#all of it slowly getting darker and darker

[thatonegrimm]

Hello Grimm !

It’s a pleasure send you an ask for the first time, if I’m not writing this right, feel free to tell me.

I wanted to request a one shot (or whatever it’s called, I’m not used to these terms, sorry) with the Saja Boys (separately) with a reader who is always innocent and sweet and then the boys find out that they write really dark stories, like thrillers with morally gray characters and that go highly philosophical about the corruption and hypocrisy of humanity, you can write them dating the reader or not dating them but crushing on them, whichever you’re comfortable with !

I hope it was okay and that this made sense lol, have a good day/evening/night !

Hello, and welcome!! 💌 You absolutely nailed the ask — it was clear, thoughtful, and gave me everything I needed to work with! This one leans romantic-crush-adjacent, so you can read it as dating or just tension building — whatever feels right for you. It’s written as a drabble set, with each-reacting separately. Hope you enjoy!

"What Sweet People Don’t Say Out Loud"

Summary: The Saja Boys find out their sunshine might have a darker mind than expected.

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🧿 Jinu

Jinu finds your writing by accident. You'd left your laptop open to a document titled “Cured By Fire: A Moral Treatise on Manufactured Innocence” while you stepped away to make tea.

He’d only meant to close the screen — honestly. But curiosity got the better of him. The title alone didn’t match the person who giggles at animal memes and says “oopsies” when they trip over a pillow.

A few scrolls in, he forgets about the tea.

The story unravels like a slow-burning reckoning. Government corruption, religious rot, and a protagonist who justifies arson as “a cleansing act in a city that won’t admit it’s already ash.”

When you return, he’s sitting rigidly upright, eyes wide behind his glasses. He looks… lost.

“Everything okay?” “You… wrote this?” “Uh. Yeah. Is it… bad?” “No, no, it’s—” He gestures vaguely. “It’s just… disturbingly good?” He pauses. “How long have you been thinking about the illusion of free will?” “Since middle school.” “Oh. Huh.”

He doesn’t touch his tea for an hour. You catch him rereading the ending later, brows furrowed.

“I think your villain might be right,” he mumbles, almost sheepish. Then softer, like it snuck up on him: “You’re… kind of brilliant.”

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💪 Abby

You print your story out for him — all 17 pages — and hand it over like it’s fragile. You're smiling nervously, chewing your lip.

“Be nice?” “Always.”

He’s expecting poetry. Something light. Maybe a whimsical fairytale about cats.

What he gets is a psychological thriller about a prison warden who slowly manipulates both inmates and guards into losing track of who’s imprisoned who. The tone is cold. Surgical. Inescapably brilliant.

By the time he finishes, he’s still staring at the final paragraph like it called him out personally.

“...Did you just make me root for a guy who drowns his boss in a koi pond?” “A little bit.” “I’m scared of you. In the best way.”

He sets the story down, still processing.

Then looks at you with open awe.

“You hide this whole part of yourself behind cute sweaters and sunny playlists, huh?” “...Maybe.” “That’s wild. I love it.”

He throws an arm around your shoulder, pulls you into his side, and presses a kiss to your temple like it’s instinct.

“Just remind me not to piss you off too bad. I’d like to stay above water.”

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📚 Mystery

You hadn’t meant for anyone to read it.

You keep your darker writing tucked away in a leather-bound notebook, usually hidden under your pillow. But Mystery finds it while you’re asleep — not on purpose, just straightening the blankets after you passed out reading.

He flips it open absently. Stops flipping five seconds later.

The story is unlike anything he’s read — a first-person monologue from a vigilante priest who sees sins as carvings, both literal and metaphorical. The prose is lyrical. Unnerving. Devastating.

He reads it in silence, unmoving. The kind of stillness he only slips into when something truly grips him.

When you wake up, you find him sitting on the edge of the bed, notebook in his lap, expression unreadable.

“Did you dream this?” “No... I wrote it a few weeks ago.” “It reads like it hurt.”

You wait for him to laugh. Or be weirded out. But he just closes the notebook gently and places it beside you.

“Everyone sees you as light.” He looks at you. “But you write like someone who understands what darkness actually costs.”

He lies beside you after, shoulder to shoulder, silent. But when he presses his forehead to yours, there’s reverence in it.

-----------------------------------

💋 Romance

It’s open mic night. Romance volunteers to read your piece out loud without looking it over first — he says he wants to be surprised.

He is.

The story is a sleek, cutting piece about a world where people wear masks that reflect their social status — and the one character who dares to shatter their own. It reads like a manifesto in disguise, full of quiet rage and philosophical tension.

By the end, the audience is dead silent. Romance lowers the paper slowly.

“So.” He clears his throat. “This was not about bunnies.” You nod. “And you wrote this?” “Yup.” “This explains… so much.”

Later, once the adrenaline wears off, you find him leaning against the hallway wall backstage, still holding the pages like they’re made of fire.

“You wrote this like a scalpel,” he says. “Soft hands. Sharp intent.” He laughs, shakes his head. “You had me out here baring your philosophical teeth to a full room. I’ve never been prouder.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Sweet, dangerous, and literary. What a combination.”

--------------------------------------

🔥 Baby

He finds your notebook in his backpack two days after you borrowed it. He flips it open thinking it’s a to-do list or grocery note.

Instead, he finds this:

“They call me innocent because I smile in public. But no one ever asks why the monsters in my stories look like men in suits.”

He stops chewing his gum.

Turns the page.

Keeps reading.

And then, at 2:12 AM, you get this:

baby🖕: wtf baby🖕: ur a menace baby🖕: u write like ur planning a quiet revolution and i’d probably help

When you see him the next morning, he tosses the notebook at you and crosses his arms.

“You have no right being that nice and also writing like this.” “You didn’t like it?” “Are you kidding? I read it three times. I might be in love with your brain.”

He grabs your face, thumb brushing your cheek, gaze intense.

“You’re soft and terrifying. That’s hot.” Then he smirks. “Just don’t ever base a villain on me, okay?”

You don’t answer. You definitely already did.

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M-List

[riddlemelater]

Last Call - M.R (Part 4)

masterlist | nav | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/"dependency", mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, darker themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma, Mattheo is being a little shit part 2, reader is rightfully losing her mind...

w.c: 5k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

a/n: finally part four is here! special thanks to the lovely @i-await for proof-reading, and dealing with my crash-out whilst I tried to write this <3 love u angel

You groaned as you shifted onto your side, the blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Early morning sunlight was already bleeding through the curtains, cascading across the floor with a warmth that gently kissed your skin.

It was too bright and too early to be awake, you quickly reasoned, squinting so as not to be disturbed further.

That, and you could've sworn when you'd crept up the stairs last night— wand drawn and ready to pounce on the unknown intruder— that the curtains had already been drawn. But you could barely recall arriving home at all, let alone falling asleep.

You rolled over, turning away from the window with a heavy sigh. It was your day off. The day you could very well shut yourself up in your flat and ignore the rest of the world. You had plans to sleep in, to do absolutely nothing, and maybe even feel like a normal witch for a few hours.

But your body had other ideas. No matter how much you tried, you couldn't get comfy. The bed felt wrong. Like the cushions were too firm in the wrong places, and your spine ached like you’d slept funny. You shifted again, reaching to adjust the pillow, still in that sleepy bubble on the cusp of being awake.

You froze rather suddenly as it dawned on you. You blinked blearily. The couch. The thin, decorative pillow beneath your head. The scratchy throw blanket tangled around your legs. This was not your bed. Not even close.

You sat up slowly, dread crawling its way into your stomach, and your head turned cautiously toward the bedroom door.

No, no, no.

You’d dreamt it. That’s all it was. You’d been exhausted, tipsy—your mind had stitched together some elaborate fantasy, fabricated from memory and guilt. You had to have imagined it.

Rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on the closed door, barely breathing, waiting for your heartbeat to slow. Your ears focused on each and every little sound that echoed through your flat, listening intently for any sign of life.

Then, very quietly, tentatively, you stood.

Your feet padded across the floor as you assured yourself that Mattheo Riddle wasn’t really in your bed. That he couldn’t be. That the whiskey Albion gave you must’ve knocked you sideways, and you'd hallucinated the whole thing. That was the only explanation.

But when you pushed the door open, sure enough, there he was. Sprawled out under the covers. Fast asleep. Soft snores rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.

You stared, then took a step back like you'd touched something hot.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, a hand clapping over your eyes in disbelief.

Quickly, you eased the door shut again, cheeks burning with some odd sense of embarrassment at seeing him so unguarded. The latch clicked softly into place, and you turned your back on your bedroom door. As if ignoring its presence would magically fix the fact that he really was asleep in your bed.

Your hand rubbed at your face, trying to clear the fog in your head long enough to rationalise what in Merlin's name you were supposed to do. In a flurry of agitation, you walked back to the couch—limbs heavy, mind reeling— and sank into it like the wind had been knocked out of you.

Memories of the night flashed before your eyes, Mattheo drunk, bleeding. Fresh off the wrong end of some curse, no doubt. And then he'd just passed out. Like it meant nothing that in his most vulnerable state, he'd come crawling to you.

Like this was normal.

You exhaled. Slower this time. Let your head fall into your hands and tried once more to stop your racing heart. You stayed that way for a while. Not thinking. Not feeling. Just waiting.

You weren’t sure what to do. What to say. Whether you were more angry at his blatant intrusion or at yourself, for not being surprised, for not kicking him out.

For letting him crawl into your bed like it was his, for being relieved that he wasn't lying half-dead in some dungeon like your dreams had suggested.

You rubbed your jaw, then pressed your fingers to your temples. It didn’t help the headache blooming behind your eyes.

A part of you— a small, stupid part—had hoped that by morning he’d be gone. That you’d open the door to cold sheets and silence, and you could write the whole thing off as exhaustion, whiskey, and a bleeding conscience.

But he was still here. In your room. In your bed.

With a low groan, you stood and wandered into the kitchen, moving on instinct alone. You filled the kettle, set it to boil, and waited. Picking at your nails intently, like the answers to all your troubles were buried in your nail beds.

You’d been sitting there for nearly an hour, doing nothing but trying to pretend that Mattheo Riddle wasn’t asleep in the next room. That it wasn’t all you could think about. That you weren't so conflicted by the entire thing that you couldn't decide which way you were leaning on the matter.

When he stirred, made a noise— groaned, shifted—you didn’t go to him. Didn’t knock. Didn’t dare speak.

You held your breath.

Just in case he came staggering out and you could no longer get away with pretending it wasn't happening. What would you say? Would he remember? Would he even know or care that he'd landed at your front door?

You didn’t know. And that terrified you more than anything. So you sat, swaddled in the thin couch blanket, legs curled under you, and a half-cold cup of coffee resting in your lap.

Your fingers twisted, picking and pulling at a loose thread on one of the couch cushions. Much like the threads that held the cushion together, your brain was unravelling with each tug, and each new worry had your teeth sinking further and further into your bottom lip.

Time felt slowed, stretched even. And with every creak of the bedsprings, every breath from behind the door. You weren’t sure if he was still dreaming or waking—and honestly, you didn’t know which one would be worse.

Your first coffee had gone cold, and you’d moved on to Earl Grey by the time he stirred. A tired yawn sounded through your small flat, and everything fell silent once more as you glanced toward the door.

“Argh…fuck,” came a voice. Rough. Groggy. Confused. “Salazar, save my serpent soul,”

You didn’t move at the whispered curse, not even a wince. Just tightened your grip on the throw you'd wrapped yourself in, hugging it tighter like it could protect you from the pending conversation.

There was a rustle of movement. A soft thud echoed, one that sounded like a wand hitting the floor, followed by a string of muttered curses and the familiar creak of your bed shifting. Then back to silence again. Long enough to make you wonder if he’d passed out again.

You sighed, unable to prevent the inevitable, and finally rose to your feet. It couldn't be ignored for another second; you'd burst if you had to sit any longer, waiting for him to wake.

You knocked and pushed the door open gently, feeling uneasy at just walking in without warning. Strange, considering it was your bedroom, in your own house. He was sitting up, just barely, propped on one elbow, the other hand pressed to his temple like he was trying to keep his skull from splitting in two.

