywhere.

The Joker grabbed your face with his hand and forced you to look forward, where you saw your family (the only thing disguising their horrified looks were their masks)

"Looks like they showed up in time for you, baby bird." He grinned, spitting on your cheek. You were too tired, too fragile to even bother being disgusted. It was better than the cutting.

"Let her go and I'll think about not crushing your head into the wall." Red Hood barked out, already aiming his gun at The Joker. You tried to pay more attention but you were fading slowly,, ready to force your body to rest.

The Joker dropped your body like it was nothing, your face smashing into the concrete. It hurt, pain forming in your forehead but it was a distraction from the blood oozing out of you.

Despite your best efforts, you finally blacked out. The last thing you saw was your family lunging at the Joker, rage thick in the air.

Light flooded your eyes, fresh air blasting your lungs. You were laying down on something soft and warm, contrasting against the mildly scratchy fabric on your skin. You blinked your eyes a few times, forcing them to focus despite the dull ache pounding in your head.

"You're awake." Damian said, apparently sitting beside you. It took a little while but you realized you were in the personal hospital at the manor. He had a few scratches and bruises but nothing as horrific as the scars on your skin (and in your brain.)

"Wha-what..happened?" You croaked, throat feeling like sandpaper. Like magic, Dick appeared with a glass of water you gratefully took. The liquid in your throat was almost heavenly in the way it made you feel infinitely better.

"The Joker kidnapped you and we rescued you." Your father explained calmly, not bothering to add details. Which was probably good for you, the devil's in details.

"I'm glad your back, sis." Jason said, making you suddenly aware of his presence in the back of the room. Your entire family seemed to be in here, ready to see your betterment. Despite he general aversion to touch, Jason wrapped you into a hug.

Of course, everybody else joined in (forcefully or not) for a big group hug. You laughed, despite the hollow of your heart, watching as Tim was pushed into the hug by Dick.. It was ridiculous having a group hug after a traumatic event...how family sitcom could you get?

But somehow, it felt good to be in the arm's of your family. It felt like home.

lori © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything weird with my writing! i like reblogs and comments but please be kind as this was my writing.