“You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that Riddle.” you said flatly, leaning against the doorframe. Your arms folded across your chest, your hair thick with knots from carding a hand through it repeatedly all morning.

You hadn't exactly intended to go in, all wands blazing. You'd actually spent most of the morning trying to work out what in Godric's name you were going to say to him. But the second your gaze fell on him, the second you noticed the bloodshot eyes, and the faint yellowish bruise that littered his cheek, you'd gone to pieces.

Mattheo blinked blearily at you, like he didn't really even hear what you were saying. He was groaning irritably under his breath, and the moment your voice reached his ears to ask if he was even listening to you, he shushed you with a wince and an outstretched palm.

“Not so loud… firewhisky headache,” he muttered loosely, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Your jaw gritted. Silent, not because he asked, but because you were still half in shock. Peering over at his crumpled frame that lay tangled in your sheets like they were his own.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed back on your face, slowly connecting the dots. Like he’d only now realised he wasn’t somewhere familiar. His face paled slightly, just enough that you noticed.

“Fuck," his eyes shut for a moment, exhaling shakily like he was trying to compose himself. "Can you block the sun out? Or at least lend me a pair of sunglasses?" He groaned, eyes squeezing shut as the heel of his palm rubbed at them.

"Oh, conscious and making demands. That’s progress from last night, I suppose." Your brows raised, glowering. Stern. You’d still lowered your voice, though.

"That’s the greeting I get after a near-death experience?” His voice rasped, but his expression was cool. Chuckling away to himself as his head shook, “Charming.”

"Mattheo," you hissed, fingers twitching, controlling the urge to snap at him. This wasn't funny; the state he was in wasn't something to be laughed at. You’d spent half the night convinced he was bleeding out somewhere. The other half wondering what he’d done to need a hiding place.

“You broke into my flat. Why?” You pinned him with an accusatory stare.

He glanced around, head sinking back against the pillow and groaning once more. “It's nothing personal, love, the wards were sloppy." He shrugged, then glanced up with a lopsided smirk, "Mm, lovely room— by the way, bed's dead comfy.”

“Excuse me?” you scoffed, floored by the arrogance.

The night before, he’d barely been able to lift his head from the pillow, yet now he sat like he owned the place, and if he did have a shred of self-awareness hidden beneath his untidy curls, he certainly wasn’t showing it now.

He waved a hand limply, shrugging off any real responsibility with feigned indifference. “Doesn’t matter. Next time I’ll collapse somewhere more hospitable, I assure you."

You stared at him, incredulous, biting down on your cheek to stop yourself from hexing him. He wasn’t even looking at you. In fact, he seemed to be actively avoiding your eyes.

Your eyes narrowed. You caught the flicker—his gaze lifting just slightly from the sheets, skimming over you like a reflex. Slow. Not as subtle as he probably thought it was.

“You broke into my flat. Passed out in my bed—fully clothed, by the way—and I’m supposed to what?” You tilted your head, voice low and laced with frustration. “Break out the chocolate frogs and butterbeer?”

Your tone was sharp, measured. Pissed.

He stared idly, eyes hooded and puffy like he’d not had a decent nights sleep in months. And from what you knew, he probably hadn’t, especially if Tolliver had been telling the truth.

"Come off it, Mattheo. What the hell is going on?" You demanded, arms crossed and jaw set, like a parent scolding a child.

He groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. He looked bored, like facing the owner of the bed he was currently half asleep in was the least of his priorities.

“Look, as far as bad days go, I promise you mine wins. Alright?"

You rolled your eyes, his apathy grating like sandpaper across already frayed nerves. And still, he wouldn’t meet your gaze. You exhaled harshly, and he flinched, almost imperceptibly, fingers twisting at the bedsheet like he was trying to anchor himself to something.

“Merlin's sake." You hissed, walking towards the window with an irritated sigh. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, still groaning faintly, an arm thrown over his eyes haphazardly.

With more force than necessary, your fingers grasped the curtains, yanking them open so the sunlight could spill through. Mattheo made a noise, somewhere between a groan and a whine, body twisting away with his eyes still covered.

"Are you always this dramatic in the morning?" he grumbled in a dry voice.

If he hadn't been in such a state, you'd have thrown him out already— Or, at least, the thought crossed your mind.

You sucked in a breath, trying not to rise to his provocation. "Oh, forgive me if I'm not thrilled that you broke into my flat," you snapped. “I was terrified. Still am, if you even care!”

That made him flinch — barely, but enough.

He hesitated, jaw ticking. His eyes stayed on the sheets. “I didn’t exactly plan it,” he murmured, finally.

A beat passed. You shifted onto the other foot, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t have many options left, alright?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Didn’t want to go to Theo. Or Draco. Or anyone, really.” His voice dropped to something rougher, like it scraped the back of his throat on the way out. “Besides, didn’t want them to see me like this.”

Your gaze softened, just slightly. "You scared the shit out of me, Mattheo." you swallowed, head tipping back as you exhaled a deep breath. He didn’t reply. Just half nodded and stared down at the sheets twisted in his lap.

“I thought you were dead,” you said quietly, and he finally glanced up, watching you, the smallest flicker of guilt in his eyes. "You disappeared, Mattheo. Without so much as a goodbye. And then I hear you're dead, from some drunk wizard in the pub nonetheless!"

Mattheo swallowed dryly, jaw tense as he rubbed at bloodshot eyes. So silent, so unwilling to give you a straight answer, never mind an apology, that you felt the anger swelling in your chest.

“And then you just show up, looking like death personified in my flat!” Your voice cracked slightly at the end. Your arm gestured uselessly through the air, like there weren’t words strong enough for the rest.

He stared at you for a moment, his lips pressing open and shut a few times, like he was trying to find the right words to explain.

"Well, for starters," he cleared his throat, "I'm not dead, evidently." The hand that wasn't holding him up gestured towards himself.

"Can't say I don't look it, though." He added, half-smirking at his own joke, like he was waiting for you to drop the act and laugh.

You only blinked at him, mouth tightening into a thin line. He chuckled sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair. You wanted to hex him. Badly.

"Right. Too early for jokes. Loud and clear." He held a hand up in surrender. "How about a glass of water, though?"

You were going to hex him, you thought decidedly. Your fingers twitched to reach for your wand. You'd blast him through the bloody wall if it meant he'd stop skirting around the truth.

Instead, you inhaled sharply. Muttered some half-arsed curse to yourself and turned to leave, ignoring the fact that he was still sprawled in your sheets with great difficulty.

"I'll be in the living room, when you've decided to stop being an arse." You called over your shoulder, striding out of the room and letting the door click shut behind you, with a louder bang than you'd quite intended.

The moment you were out of sight, you exhaled, exasperated, and pinched the bridge of your nose. You lingered in the hallway, the faint creak of your bed sounding like he'd just collapsed back into it with another sigh. A headache throbbed dully at the base of your skull. But the urge to scream into a pillow was only just outweighed by the fact that the bastard in your bed might hear it.

Head spinning, you ventured back into the kitchen, brewing another cup of coffee that definitely wouldn't help your headache. But, it was that or pass out on the couch again, and your spine certainly wasn't thanking you for last night's sleeping arrangements.

Your hand hovered over the cupboard where you kept your potions, nothing extravagant, mostly draughts of dreamless sleep and day-to-day healing brews. You sighed again, cursing your inner Gryffindor as you grasped a Pepper-up potion and a small tub of murtlap essence.

You weren't happy with him. But, at the very least, you'd help him ease the hangover, if only to get some answers.

Returning to your spot on the couch, you sank into the pillows. Your gaze focused on one spot, too caught up in your own thoughts to focus on anything else.

You were unaware of how long had passed—ten minutes, maybe twenty— until finally you heard the soft click of the bedroom door. Bare footsteps on wood. A quiet groan. Then a sigh.

You didn’t look up right away. Not until the couch dipped beside you and you caught a whiff of the cologne that still vaguely lingered on his clothes, dulled now by blood and smoke and whatever godforsaken alleyway he’d dragged himself through.

He didn’t say anything either. Just sat there, loose but not relaxed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together like he was steeling himself for something.

You watched him through your peripherals. Watched the tension pull at the corners of his mouth, the thin scab that was incorrectly healing at his cheekbone, the shadow in his eyes that hadn’t always been that dark.

Wordlessly, he reached forward and drank the pepper-up you'd purposefully left in plain sight. He stayed far away from the murtlap, you noticed, following his movements as he placed the empty glass down with a soft clink.

"Thanks," he said in a raspy voice, clearing his throat sheepishly.

"Yeah." You nodded, took another sip of your coffee. Grateful that this time you'd remembered to cast a warming charm on the cup. "Slept in my bed, raided my potions—might as well start forwarding your post here too." You shrugged sardonically.

Mattheo huffed a laugh. "Alright. Point well made," he conceded, still rigid and perched on the edge of the couch.

You nodded, finally turning to take him in properly. He was still wearing his dirty clothes, but his hair looked slightly less messy. Like he'd at least tried to tame it before he faced you.

The silence hung between the two of you, thick and tense. You refused to break it first, staring over at him with a surprisingly level expression. It had taken most of your willpower not to take a calming draught, but ultimately you'd decided against it.

The responsibility to ease your frayed nerves lay with Mattheo.

"I'm sorry for calling your wards sloppy," he said eventually, looking down at his hands as he picked at some dry blood underneath his fingernails. "Nearly had me sleeping against your front door, if it means that much to you."

You didn't reply to his apology. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it did. And if you opened your mouth, something sharp and bitter might come out. So you let the silence stretch.

Mattheo shifted beside you, resting his forearms on his knees again, staring at the floor like it might offer him a script. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“I shouldn’t have come here. I know.” His fingers were clasped together tightly, like he was trying to keep himself together.

You frowned, confusion twisting in your stomach. His words weren't aligning with his actions, and you didn't know what to think anymore.

“Then why did you?”

His jaw tightened. “I meant it when I said I didn’t have anywhere else,” he muttered, bitter honesty leaking through his words. “Not many people want Voldemort’s son bleeding on their sofa, shockingly."

His face soured for a moment, as if realising what he'd just said, then fell back to a blank stare. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume that he'd occluded.

It was quiet for a moment, and you stared at him, unimpressed, and scoffed. “That’s bollocks and you know it. Nott looked terrible when he came in looking for you, y'know?"

The anger had ebbed. What was left felt messier, less simple than just pouring him another whiskey and putting it on his tab.

Mattheo’s eyes dropped to his lap guiltily, his eyes bore into the floor like he was trying to find the right words. “That’s different. Theo, he’s…” he started, but his voice cracked on his name, and he trailed off.

"Even Malfoy—for all his faults—would’ve had half of Wizard London on high alert if you asked him to." You murmured, letting out a humourless chuckle. “They’re your mates, Mattheo. They’d be there for you, if you'd asked.” You spoke, voice softer now, tentative.

"I know," he said eventually, head bowed like there was more to it than he was letting on. "I should go. I should never have dragged you into this."

Blinking, you watched him rise to his feet, shaky and like his knees were about to buckle underneath him. You were frozen still, watching as he made a move to leave. You almost let him, but it seemed the inner lion still remained.

"Sit down, Riddle." You sighed, the words taking you quite by surprise, even as they tumbled from your mouth. "You're in no fit state to be wandering around London yourself, never mind the fact that you owe me a proper explanation."

Mattheo glanced at you, an argument already on the tip of his tongue. But clearly he needed your help more than he was willing to admit, because he hovered for a moment and then lowered himself back down. Eyes focused on anything that wasn't you.

You swallowed hard, composing yourself before asking the question. "What're you going to do?"

Mattheo didn't respond, just let his head fall back against the back of the couch and took a deep breath. He didn't try to offer a plan, just sat there, deep in thought. You knew then that he needed all the help he could get, whether he admitted it or not.

"It's blood magic, isn't it?" You pressed, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, gaze fixed firmly on his face.

That got a reaction. His head snapped up, and he looked towards you like you'd slapped him across the face. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders tensed.

"How..." he asked, cutting himself off with a shake of the head. "Who told you that? Has someone been asking around in the pub? Anyone you've never seen before?"

He didn't admit it, but you knew by the tone of his voice that you were right. That gut feeling you’d felt just a few weeks ago was real. Knockturn Alley and Mick Tolliver weren’t for nothing. Your dream... You shivered and tried not to spiral.

“You came in nearly every day, Mattheo. Did you really expect me not to notice that you’d vanished without a trace? Just go about my day like nothing had happened?”

That seemed to throw him, brows knitting together. Like he wasn’t used to being noticed anymore. Like it'd been a long time since someone had shown up for him, beyond just saying that they cared. The notion made your heart shatter.

“That doesn’t explain how you know that.” He said, firmer this time, his jaw set tight as his eyes met yours. He looked different, less dead behind the eyes than you were used to. Like something was pooling in them, something he didn’t quite understand.

Your teeth toyed with your bottom lip, eyes trailing over his thin frame with trepidation. He was skinnier than you’d ever seen him, a shadow of his former Quidditch days. He’d been one of Slytherin’s beaters, strong, muscly arms that half the girls in your year swooned over in hushed gossip circles.

The Mattheo Riddle who sat before you now was nothing like his teenage self, save for the arrogant edge that he seemed to wield defensively, like he'd spent his entire life running.

He murmured your name in a harsh whisper when you didn't reply, sliding closer to you and meeting your gaze with wide eyes. His head tilted slightly, waiting.

"I... I went looking one night. In Knockturn." You swallowed, feeling a wave of sudden embarrassment wash over you, "I overheard that someone there knew what happened. And, well, I had to find out for myself."

Your cheeks burned as concern flashed across Mattheo's face, and he leaned in closer and turned towards you attentively. Fingers grasping at the edge of the couch, knuckles white.

"Who?" He asked slowly, dragging the question out enough that you knew this was serious. You could hear it in his voice, the slight growl to it as he stiffened.

"He has a stall, stolen goods by the looks of things. His name was Mick, Mick Tolliver." You stammered, aware of how his gaze burned sharper at the mention of the dodgy wizard.

"Tolliver?" Mattheo's reaction was instant, his head turning away from you in outrage, hands thrown up in the air carelessly. He fell back onto the couch and ran a hand across his face, which only further unnerved you.

"Bloody useless tosser..." Mattheo muttered to himself, snorting bitterly. Head shaking as he pinched at the bridge of his nose, "He had one job— one!"

Mattheo rose quickly from the couch, pacing across the room with a newfound nervousness that made you queasy. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers flexing like they wanted to grasp something. He muttered faintly, mostly curses, as he paced back and forth across your living room.

You felt yourself pale at his reaction, your knee bouncing anxiously as you perched on the edge of the couch cushion. "Mattheo?" you worried, staring up at him with wide eyes, "You're scaring me, what's wrong?"

Mattheo scoffed, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he did tight circles around your coffee table. His jaw twitched, the muscles tightening so much you could almost hear the strain. It was like a switch had flipped; he was no longer the bruised Mattheo you'd found half asleep in your sheets. No, this was something else entirely.

Something that felt a lot like life or death, literally.

"That sleazy git was meant to tell everyone I was dead!" He grunted, lifting a foot to kick at the side of your couch in frustration. "Fifty galleons and he can't keep his trap shut!"

You stared, brows furrowed as you tried desperately to understand what exactly he was saying. Fixed on each deep, slow breath he took whilst a shaking hand carded through his hair. He was still treading back and forth along the carpet. Peering out the window like he was waiting for something to happen.

“You faked your death?” You blinked, incredulous. “And what, decided my flat was the perfect place to rise from the grave?”

Mattheo huffed. A half-breath of a laugh that didn’t quite make it. He opened his mouth, probably to snark back something equally as sardonic— but nothing came out.

Instead, he looked at you. His usual mask of indifference slipped for a moment, and you saw a flicker of raw exhaustion in his eyes, a shadow deeper than mere tiredness. He swallowed hard, and his throat worked once, twice, like he was trying to steady himself but wasn’t sure he could.

You bit down hard on your bottom lip, chest tight with a frustration you couldn’t quite swallow. You bit it back, the urge to snap dying in your throat. Instead, you cleared your throat, fingers worrying the rim of your mug.

“Look, Mattheo…” It felt like speaking across thin ice—every word a risk, too heavy and you'd fall through, too soft and they'd never reach him. "I don't know what's going on, or what I can do to help. But I want to, I know that."

Mattheo's head shook, ready to interject but you only spoke louder, voice less shaky as the words flowed.

"So next time you find yourself breaking and entering into my flat, maybe just... use the Floo like a normal wizard, yeah?" It came out softer than you expected—half-laugh, half-plea—wobbling on the edge of a smile that said I’m furious, but I’m not turning you away.

For a beat, he only blinked at you, surprise breaking through the anger. Then the corner of his mouth twitched—an almost-laugh he tried to swallow but couldn’t. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction.

You pushed the spare pillow toward the far end of the couch. “Crash here until you can stand without wobbling, at least?"

You could see him deliberating, eyes torn from yours and staring at the pillow like you'd just undone something in him he’d spent years trying to keep sealed shut. Finally, he nodded, slower this time. But his gaze drifted toward the window like he wanted to say something else. Something heavier.

You waited. He didn’t speak. And that silence, though softer, held teeth.

It was like the fight had drained right out of him. Sinking down into the cushions next to you, his hand grasping at his side. You noticed the wince, the subtle sign that underneath his filthy clothes lay much worse than a poorly healed bruise.

For a moment, you debated asking. Eyes flitting down to the space between you, but you knew he'd only avoid answering, probably try and leave once more. And right now, the last thing he needed was to be alone.

So you stayed. You didn't say another word, didn't ask him for a plan. You just nodded and sank back into the couch, exhaling shakily and sipping your coffee like this was normal.

Whether you'd done the right thing or not, you weren't sure yet. But you were certain that from now on, Mattheo had to learn to trust you.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

[authorddreamz]

Protector - Deshon Dreamz

Protector – Deshon Dreamz

⚠️ cursing, mention of violence, guns

Word Count: 3K

Part 1: "I'd like to sleep in your bed..."

Her thighs burned. She'd been squatting behind this diesel bed for what felt like hours. Her heart banged loudly in her throat, overshadowing the elevated cadence of her pulse as it clouded her ears. The gravel beneath her feet pierced through her sandals, her body heavy with fear. The moon shifted in the sky, casting a darker cloud over the heated streets of Mississippi. Frantic breathes pushed through her lips as the sound of galloping grew closer to her. She felt confined, as if surrounded by an overwhelming force that seemed intent on disrupting her environment.  She closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer before moving her body backwards. A stray cat jumped from a car, starling her. A quick yelp escaped her before she covered her mouth, eyes extended as wide as the Nile. Heat sparked from the tailpipe of a nearby car, the engine revving into the night, disturbing the cool air. Annie didn't know if her life would end tonight, it hadn't been in any of her visions or throws, but she couldn't stop the burst of terror settling in her gut.

More galloping, more shouting.

I saw her go that way!

She can't be far!

We must kill her tonight!

Her hope of making it back home was fading like color from a bleached t-shirt. The street was clear, outside of the men who were tracking her and the ambient light shining from a building nearby. She knew she was pushing it coming back into town so late, but the city had everything she needed for a protection spell she was brewing just for times like this. Her grandmother taught her root work, she also taught her how to fight, negotiate, and shoot a gun, but she couldn't go up against four men with sticks, ropes, guns and misplaced rage. She knew she couldn't withstand them alone; there was no way she'd survive. So, she planned to hide as long as she could.

The sight of an open sign flickering off across the street caught her attention. Before she could think too much about it, she heard her grandmothers voice loud in her ear, a rushed whisper that turned frantic. "Go, Annie. Run as fast as you can."

She listened. Her feet pushed into the ground as she lifted, running as fast as her body would allow until she made it to the door. She could barely see through the fiberglass door, but she could make out a figure moving on the other side.

She knocked, her fist heavy with panic and uncertainty as she waited. After a beat, she knocked again- somehow harder this time.

The door was snatched open and suddenly Annie found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Her entire body felt slack as her hands shot into the nights air. "I'm sorry!" She whined, voice smaller than normal.

He lowered the gun- only slightly. Brown, untrusting eyes swung past her, then to the left and right. He took her in slowly, eyes scanning her from head to toe. A toothpick hung from his thick lips as he leaned to the side to get a better view of her, around his revolver. Silence hung in the air as Annie continued to hold her hands up.

Smoke took in the dirt decorating the bottom of her dress, the mud smudged into her beautiful brown skin and the cloth bag thrown across her body. She released hard, earned breaths as terror danced in the depths of her soft brown eyes. He wanted to lower his gun but he knew better. "Why you banging on the door this late?"

Annie swallowed. "Running."

Smoke brow arched. "From?"

The sound of horses neighing caught her attention. She urgently turned back to the cold man before her. "Please let me in."

Smoke craned his neck out the door, looking at the approaching horses ridden by men with pale skin carrying fire torches, wood planks and rope. "Get inside." He stepped outside the door, allowing the woman past him. "Go all the way to the back, up the stairs and into the apartment on the upper level. I'll let you know when it's clear."

Annie nodded before doing exactly what she was told.

Smoke tucked his gun into his jeans, grabbing a blunt from his ear to light it. He flicked the toothpick from his mouth, placing the blunt between his lips. Any other man would have fear dancing on their skin. Not him. He'd been in the Delta long enough to know that men like the ones approaching him on horseback existed. He'd went up against them, was familiar with their battle tactics. He was unreservedly unmoved. He reached behind him, pulling the door to his shop closed as the men on horses came to a stop before him. His frown remained as one man, who he assumed was the ringleader of this shit show, climbed off his horse.

He slowly released smoke from between his lips; his eyes trained on the ringleader. "Y'all boys far from the outskirts. A long way from home." Smoke's eyes shifted. "Looking for something?"

"A witch." The ringleader spat. "We don't want no trouble."

"Trouble is exactly what y'all gone get barking up this tree." Smoke's face didn't shift at all. "Best y'all get going before it's too late."

"You don't understand. She needs to be handled."

"Fuck that gotta do with me?" Smoke questioned.

"You telling me you ain't seen her?"

"I'm telling you I don't know who the fuck you talmbout. I'm also telling you to leave before shit get uglier than you round here."

The ringleader mugged Smoke for a while, weighing his options. The man before him had a reputation that proceeded him for miles. There wasn't a soul in the Delta who didn't know the Smoke/Stack twins. They were a line you didn't cross. He stepped back. "Guess we'll be going then."

Smoke tilted his head. "Get to gettin' then."

Without another word and a bruised ego, the man mounted his horse, turning to go in the opposite direction with his folks behind him. Smoke released a grunt as he pulled the door to his business open. He made sure to lock the door securely, pulling down the internal protective gate before locking it. He took the stairs to his loft two at a time. He found her sitting on his couch in the living room surrounded by warm hues and uncertainty. The air felt stiff, unmoving as he walked deeper into the living room. He caught the last of her mumbling, what he assumed was a prayer before she stood and turned to him. In this light, he could admire the softness of her features. Her skin was the color of Africa, deep and ritual. She was on the thicker side, thighs crafted by the ancestors of Mississippi herself. She was on the taller side, but he still had at least half a foot on her. Her lips were full and inviting. His eyes got stuck on them for too long.

"I... I’m sorry. I didn't have anywhere else to go." Her voice quaked, remnants of fear making it shaky. "I'll leave."

Smoke took a pull from his blunt. "Ain't too sure the coast clear yet."

Annie's shoulders went slack in defeat. "As long as they going one way and I'm going the other."

Smoke eyed her. "How you to know which way is which?"

That question stumped Annie.

Smoke walked over to his bar, pulling out a stool. "They say you a witch."

Annie's nostrils flared. "You look smart enough to know better."

Smoke smirked. "Say they need to kill you."

"People fear what they can't control."

Smoke nodded, looking at her through the cloud of smoke that curled between them. "Now you done found yourself in the apartment of a mad man."

Annie shook her head, standing. "You ain't a mad man. You're my protector."

Smoke's spine stiffened as she walked over to him, "You got the wrong man, sweetheart."

Annie pulled a stool, sitting down beside him. "My grandmother guided me here. She'd never put me in harms way. She sent me here because she knew you would take care of me."

Smoke thought the woman was losing it. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"By keeping me here til morning and loving me for the rest of my life, which will end before yours. Not for a long while though, Elijah."

He was out of his stool in a flash, reaching behind him to produce his gun as if it were attached to his hand. This time, Annie didn’t panic.

“How the fuck you know my name?”

“Wow, you’re a quick draw.”

“The quickest.” He spoke around the smoke floating from his lips like vowels.

She slowly held her hands up. “If you put the gun down, I can explain.”

Smoke gripped the gun tighter, keeping it in her face. “Gun ain’t movin’ til you explain.”

Annie stayed seated on the stool. “You won’t shoot me, Elijah.”

Smoke cocked the gun. “You don’t know me well, ma’am.”

Annie’s eyes held his as a slow, syrupy smile covered her face. “I’m slowly learning.”

“Fuck that mean?”

With hesitation, Annie slowly stood from the stool. Her eyes moved from Smoke to the gun. “Can...do you have to have this in my face.”

“I ain’t moving it until you tell me how you know my name.”

“If I tell you, you’re going to think those men downstairs were right about me.”

“Already thinkin’ that.” Smoke wasn’t bothered by the fact that though. If she was a witch, she was the finest one he’d ever seen. He didn’t mind whatever curse she was here to put on him. Death never scared him none, he’d faced it so many times they were kin. Lovers even. Walking hand in hand down the dark, historically dangerous streets of Mississippi. Nah, death didn’t bother him none.

“I’m a Hoodoo Priestess.”

Smoke’s brows danced. “Ummm hmmm…”

“Not a witch.”

“What’s the difference?”

Annie felt bold, feeling the strength of her spiritual guides surrounding her, encouraging her. Even with a gun to her face, she felt protected. She felt comforted by the man before her, knowing that he would go to unknown lengths to protect her, despite this moment.

“I’m a conjurer, Elijah. I hold my ancestors close for guidance and love. I keep the future close so it’s tied to the roots it needs to flourish. I heal, I complete and I evolve. I’m your connection to peace and everything pure about love, Elijah.

A warmth flowed from his face to his feet. His eyes held her soft, welcoming ones. He was well versed in women, he knew when they were flirting, trying to scam him. His years of training involving the species failed him at this moment. He couldn’t read her. His brain felt like it short circuited each time he tried. Mindlessly, he lowered the gun, dislodging the clip and throwing the safety on before he placed it on the bar.

Slowly, she stretched both her hands out to him, palms up as she waited.  “I could show you what I see for us. Only a glimpse though.”

Smoke didn’t hesitate to place his hands inside her palms. He was immediately hit with a blanket of comfort, the weight in his shoulders evaporating as he exhaled. His eyes rolled closed as white noise filled his ears. He could feel her step closer to him, her softness engulfing him as she folded her thumbs over the top of his hands. For Smoke, the vision was blurry and warped, all he could make out was the sound of laughter coming from children as they ran across a field covered in autumn leaves with the scent of butterscotch floating through his nostrils. Then she came into view; a brown dress down to her ankles, soft peppered twist in her hair and the skin of a goddess glistening under the sun. Everything around her had aged, except the softness in her eyes. She was older, even more beautiful than the woman standing before him. He found himself wondering how that was possible.

“Let me know when you’re ready for dinner, Elijah. We can’t let it get cold.”

Smoke snatched his hands away from Annie, looking at her with wild, muddled eyes. He stepped back; his eyes filled with more questions than answers as he continued to look at her.

“What…”

“Us.” Annie answered with a soft smile. “Our children; a boy and a girl.”

He wanted to call her crazy and throw her out of his apartment and into the pit of clan he knew were still lingering around outside. Yet, all he could do was accept her words as if they were biblical.

“How?”

Annie hesitated. “I…don’t want to scare you.”

“Tell me.” Smoke demanded softly, wanting his brain to find comfort.

“Your guide, who I’m finding to be your mother and my guide, my grandmother has tied us to each other eternally. No matter how far you go, Elijah. We’ll be tied forever.”

Her words, which should have terrified him, gave him the comfort he was looking for.

He walked around the bar, looking back at her. “So, your my wife?”

Annie closed her eyes slowly. “Oh love, I am so much more than that.”

“The mother of my children.” He added through vulnerable cords.

“I am your protector, just as much as you are mine.”

Smoke pours a shot of Hennessy, needing it to clear his head. The moment he was away from her, his tiredness returned. “Look, it’s been a long day and I need to get some sleep. You’re more than welcome to stay, I’d actually like to talk to you more in the morning. I just…can’t be upright for much longer.”

“I’d like to sleep in your bed.” Annie spoke boldly.

Smoke’s eyes rounded as he slowly swallowed his liquor down, choking on the sting. “Huh?”

“We won’t have sex. I’m…we’re not there yet.”

“I don’t allow women to sleep in my bed, especially when we ain’t fucking.”

Annie’s eyes rolled. “I understand that but this is different.”

“Different, how?” Smoke walked back over to her. “You’re supposed to be my wife, seems like fucking comes with that.”

“Yeah…but not now. Not on the first night.”

Smoke could hear the nervousness in her voice; it bordered on fear. “Aye, I’m just fucking with you. I don’t want to have sex with you but I don’t understand why you gotta sleep in my bed.”

Annie bit into her bottom lip nervously before exhaling. “I can explain it once we’re in your bedroom.”

Once again, Smoke didn’t know how to receive the stranger who felt far too familiar, in his house. She was bold yet timid. She was demanding, yet soft-spoken and calm tempered. She felt like a new wind brushing over his skin after a long day. She was rejuvenating.

“Come on.” He extended his hand to her, pulling her down the hallway to his bedroom. He pushed the door open, bathing the hallway in soft light and the scent of sandalwood. His room matched his living room, soft brown, cream and off-white tones covered his bed, the décor and furniture. He released her hand after they stepped over the threshold.

“All I got that’s gone fit ya is a t-shirt.” He tossed over his shoulder as he walked to the dresser. “Maybe some shorts.”

“A t-shirt is fine.” Annie spoke softly, standing awkwardly by the door.

Smoke lifted, taking in her stiffened demeanor. “Why you standing in the doorway like that?”

Annie would never admit to being nervous, but she was. Even though her grandmother’s communication was clear, it was a lot for her to take in. She didn’t even think about what her future would look like. She was so busy fighting to survive each day. At twenty – six, she was still figuring out her life. Suddenly, she had the full map of how her future would go, just from one run in with a grumpy stranger.

“I didn’t know if you want me to walk any further in these dirty clothes.”

Smoke eyed her. “You got anything under the dress?”

“Of course.” Annie snapped instantly, feeling insulted.

“You gotta ask these days.” Smoke muttered. “Well, take the dress off and I’ll throw it in the washer for you.”

Annie toed off her shoes before lifting her dress up and over her head. She smooths the silk fabric of her slip down, pulling it down just right past her knees.

Smoke pulled towels and a shirt from his drawer before turning to her. His eyes took in the pearl-colored slip covering her mocha skin. All the fear and uncertainty gone from her features leaving just her blank expression which was arguably the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

He lifted the clothes and towels to her. “The shower is here.” He pointed.

Annie’s feet remained planted as he showed her the way to the bathroom. “Wait.”

Her voice was low, insecure as she spoke.

Smoke turned to her. “What?”

Annie swallowed the lump in her throat. “Ummm. I want you to understand why I said we couldn’t have sex.”

“I thought I told you I wasn’t trying to have sex with you.”

She nodded. “Yes, and I know that you were honest when you said that.”

Smoke remained silent.

“It’s just that I never…”

Still, Smoke just stood there looking at her.

“I grew up in a very strict household, so I never even had a boyfriend.”

“It’s the south, that’s not uncommon.”

Annie’s eyes lit up. “So, you understand?”

Smoke didn't understand why this conversation felt like it was looping. “Yeah, you ain’t never had a boyfriend.”

“Right so, you see why I can’t just have sex with you on the first night.”

“I just…I would like the first time to be special.” Annie was losing all the confidence she gained when she revealed herself to him. “I can’t just…do it the first day I meet you.”

“Wait…” Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “I know you ain’t tryna tell me what I think you tryna tell me.”

“What?” Annie snapped. “That I want my first time to be special?”

Smoke ran his hands down his face. “You’re a fucking virgin?”

[camficdiner]

Hey cam! Can I get 1.3 2.13 3.5 4.3

Age gap maybe Quinn’s best friend

☕️Cams fic diner — order 078

🍒 thank you to the girlies who never meant to marry him — until he said your name like that. for those who swore it was just one night. blame the club. blame the chapel. blame vegas.

💬 “Blame Vegas”

✨ description & prompts:

character: Luke Hughes

prompt: you wake up in Vegas married to him after dancing too close to his brother — your best friend

type: enemies to lovers • jealousy • forbidden smut • accidental marriage

additional: you hate Jack • Quinn is your best friend • Luke’s had a long-simmering crush and finally snaps

smut level: 5

wc: ~7.3k and counting

✨🧁🍒🛼

Club, 2.10 A:M

The bass is vibrating through the soles of your heels. You’re drunk — but not sloppy. Loose. Sharp. Grinning up at Quinn, who’s laughing into your hair as you sway together under the neon lights of the VIP section.

The club is packed with NHL boys — Trevor’s birthday trip. Jack, Cole, Mason, Zegras, all circling somewhere behind you. You’ve seen Luke watching since you walked in, but he hasn’t said a word all night. Typical.

You and Quinn have this rhythm — it’s always been easy. You’ve been best friends since Michigan. Long flights, long summers, secret texts during season chaos. You’ve held his head after heartbreaks, screamed for him from the stands, crashed on his couch during lockouts. You’ve never crossed that line. But tonight? With the tequila running through your veins and your strappy black dress clinging to your thighs — you’re dancing dangerously close to it.

And Luke sees everything.

He sees your hand flatten on Quinn’s chest when you laugh. The way your lips brush his jaw when you lean in to say something. The grin on Quinn’s face when you pull him closer by the belt loops like it means nothing.

But it doesn’t feel like nothing to Luke.

It never has.

You’re not just some girl to him. You’re his brother’s best friend. You’ve known him since he was eighteen — quiet, lanky, shy. You used to ruffle his curls, call him “baby Hughes,” and laugh when he blushed.

He’s not blushing now.

He’s staring at you with a drink in one hand and his jaw clenched so tight he might crack a molar.

Jack notices.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters beside him. “You’re gonna punch Quinn or combust.”

Luke doesn’t answer.

“Dude,” Jack pushes. “She’s older. She’s Quinn’s best friend. She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate me.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah? Then prove it.”

Luke finishes his drink in one long pull, slams the glass down, and starts walking.

⸻

“Come with me,” Luke says, voice low, suddenly right beside you.

You blink. “What?”

He steps in close. Heat pouring off him. Palm curling around your wrist.

“I said—come with me.”

Your brows knit. “Luke—what’s your deal?”

Quinn glances between you both. “Everything okay?”

Luke doesn’t even look at him.

“She’s fine,” he mutters. “She’s coming with me.”

You scoff, half-laughing. “Excuse me?”

Luke leans in. Breath brushing your ear. “You’ve been teasing me for years. Don’t act innocent now.”

Your stomach flips — from alcohol, from heat, from the tone of his voice. You don’t even know what makes you do it — boredom, boldness, maybe something darker — but you let him take your hand.

Let him lead you through the blur of bodies, out past the velvet ropes, into the private elevator. No one stops you.

When the doors shut, you cross your arms, eyeing him. “You good?”

Luke turns slowly. “You danced with Quinn just to fuck with me.”

“Excuse me?” You laugh. “He’s my best friend. You’re the one acting like a child.”

His eyes drop — from your glare to your mouth to the slope of your bare thighs. His jaw ticks.

“I’m not a fucking kid anymore.”

“Oh, I know.” You smirk. “You’ve been walking around like a man ever since you put on ten pounds of playoff muscle.”

“Keep pushing me,” he warns. “See what happens.”

You tilt your head. “What are you gonna do, Hughes? Glare me to death?”

His lips crash into yours — not soft, not slow. It’s heat. Hunger. Frustration spilling over like it’s been bottled since the first time you called him “kid.”

You shove his chest once, hard.

“You’re being a jealous little shit,” you growl.

“And you’re pretending you don’t want this,” he snaps, crowding you backwards.

Your back hits the wall. His hand slaps beside your head. He leans in close, eyes dark.

“You think I don’t see it?” he breathes. “The way you look at me when you think no one’s watching? You touched Quinn like that just to make me lose it.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “It worked.”

You grab the collar of his shirt, yank him in, and kiss him like he’s a mistake you’re dying to make. He groans low in his throat, grabbing under your thighs and lifting you with zero hesitation. Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he walks you toward the bathroom — through the echo of your heart beating so loud you barely hear your own gasp.

He sets you down on the marble counter. The cold surface shocks your skin, but then his hands are under your dress, pushing it up, up, until it’s bunched around your waist.

Luke’s mouth is on your neck, biting softly.

“You wore this dress just to ruin me,” he mutters.

“I didn’t think you’d have the balls to do anything about it.”

He pulls back, eyes blazing. “Is that what you think?”

You smirk. “You’re my best friend’s little brother. What the hell were you gonna do?”

He sinks to his knees.

“I’m gonna remind you I’m not a fucking kid anymore.”

You barely manage to curse before his mouth is on you — lips hot, tongue sliding through your folds like he’s starving. He drags it slowly over your clit, circles once, twice, until your hips buck into his face. His hands grip your thighs hard, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck, Luke—”

He hums against you like he likes hearing his name like that. His tongue slips inside you, fucking you slow, filthy, deliberate. When he sucks on your clit, you moan — loud, sharp, uncontrollable. One hand shoots to his curls, pulling him in closer.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe. “Fucking don’t stop—”

You come on his tongue with a strangled cry, thighs trembling around his head, mouth slack, head tilted back against the mirror.

He doesn’t stop. He licks through your orgasm, then finally pulls back — lips wet, chin glistening, eyes wrecked.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he pants, standing again. “You, moaning my name. You coming for me.”

You slide off the counter, flip him toward the wall, and kiss him hard.

He fists your hair as you sink to your knees and unbuckle his belt. The clink echoes like something filthy in the room. You drag his jeans down, freeing his cock — hard, flushed, already leaking.

You look up at him, eyes wide.

“You’ve been thinking about this?”

He nods, breathing heavy. “Since I was nineteen.”

You wrap your lips around him slowly, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length, then take him deeper, hand stroking the base. Luke chokes on a moan, one hand bracing against the tile wall.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me—”

You pull back just enough to say, “Good.”

Then sink down again.

You bob your head, deeper each time, spit pooling around your lips, hand working where your mouth can’t. Luke whimpers — whimpers — fingers digging into your scalp, hips twitching against your face.

When you pull off with a soft pop, he looks wrecked. Desperate.

“I need to be inside you,” he begs.

You stand, take his hand, and walk him straight to the bed.

He fucks you with his whole body — hips rolling deep and slow, his hand gripping your thigh high on his shoulder, your leg hooked around his waist. He holds your jaw, kissing you like he means it now — like you’re his.

Every thrust hits deep, angle perfect, cock dragging right over your g-spot like he knows your body better than he should.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking tight—been dreaming about this—”

You’re breathless. “You like fucking Quinn’s best friend like this?”

“I like fucking you,” he growls. “And I’m not stopping.”

Your nails dig into his back. “Don’t stop.”

He grabs both wrists, pins them above your head, and slams into you — once, twice, again — and you come with a cry so loud it echoes. Your back arches, thighs shaking, muscles clenching around him until he can’t take it.

He lets go of your wrists, holds your face instead, and groans deep as he finishes inside you.

You’re both gasping when it’s over.

Sweaty. Bare. Fucked beyond all common sense.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“You don’t hate me,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just breathe with him.

Somewhere behind you on the nightstand, a marriage certificate flutters slightly under the AC.

⸻

You wake up to a migraine and the scent of coffee.

The light slicing through the curtains is brutal — too white, too loud. Your mouth tastes like vodka and regret. Your legs are tangled in hotel sheets that aren’t yours. There’s an ache between your thighs and the quiet hum of something that doesn’t belong.

You blink.

Then blink again.

You’re in a hotel suite. Expensive. Top floor. Not your room. Not your bed.

You’re wearing a shirt that’s too big — familiar, black, smells like clean sweat and cologne. Your underwear is gone. Your dress is crumpled on the floor in front of the couch.

And on your left hand?

A silver band.

Thin, shiny, delicate.

You stare at it for a full ten seconds before your pulse catches up.

“…No.”

You sit up too fast. The room spins. You clutch your forehead with one hand, holding the other out like the ring might burn.

“No, no, no—fuck, no.”

From across the room, a low voice breaks the silence.

“Morning.”

You snap your head around.

Luke’s sitting in an armchair by the massive floor-to-ceiling window. Shirtless. Barefoot. Hair messy in that post-fuck, smug bastard kind of way. His legs are spread, coffee mug in one hand, and the other?

Lifted lazily to show off his matching ring.

He wiggles his fingers, calm. “Yours is cuter, though.”

You choke. “What the fuck is this?!”

Luke sips his coffee. “Marriage.”

“Marriage?” You’re breathless. “Luke, no. We didn’t—we couldn’t have—”

“You wanna check the nightstand?”

You scramble out of bed, sheets tangling around your thighs, and sure enough — next to your bra and an empty champagne bottle — is a folded slip of paper.

Your hand shakes as you pick it up.

A wedding chapel receipt. Signed. Stamped. With both your full names. And a timestamp.

Your brain short-circuits. You clutch the sheet like it might rewrite itself if you just stare hard enough.

“Luke—”

He leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, mug hanging from his fingers. His voice is quieter now. Still teasing, but with something deeper curled beneath it.

“You didn’t say no.”

You stare at him. “I didn’t say anything. I was blacked out.”

“You weren’t.” He shrugs. “You were tipsy. Happy. You kissed me. You laughed. You said it felt right.”

Your stomach twists.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper. “We’re married.”

“Legally.”

You collapse back onto the edge of the bed, gripping your forehead.

“I hate you,” you mutter.

Luke hums, rising slowly from the chair. “You moaned my name five hours ago.”

You glare at him. “That was before I had a fucking ring on.”

He walks over, stops in front of you. Shirtless. Warm. Too real. You look up at him — at the messy curls, the smug mouth, the ring on his hand.

“I can take it off,” he says softly. “If you want.”

You swallow. Heart pounding.

But you don’t say yes.

You don’t move.

You just stare at the band on your finger like it belongs to someone else.

And Luke? Luke notices.

“You don’t hate me,” he says again. This time, with certainty.

⸻

You’re halfway into your dress — no panties, no bra, just the black slip of fabric twisted back onto your body — when the hotel room door swings open with a crash.

“Yo, are you guys—”

Jack Hughes freezes in the doorway.

His gaze moves from your tangled hair to your bare legs… to the fact that you are very much in Luke’s suite.

And Luke?

Luke’s sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants and a smirk. The thin gold ring is still on his left hand — glinting against the sunlight, intentional.

Jack’s mouth drops open. “NO.”

You flinch. “Jack—wait—”

“NO NO NO. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK—”

“Jack,” Luke says calmly, standing, “close the door.”

Jack doesn’t move. His voice cracks. “Did you fuck my enemy?!”

Luke tilts his head. “You mean my wife?”

You nearly collapse.

“WIFE?” Jack shrieks.

“I’ll kill you,” Jack mutters. “You married her? That’s like—against the rules of the universe. That’s—she literally called me a fungus last week—”

“I stand by it,” you mutter.

Luke’s completely unbothered. He walks across the room, grabs a t-shirt, and tosses it to you. You catch it with one hand, avoiding Jack’s scandalized expression.

“I’m going to vomit,” Jack says. “I can’t even process this.”

Then — another voice.

“Guys?”

You go stiff. Jack goes pale.

“Shit,” he whispers.

Quinn walks into view, eyebrows drawn together. “I’ve been knocking. Why are you—”

He stops.

Stares.

First at you. Then at Luke. Then — the rings.

The air dies.

Quinn looks at Luke, voice hollow. “Tell me this is a joke.”

Luke doesn’t flinch. “It’s not.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Jack moans, sitting on the floor like he’s physically collapsing under the weight of the trauma.

Quinn turns to you.

His voice isn’t angry — not yet. Just wounded. Quiet. Like something cracked.

“You married my little brother?”

You swallow. “Quinn—”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“After the club?”

“Yes.”

“Before or after he fucked you?”

“Jesus,” you snap. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“You married my brother.”

“I didn’t plan it!”

“You had sex with Luke!”

“I had sex with someone I wanted. Someone who’s not a man-child or emotionally frozen or too fucking scared to act on anything real.”

The room goes silent.

Jack blinks. “Is that about me or Quinn?”

“Both,” you mutter.

Luke steps in between you and his brother. “You can be pissed. Fine. But don’t talk to her like that.”

“She was my best friend.”

Luke’s voice is calm but firm. “She’s my wife.”

Jack groans. “Please stop saying that.”

You’re curled on the couch, wearing Luke’s shirt, legs in his lap.

“Still mad at me?” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles into your knee.

“I don’t know if I’m mad or terrified.”

“Why?”

You glance down at your ring.

“Because this is insane. Because I’m older. Because you’re you. And I’m—”

You cut yourself off.

Luke reaches for your hand. “You’re mine now.”

You meet his gaze. “You sure you want this?”

He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses the ring on your finger.

“I’ve wanted this since the second you stopped seeing me as Quinn’s little brother.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “That wasn’t last night.”

“I know.”

You breathe.

“You want an annulment?” he asks.

You hesitate.

“…No.”

His fingers curl under your chin, guiding you to look up at him.

“Then stop pretending we don’t belong to each other.”

And when he kisses you again, it’s soft. Real. Full of trouble.

But you kiss him back anyway

⸻

[user1smvtysturniolo]

Behave | Matt Sturniolo

Pairing: Matt x bratty!reader

Summary: Matt was always about letting you take control and do whatever you please. But you got way too bratty one night and he just wasn't having it

Trigger Warnings: unprotected sex, handjob, p in v, dirty talking, pet names, established relationship. Not proofread sorry

You were giving him attitude all day. You didnt have a reason to do so, you just were getting mad at little things and ignoring him constantly. Avoiding him when he tried to cuddle with you or even just get closer. He tried again, sitting beside you and wrapping an arm in your waist. You rolled your eyes and sat further away from him.

"C'mon" he groaned when he saw nothing was working. "What's wrong, sweetheart." You shivered at the nickname and pressed your thighs together trying to relieve the ache. He immediately noticed and held back a smirk. "I can make you feel better if that's what's happening." He got closer, held the back of your head and pressed a kiss on your lips. It was a peck, a feather-like touch. He held you so gently, as if you were some kind of treasure to protect.

You whined lowly at the lack of contact. You craved more, and he knew it. But you just werent going to beg him to give you something. You opened your eyes and looked at him, your pupils were so dilated and your eyes wide open. He was already undoing you with a kiss. He looked down at you, expecting you to beg him or tell him what you want and stop with this attitude. But you weren't going to give in so easily. You frowned at him for not already giving you what he obviously knew you wanted. Him, his lips, his body, his moans, his hair, his kisses, his dick.

You grunted and crossed your arms at your chest. "Matt!" You said, expecting him to do something else. Which he didn't. He just looked at you as if nothing was happening. "What, sweetie?" He murmured against your lips as he slowly moved his head to feel your lips against his. You whined and pushed him, you were about to get up to leave. But he grabbed your forearm, and forced you to turn at him. You looked at his eyes, they started lighting with something else. His eyes were darker, lustful, a sparkle you've never seen on him before. "Tell me what do you want?" You frowned harder and pouted your lips, knowing damn well he was teasing you. "Fuck you" you whined. he chuckled low, his voice deeper. Your back shivered and butterflies moved in your stomach, you didn't know exactly what he was thinking, but you knew his thoughts were dsngerous, he was dangerous.

He sat you down, spreading one of your legs with one of his hands. He moved his hand up your thigh, slowly while maintaining hard eye contact. He got closer and whispered against your ear "yeah, i'll do that..." He kissed you hard, this time with more passion. As if you had just ignited something deep within him. Both your tongues were battling for control, the heat of the moment was palpable. You kissed until you ran out for breath. He put his hand between ur thighs and started rubbing his palm against your core. You bite back a moan and started grinding against his hand. But he quickly pulled it out as he felt you getting needier, hornier.

"Matt!" You moaned. He smirked and tapped your thigh "Need you to tell me what you need, honey. You can't be bossing around expecting me to give you anything just like that. I wanna hear u scream it, moan it and feel it." You pressed hard at his shoulder when you heard his words, he never spoke to you like this. But you loved it, and you were kind of starting to give in. You looked up at him with pleading eyes as you leaned and started kissing his neck up until getting to his jaw. "Pleaseee" you whispered in his ear. "Baby, need you" you bit gently at his earlobe. "Please" I moaned against his ear. You sat in his lap and grinded slowly. He put his hands on your thighs signaling you to stop. "Don't do that" he said breathless, as you slowly felt his member poking against you. "Don't..." his tone was dangerous, you knew you were playing with fire but you wanted to know how far this would be. So you didn't listen and you continued rocking your hips.

He turned you around so he was on top of you. He grabbed your neck and pressed on it. "You aren't listening, are you?" He grunted as he pressed himself against your heated core. You whined at the friction and at the contact of his large hand on your neck. He removed your clothes and left you naked beneath him. As he started kissing every inch of your body, moving from your jaw down to your lower stomach. Once he got there he paused before getting where u need him most. You looked down, needy waiting for more. He just shook his head and smiled darkly.

He removed his clothes, leaving him only with boxers. "I first want you to tell me how much u need it, crave it. Touch it and make me feel good like the little good girl you are. We don't wanna be bratty" he paused and pressed on your clit "do we?" You whined and shook ur head. "Good" he smirked darky. He leaned on the bedframe. You sat up and removed his boxers. Revealing his big, large veiny dick. The tip was red and full of pre-cum, he looked like he was so hard it was painful. The least you could do is make him feel good. You looked up at his expression. He looked achingly hot. Flushed cheeks, sweat beads down his forehead, his eyes pressed shut, his chest heaving up and down.

Fuck, he looked so hot you could cum just from the sight.

You pressed your palm against his tip, slowly rubbing circles around him. He groaned agsinst your touch. You moved your hand down slowly tightening your touch on his dick. His sounds grew louder as you reached the end. You looked up at him one last tim before starting to pump your hand on his dick. Moans left his lips. And, inevitably you started grinding against the bed, thinking instead of your hand wrapping him, it was your pussy. His moans grew louder and he looked so close.

"Fuck baby im cumming" he groaned as he finally let go, his sticky release staining your whole chest. "That was so hot, Mattie" you smiled at him as he still was coming back from his high. "You look hot with my cum in your tits, babe." He smiled as he sat up and started licking your chest, cleaning you up in the most fucked up yet sexy way.

He finally looked at you when he finished cleaning you up. Grabbed your jaw and whispered against your lips. "Your hand took me so well, I have to reward you now, don't I?" "Yes, Mattie. Pleaaaaase." Fuck the attitude, you wanted him. You needed him. You craved him. And you were willing to do anything for it.

He smiled as he finally set you on the bed. He introduced two fingers in your core and you moaned at the sudden contact. "Fuck, your pussy is so wet, taking me so well" you whined, pleading for more. "You think i didn't notice you grinding against the bed, thinking its me. How your tits bounced and how red your nipples looked." He murmured against your neck as he curled his fingers in you. You gasped and then he removed them, leaving you a whiny horny mess. Before you could say anything you felt his tip against your entrance and you breathed hard as you gripped his hair, needing some sense of stability. He slowly started pounding more into you. Until he was all in. He gave you time to adjust at him.

Both of your heavy breaths were heard on the room along the sweet murmurs of his. When both of you were ready. He finally started rocking against you, at first it was slow and sweet. Until you both couldn't handle it anymore. He started rocking harder and rougher and you, started moving your hips up against him. You both were a moaning mess, the room was full of skin slapping against skin. And screams, pleads... but he seemed to reach his high faster. You felt his thrusts getting sloppier. "Baby, I'm gonna cum" he grunted as he gave you one last thrust before thick ropes of cum enveloped your walls. Your walls clenched tighter against him as you finally let go with a loud moan.

"Not so bratty, huh. Learned to behave." He murmured against your neck as you both came down from the high. You giggled at his words. Feeling much lighter and bubbly after being with him, like this.

Taglist: @ccxsturns @xoxo4chrisss @madisonb44r @courta13 @kenzieeluby @mattsfavginger @luvs4chrs @jessie-essie @thecrawlys @leila-marie4 @riggysworld @freshsturnzx @pair-of-pantaloons @riggysworld

Guys I havent wrote anything in MONTHS I hope u like this and im so sorry for not posting school was kicking my ass fr

[formulafanfics13]

Could you do a OB87 x reader x arthur leclerc smut??

Two Princes - OB87 & Arthur Leclerc 🔥

masterlist

Summary: In a shared hotel suite in Austria, you tease Arthur Leclerc and Ollie Bearman until the tension breaks. What follows is a filthy, intense, and emotionally charged threesome where Arthur takes control and Ollie follows his lead. The two of them worship and ruin you in tandem — with soft praise, dirty talk, and shared dominance — until you’re shaking, wrecked, and grinning. By the end, they’re both completely gone for you.

Warnings: explicit threesome (m/f/m), double dom dynamics, fingering, oral (m to f), titfucking, spit kink, cum play, praise kink, filthy dialogue, unprotected sex, possessive tension, slight power imbalance, soft aftercare, voyeurism/being watched, overwhelming intensity, jealousy-turned-threesome energy, emotionally feral Arthur, sweet-but-horny Ollie, very detailed smut.

It started in a hotel room in Austria. The kind of suite the FIA booked for rising stars and sons of legacy. Two bedrooms, a shared living space, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the track. Ollie Bearman had kicked his shoes off hours ago and was lying half-off the couch, hair messy, face flushed from the heat and adrenaline of a long day. Arthur Leclerc sat at the table with his laptop open, but he wasn’t reading. He was watching you.

Because you were pacing the room in nothing but one of their t-shirts and a pair of lace panties. Teasing them. Casually. Innocently. Like you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing. Like you didn’t realise the shirt was short enough to flash your thighs when you walked. Like you didn’t know your tits bounced with every step, nipples hard against the soft cotton. Like you didn’t feel the heat rising in the room like a storm about to break.

But you knew. Of course you knew.

Arthur was the first to crack. “Sit down,” he said quietly. Voice tight.

You turned slowly. One eyebrow raised. “Sorry?”

“I said,” he stood, walking toward you, “Sit. Down.”

Ollie sat up on the couch, watching. Wide-eyed. Breathing shallow. You sank onto the armrest, biting your lip.

Arthur stopped in front of you, jaw clenched. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Walking around,” you said softly.

“Like that?”

You shrugged. “I’m hot.”

Ollie’s eyes flicked between the two of you. He looked like he was holding his breath. Arthur turned to him. “She’s been like this all day,” he said. “Torturing me. Torturing us.”

Ollie flushed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to.” Arthur looked back at you. “Do you want us to snap? Is that it?”

You didn’t answer.

So Arthur kissed you. Hard. Hand in your hair. Teeth against your lower lip. Tongue slick and hot, claiming. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth,  “Get on your knees.”

You slid to the floor slowly. Heart hammering.

Ollie still hadn’t moved. He watched like a man possessed.

Arthur looked at him. “You coming or not?”

Ollie stood. Quietly. Walked over. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. He dropped to his knees beside you.

“She’s wet,” Arthur said, pushing your shirt up, slipping a hand between your thighs. “Of course she is. Filthy little thing.”

You whimpered.

“Take your shirt off,” he said. “Both of you.”

You obeyed.

Arthur sat back on the couch. Ollie knelt behind you now, bare chest brushing your back, arms sliding around to hold your waist.

“She’s shaking,” Ollie whispered. “Look.”

Arthur’s eyes darkened. “She’ll beg soon enough.”

Ollie kissed your shoulder. Your neck. Arthur spread your thighs and dragged two fingers through your folds. “Already soaked,” he muttered. “Just from teasing us.” He slipped one finger inside. Then two. Curling them just right, watching your face the entire time.

“Tell us what you want,” he said.

You gasped. “You. Both of you.”

Ollie kissed the back of your neck. “Good girl.”

Arthur pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean. “Get on the couch. On your back.”

You climbed up, heart racing. Ollie followed, settling beside you, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your tits. Arthur stripped below the waist. Ollie did the same.

It was surreal. Two of them. Two beautiful, reckless boys. One Monegasque and flushed with hunger. One British and cruel with control.

Arthur moved between your legs and dragged his cock through your wetness, slow and heavy. Ollie kissed you deeply as Arthur pushed in.

You moaned into his mouth, trembling as Arthur started to fuck you. Slow. Deep. Every thrust deliberate.

“Tell him how it feels,” Ollie murmured.

“So good,” you gasped. “He’s so deep.”

Arthur grunted. “You can take more.”

Ollie moved to straddle your chest. His cock hard and leaking, resting between your tits. You looked up at him and he smiled, almost shy.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

Arthur never stopped fucking you. Ollie slid his cock between your tits, holding them together as he thrust slowly. You licked at the head when it passed near your mouth, moaning when Arthur hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“You look perfect like this,” Ollie whispered. “Full. Fucked. Ours.”

Arthur’s rhythm quickened. His hands gripped your thighs. Ollie thrust faster between your breasts, pre-cum slick on your chest. The air was thick with heat and sweat and moans.

Arthur leaned down, kissed your lips. “You gonna come for me, baby?”

You nodded, whining.

Ollie groaned. “Her tits feel so good.”

Arthur fucked you harder. Ollie slipped two fingers into your mouth. You sucked them eagerly, gagging slightly when he pushed deeper. He moaned.

You came first. Shaking. Crying out. Clenching hard around Arthur’s cock as he swore and fucked you through it.

Ollie came next, hot and sticky across your chest. Arthur followed, gritting his teeth as he spilled inside you, collapsing against your thighs with a low, broken sound.

You lay there, ruined. Drenched. Marked. They cleaned you up between kisses. Laughed. Whispered. Ollie kissed your forehead. Arthur licked his cum from your thighs.

“You’re staying with us tonight,” Arthur murmured.

“She’s never walking again,” Ollie grinned.

You smiled. “Worth it.”

[siachaos]

lara raj x reader where lara is a vampire but reader isn't aware until they makeout so hard reader suddenly notices her fangs but that turns the reader on more so it went to more than just a makeout

🎧 now playing: heavenly creatures – Wolf Alice

“BLOOD ON YOUR TONGUE”

✦ pairing: lara (katseye) × fem!reader

✦ genre: dark romance, vampire AU

WARNINGS:

vampire!lara ✶ dom!lara ✶ human!reader ✶ supernatural tension ✶ oral ✶ fingering ✶ blood kink (no biting) ✶ power play ✶ fearplay-adjacent ✶ restraint/control ✶ bloodlust restraint ✶ heavy makeout ✶ neck fixation

SUMMARY:

Lara invites you to her place. You don’t know she’s a vampire.You kiss her like it’s the last night of your life—and she kisses like she’s been dead for centuries.When you see her fangs, you don’t run.You spread your legs.And she fucks you slowly, desperately, holding back the monster inside.But barely.

🦇“you don’t know what you’re doing to me. your blood’s in the air and your legs are open. you think i can survive that?”

✦ AUTHOR’S NOTE: ✦

Omg vampire Lara?? She’s so sexy it’s actually unreal. The bloodlust, the control, the fangs hovering over skin,yeah. I had way too much fun writing this, and I’m already full of filthy ideas 😭🖤 Hope you enjoy it because I am not normal about her.

The night air was thick with mist and mystery, curling in ghostlike tendrils around your ankles as you walked up the old stone path to Lara’s place. You’d never been here before, only heard vague descriptions—elegant, gothic, a little weird but sexy as hell. That was Lara. Strange, intoxicating, impossible to figure out.

She opened the door before you knocked. Of course.

“Hey,” you said, maybe a little breathless. You blamed the walk—not the way she was leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, her long black coat hanging open over a wine-colored silk shirt and those black leather pants that fit like sin.

“You’re late,” Lara said, lips curling into a smirk.

You glanced at your phone. “By three minutes.”

“Still late.” She stepped aside, letting you in with a look that could pin you to the wall. “Come in. I don’t bite.”

You chuckled. “That’s a shame.”

If only you knew.

Her place was nothing like you expected—dark wood floors, blood-red drapes, candles burning low in iron sconces. It looked like something out of an old novel. There were books stacked everywhere, and the air smelled like cloves, old pages, and something you couldn’t quite place,something warm, metallic, and oddly enticing.

You took it all in, trying not to look as nervous as you felt. Lara’s presence always had a way of pulling something wild out of you, something that wanted to flirt with danger just to see what would happen.

“You live alone?” you asked, trailing a hand along the edge of a mahogany bookshelf.

“Of course,” she said, coming up behind you. Her voice was a low purr near your ear. “Wouldn’t want to share.”

Her fingers brushed the small of your back and you shivered—slightly, involuntarily.

“Cold?” she asked, clearly amused.

“No,” you lied.

She turned you around slowly, deliberately. “You shouldn’t be here, you know.”

“Oh?” you raised an eyebrow, your heart skipping a beat.

“Dangerous girls live here.” Her gaze flicked to your lips. “Girls who like to taste things they shouldn’t.”

You laughed softly, tilting your head. “What if I like danger?”

Lara’s eyes flashed—too fast, too sharp. But it was gone in a blink. “Then maybe... you’ll get exactly what you’re asking for.”

You didn’t look away from Lara’s eyes, even as she stepped closer. The air between you thickened—electrified. She smelled like firewood and wine and something darker, something primal. It made your skin tingle.

She leaned in, her hand brushing up your arm, fingertips trailing your shoulder, your neck. You held your breath.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” she murmured, her lips ghosting your cheek.

“Then teach me,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

Lara kissed you like she’d been waiting centuries for it.

Her lips were soft but demanding, moving with a hunger that stunned you. You kissed her back, gasping into her mouth as she backed you into the nearest wall, her hands everywhere—your waist, your neck, your thigh. You weren’t sure when your jacket hit the floor. You didn’t care.

Her mouth traced down your jawline, tongue flicking against your pulse point. It sent a shock through your whole body.

You barely noticed the way her breathing changed. Shaky. Rough.

But you noticed her mouth hesitate just a second too long at your throat.

You felt it before you saw it.

The faintest press of something sharp. Not nails. Not teeth—

Fangs.

Your fingers tensed on her shirt. She pulled back, just slightly, lips red, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them—almost black, like twin pools of ink.

And the fangs—long, gleaming, inhuman peeking from her parted lips.

You should’ve been terrified.

But the rush of adrenaline in your blood didn’t bring fear. It brought heat.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, voice shaking,but not with fear. “You’re a vampire.”

Lara stilled.

Her jaw clenched. “You need to leave.”

You stared at her. Her chest was rising and falling fast, her pupils blown wide, fangs still visible. She looked wild. Dangerous. Beautiful.

“I don’t want to.”

“This isn’t a game, sweetheart.”

“I never said it was.”

Her hands were on your waist again before you could blink, pinning you to the wall. You gasped as her thigh slid between yours, her voice a low growl.

“Say it again. That you’re not afraid.”

“I’m not,” you said. “God, Lara, I want you.”

Lara hissed softly, eyes fluttering closed for a second. You could tell she was holding something back. Barely.

She kissed you again—harder this time, almost punishing. It was heat and teeth and desperation.

You moaned into her mouth as she lifted you off the floor, your legs wrapping around her automatically. She carried you effortlessly, like you weighed nothing, into the dark of her room.

The bed was soft and cold against your back.

Her hands, her mouth, her teeth,everywhere. You were drowning in her, unraveling beneath her touch. And through it all, she never bit. Even when her lips lingered at your throat. Even when she trembled with the effort.

She was holding back.

You could feel it.

But she never stopped.

And you never wanted her to.

Lara’s mouth was at your throat again, but this time, she didn’t kiss. She hovered. Breathing you in.

Her lips trembled.

You could feel the sharp tips of her fangs graze your skin, just barely—like she was teasing herself more than teasing you. You tangled your fingers in her hair, arching your neck to give her more.

“I said I’m not afraid,” you whispered, voice thick with want.

“I heard you,” she rasped, but her body was rigid. “That doesn’t mean I get to lose control.”

You cupped her face, guiding her back to your lips. She kissed you hungrily, her hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that made your breath catch. Every part of her was warm, pressed against you like a fire that could burn you alive—and you’d let it.

Her shirt came off first. Then yours. Her mouth explored your collarbones, your chest, the curve of your stomach, like she was memorizing you with her tongue.

You couldn’t stop trembling. Not from fear—but from the pressure building between your legs. From the way she looked at you like she was starving.

You weren’t sure if it was for sex… or blood.

Maybe both.

She kissed down your body with reverence and hunger, her touches alternating between gentle and possessive. You let her take control, gasping when her fingers found your soaked underwear.

She paused.

You blinked, panting. “Why are you stopping?”

She looked up at you. Her eyes were glowing now, faintly red in the candlelight.

“I can smell your blood,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s in everything. Your sweat. Your breath. I can feel your pulse in your thighs.”

Your breath hitched. “Lara…”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, shaking her head like she was trying to clear it.

“I want you. I do. But you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You leaned up and kissed her again, slow this time. Gentle. “Then take me. Just… don’t bite.”

Her groan was almost guttural. “Fuck. You don’t make this easy.”

You smiled. “You like a challenge.”

Lara didn’t answer with words. She answered with her mouth—kissing down your stomach again before slipping your underwear down your thighs.

And then she buried her face between your legs.

The moan that tore from you echoed off the walls.

She was good. Too good. Inhumanly good. Her tongue moved in ways that made your back arch, your thighs tremble. She took her time, learning every sound you made, like she was studying how to ruin you perfectly.

When she added her fingers, you almost came undone.

But even as you lost yourself in the overwhelming pleasure, you were aware of her breathing—heavy, ragged. Of how tense her body had become. She was holding herself back like it was killing her.

“Lara,” you whimpered. “It’s okay.”

She looked up at you, mouth wet, lips swollen, pupils blown wide.

“No, it’s not. If I lose focus for even a second…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

But you reached for her anyway, pulling her back up your body. You kissed her like you meant to break her restraint—like you wanted to be tasted, even if she couldn’t bite.

“Then don’t think,” you murmured against her lips. “Just fuck me.”

Lara growled. Growled—deep and low and almost feral.

And then she gave in.

She moved like something unchained.

Lara kissed you again, rough and deep, as her fingers slid back between your legs—confident now, practiced, and devastating. She pressed inside you slowly, filling you in a way that made your mouth fall open, breath catching in your throat.

You clung to her, nails digging into her back, your legs wrapped tight around her hips. She moved with purpose, curling her fingers just right, and the sensation lit fireworks behind your eyes.

“You feel like heaven,” she breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “And I’m stuck in hell trying not to fucking bite you.”

Your heart thundered, not in fear, but want. You reached up and kissed her—soft, then hungry, then shamelessly open as you rocked against her hand.

Lara cursed under her breath, teeth gritted.

She pressed her lips to your throat again, and this time, you felt her tremble—not with hesitation, but desperation.

“Let go,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

She froze.

You felt her breath—hot and shallow—against your skin. Her fangs grazed you again, too light to break the surface. She shuddered.

Then she moved her mouth away, burying her face against your shoulder.

“I can’t,” she growled. “I want to, but if I taste you… if I start…”

You kissed her jaw, her temple, anything you could reach. “Then don’t start. Just stay here with me. Like this.”

Her pace picked up again, fingers thrusting deeper, rougher, her thumb circling your clit in tight, precise strokes. You cried out, hips bucking. You were close—so close—and Lara could feel it.

“Come for me,” she whispered. “Right here. In my arms.”

You broke.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, wracking through your whole body, stealing your breath and your thoughts. You came hard, gasping her name over and over, fingers tangled in her hair like you might drown without her.

Lara didn’t stop—kept moving through your pleasure, drawing every last spasm out of you until you were shaking, boneless, dazed.

Only then did she pull her fingers from you and bring them to her lips.

You watched.

She licked them clean—slowly, deliberately and moaned.

“God,” she muttered. “You don’t know how hard this is.”

You reached for her, pulling her down into your arms.

“Tell me.”

She laid beside you, arm draped across your waist, her face still buried against your neck.

“I haven’t touched a human in years,” she murmured. “Not like this. It’s not just sex. It’s scent. Skin. Blood. The way your heart races when I’m on top of you… I feel it everywhere. It drives me fucking insane.”

You stroked her hair gently. “But you didn’t bite.”

She pulled back enough to look at you. “Barely.”

“But you didn’t.”

Her expression softened, just barely. “Yeah.”

You smiled, brushing her cheek with your thumb. “Then maybe we’ll figure this out.”

Lara’s voice was low, dangerous. “Or maybe I’ll lose control one day and ruin you forever.”

Your heart jumped—but not in fear.

“I’m willing to risk it,” you whispered. “Are you?”

She stared at you for a long, heavy second.

And then she kissed you. Slow this time. Like she didn’t want it to end.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

What if Stan got cursed to randomly break into song along with anyone in proximity?

Stan's life becomes a musical and he hates it.

Wait, wait.

Stan's cursed to live in a musical, and usually he's the only one who realizes that this is not normal. All his worst moments have catchy songs attached(Chewed Out! (trunk) Getting Lost (losing someone on his tail) Missing Pieces (kidney stolen) Dark Side of the Heart (Stan at the phone in the middle of the night), Bridge the Gap (Standing on a bridge))

Its awful. Can't sing to himself without one of his songs getting stuck in his head and bringing memories of his worst moments. He avoids people whenever he can because back up singers are the worst.

Then the post card (Shine a light), and the drive (Rush to Hope), and finally the door, (Bridge the Gap (revise)).

Stan knocks, Fords opens, everything's the same, right up until Fords shoves the book into Stan's hands and tells him to leave forever. Stan's frowning, shock going through him and turning it into rage, and the background music starts playing, Stan's already used to it, he's opening his mouth, staring to talk, and then-

Ford: What the?

Stan: Thats it?! (dun dun)

Ford: Where's the music coming from?

Stan, who can't not sing but is also weirded out that Fords acknowledging the music: You finally want to see me again after all these years! (Dun Dun)

Ford: Stanley, do you- no, no never mind (thinks its Bill)

Stan: And its to tell me to get as far away from you as possible? (DUN DUN)

Music plays, Fords staring at Stan in confusion and Stan's also confused on why Fords not singing as he bursts into song (Thrown away? Sail away? Final Push? Something angsty). Stan's singing his feelings out, about how he's been waiting for Ford to need him, doing his best out there in the world, and right when he's about to (Bridge the gap!) Ford turns and pushes him away.

Ford is not singing, he's sort of angry but also freaking out? Especially if the portal gets swept up in the curse and starts beeping along with the music. Its not turning away but Fords watching as the window in the back lights up and flashes with the buttons rhythmic tempo, metal creaks, the wood above them groans, the works. All of its to the music that Ford can here, but isn't compelled to sing to?

(Bill messed with his brain so much, or maybe a brain can only handle one puppeteer at a time)

But! The music makes do, it adapts, and there's dramatic pauses for Ford to yell his confusion or anger at whatever Stan's accusingly sung at him, right until Stan's only sort of compelled to burn the journal. Then he's tackling Stan, who's now also mixing dancing into the fight, its very choreographed, looks good? But also they're fighing, Ford yells something, Stan sings back, the lights of the portal flash on, everything timed with the music, and then-!

Stan gets branded, right as the music cuts out. (Final push! on Fords end :)).

Could go two ways.

Angst, the music slowly picks back up, darker and angry, Stan punches Ford, shoves the journal into his arms and over the line (final push! Stans end :)), canon happens, but now Gravity Falls in a musical right up until Ford gets back, now protected from the reality bending by his metal plate (Fiddleford is also protected by his scattered mind, he just joins in anyway).

At this point Ford was convinced the singing was a halucination, that it didn't really happen that way, but the moment he's back in the basement, and punches Stan he twitches as the music starts, and then its (Final Push, Reprise) as they argue, which fades into another song as Stan sings about their childhood (Shattered Dreams). Ford is still not singing, still confused.

Especially because everyone else is singing. Dipper is singing out questions, Mabel's excitingly trying to fill the gaps, Soos is beatboxing and adding sound effects, and Fords standing there, talking like people talk? In this dimension? Is this the wrong one?

No, every test shows the same thing, this is his dimension. Its just. more musically. Then he remembered.

????

More musicals happening around Ford, he cannot get away from it, and no one says anything and seem confused when he asks about it. Except when he asks Stan, Stan brushes him off gruffly.

Then, weirdmaggedon. And Stan sacrifices himself (Final Push, Reprise), and they find Stan, sitting there in the grass.

Music plays, and Stan looks around and asks where it's coming from? Then singing (Brand New World) in confusion, before shrugging and going with it. Thats when Ford realizes Stan could always hear the music, was the only one aware of how weird it was, but was stonewalling Ford because why should Stan have to explain his life to someone who doesn't care about who Stan is as a person.

Memory gets restored, Ford finally asks, gets explained that Stan's cursed, has been cursed for years, and its just a thing that happens now. Reconciliation in (Final Push, Reprise) Ford letting himself awkwardly sing with Stan.

Less angsty version is the music cuts out, Stan slumps over, exhasted from singing and dancing on an empty stomach, and Fords left standing there, still confused? Was-was this real? what?

Then no portal au Ford taking care of branded Stan while tying Stan to the couch because he keeps getting compelled to dance and sing about his feelings, and it is not helping the healing. Neither is all the lullabies Stan keeps singing at him, please stop.

[pamisn]

Sweet Scented Pomegranate

♡ PAIRING — Caleb x fem!reader

♡ SYNOPSIS — Caleb comes back from a hangout with friends, but he feels... weird. And it doesn't get better, when in the following days he disappears.

♡ TAGS — Suggestive themes, vampires, vampire turning, biting, blood drinking, licking

♡ WORD COUNT — 4,6K

♡ LINKS — AO3

Caleb didn't usually go to these hangouts. 

He preferred spending these late friday nights with you, cuddling in your big couch while watching some corny movie you picked, and loving it all the same. But today was different, after all Gideon had invited him over for a boys hangout, and you had pushed him to go, saying he needed "some time to unwind with guys his age". You thought he deserved some time with his friends after all.

So caleb found himself walking through Skyhaven, approaching one of their friend's houses as the sun slowly set, the golden hour approaching. He reached the entrance, knocking gently but firmly on the door. It didn't take long for Gideon to open it, a grin on his face.

"I thought you'd take longer, bet you didn't want to leave her at home at all"

Gideon spoke, moving to the side to let Caleb in. The young pilot chuckled, the image of you basically pushing him out of the door and telling him to have fun replaying in his head. You knew if you had asked him to stay, he would of. But you felt guilty, always keeping him by your side, not realizing it was his choice, too. So, you pushed him to at least go hang out with his friends today outside of work.

"She kicked me out"

Caleb simply said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked like a puppy who had to sleep outside, and his friend couldn't help but chuckle. Him and Gideon made their way to the living room, their three other friends waiting for them as they laughed and drank some soda. Two were sitting on the large couch, on opposite sides, as the third sat on the floor, back to the couch. They all looked like they were having fun as Gideon walked towards the couch, with Caleb following suit.

"There you are! We were waiting for you to start playing!"

One of the guys on the couch said, his name being Hayden. The other guy on the couch, Kyle, nodded to his friend's words, bringing a soda to his lips. He then raised it, grinning. A table game was set on the coffee table, its cards already out and ready for playing. It was the perfect game night.

"Yeah! We've got the whole night to have fun!"

His friend cheered, and Gideon chuckled, raising his own glass. Chase grinned, sitting on the floor as he drunk from his own glass, before Caleb looked at all of his friends, sighing in defea. He drank down some soda, settling down to play, but his eyes couldn't help but land on Chase. He looked... weird. A little paler, like he hadn't been outside for a while. And his eyes, they looked like they were a slight different color, as if he were wearing contacts.

Caleb wanted to ask about it, but this night was all about having fun, and you would of wanted him to have fun too. So he moved on, ignoring Chase's weird behavior. The living room was filled with laughter, and it really did look like a normal evening with friends, though it was about to turn into something much darker.

-

The night went by pretty fast, it wasn't long before it was already 1AM. Caleb sighed, though he couldn't help but smile at the state of Gideon, Hayden, and Kyle. They were cuddled up on the couch, absolutely passed out and drooling. His mind went back to you, slowly getting up and stretching as he fetched his things. He could picture you on the living room couch, snoring softly as you had so desperately tried to stay up, waiting for him. He had thought about you all night, and he couldn't wait to go home and carry you to bed. 

"I'll get going now"

He said, turning to Chase. He could swear he saw the shine of a fang peek from Chase's grin, but perhaps it was just his imagination, and he deemed it that. Chase smiled, nodding as he got up to walk Caleb to the door. The night was particularly cold, and only the sound of the crickets could be heard.

Chase pulled Caleb in for a goodbye hug, the friendly gesture seemingly normal, but Caleb felt it. When Chase had pulled him in, there was a subtle feeling of strength that hadn't been there before. Then, Chase whispered something in Caleb's ear. He wasn't sure what it was, all he knew was that his head started feeling weird, but perhaps he had been too tired after their hangout. They stood there in that "hug" for a while, before Caleb snapped back to reality, with Chase pulling away. His neck felt weird, and his hand shot up to touch over what felt like two very small holes, pulling it away to see blood.

"You okay? you look like you've seen a ghost! Oh, I think a bug bit ya"

Chase said, a grin on his lips. He pointed to the supposed bug bites, and caleb nodded slowly, confused. He chuckled, nodding as he took a step back, hand coming down to clutch the necklace you gave him. He tasted blood in his mouth, had he bit the inside of his cheek?

"Haha..Yeah, im definitely a bit tired. I'll see you around"

He turned around, walking down the street as he faded off in the night. A faint red glint flashed from Chase's eyes, unbeknownst to the other guy. A smirk on his lips, and the lingering taste of blood on his tongue. 

-

It wasn't long before Caleb finally reached his house. He reached for his keys, his hand twitching slightly as he unlocked the front door. It was weird, he didn't usually twitch, or shake like that, but he figured he must of been so tired that exhaustion got to him. 

He entered the house, a smile immediately making it's way to his handsome face as he closed the door behind him. You were draped in a fuzzy blanket, sleeping peacefully on his couch as you had so desperately tried to stay up and welcome him home. He made his way towards you, crouching down to be at face level with your peaceful, sleeping expression. Caleb's hand reached out, gentle, soft, as his fingers brushed some stray hair from your face. 

He always thought you looked adorable like this, sprawled on his couch, drooling and snoring as you clearly enjoyed your rest. He chuckled when you turned, kicking the air as if you were in a fight.

"Working even in your dreams, pips?"

He whispered, brushing his lips against your forehead, a barely felt kiss as he slid one arm under your knees, the other around your waist. He picked you up, carefully, not wanting to interrupt your sleep. He carried you to your room, though it had been his up untill you decided it was that one that you wanted. Who was he to deny you? So he let you stay in his room, after all, whatever you said, went. He settled you on the bed, pulling the sheets over your body, tucking you in.

He noticed his hands still twitching, and he arched an eyebrow, confused at his own body's reaction. Had he really been that tired? Was he sick? Caleb heaved out a sigh, leaning in close to your face to kiss your forehead. He allowed himself that much, after all you always seemed to like his forehead kisses.

"Goodnight, sweet girl"

He whispered, smiling as you rolled in your sleep, a self satisfied smile on your lips. He couldn't help but slightly smirk at that, you were just too cute to him. He left the room, ready to take a quick shower, and once he was all good, Caleb slipped into his pajama and went to his room. You had bought it for him, and it directly matched yours, just as most of Caleb's things did.

Caleb's eyes fell shut as he drifted into his sleep, and that night, he seemed to have especially vivid nightmares. He often had them, so it was nothing new, but this time they were about his teeth sinking into your neck. 

-

You didn't remember making your way to Caleb's room, yet you were tucked nicely under soft blankets by the time you woke up. You figured you must of passed out while trying to wait for him, and he probably found you sprawled over the couch, drooling and snoring..

The thought made you feel slightly embarrassed, but it wasn't anything Caleb hadn't seen before. If anything you were embarrassed because you couldn't tough it out till he arrived. You stirred, stretching your body as you got out of the bed. The sound of footsteps could be heard all the way from the kitchen as you tried to be quiet, sneaking up behind what seemed to be a very busy Caleb.

Caleb chuckled as he turned around, grabbing your wrists and pulling your arms up in victory before you could give him a back hug. His eyes widened slightly, but you couldn't exactly tell why, as they quickly went back to normal. He felt.. stronger than usual. And he also seemed a little paler.

"Hey! That's not fair!"

You retorted, squirming in his grip as you puffed your cheeks. That only earned a soft chuckle from caleb, as he looked down at you like he just won the world. His grip tightened, and at that could only earn a wince from you. He usually didn't go this strong on you, so you looked up at him confused. 

As soon as he heard your pained noise, Caleb's eyes widened, and he released your wrists. He put his hands up in defeat, looking at them briefly before that. It was as if he hadnt realized he was going so strong. 

"Im sorry pipsqueak, you okay? Did i go too hard?"

He immediately took that gentle, concerned tone that made you want to always give him a reason to be worried for you. You nodded no, rubbing your wrists as you smile at him. Sure, it was weird, and Caleb looked like his whole body was tense, like he was holding back, on edge. But, you thought maybe he was just tired from yesterday's hangout.

"It's okay, I'm okay, Caleb. But you don't seem so okay, why're you so pale?"

You asked, reaching out to run your hand over his exposed arm. You felt Caleb tense at the touch, his ears turning red as he seemed stunned, like he didn't know what to do, but you weren't sure why. He nodded no, gently taking your hand and bringing it to where his heart is, his brows in what seemed to be a frown.

"I'm okay, just a little sick"

You could only give an understanding smile, not wanting no pry any further. You trusted that if Caleb was truly sick, he would of told you so. He smiled at you, letting go of your hand as he gestured for you to move, so he could continue cooking breakfast for you. After all, he wouldn't want you to leave on an empty stomach. You happily complied, sitting down at the living room table, this is your last day in Skyhaven, you'd have to cherish and enjoy every last bit of Caleb's cooking you could get. 

As you ate the breakfast he so sweetly prepared for you, you couldn't help but notice Caleb's gaze. He had a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead, and he kept staring at you, but not at your face.

He was staring at your neck.

He kept licking his lips unconsciously, gulping, and it was as if he was in a trance, thirsty. He looked like a predator ready to pounce on his prey, and at the same time his body was so tense as if he was holding back with every fiber of his being. You snapped your fingers in front of his face, trying to catch his attention.

"Earth to Caleb? You look like you're going to eat me up"

You asked, teasingly. Caleb snapped out of it, chuckling almost nervously as he quickly got up to settle your dishes in the sink. You kept asking if he was okay, and he kept saying it was "just a cold". By the time you left Skyhaven, Caleb saw you off with a warm hug. But it was tight. Did he always hug you this tight? You could feel him nuzzle into the crook of your neck, almost.. sniffing you, before he tensed up, quickly pulling away.

You didn't have time to question him, work was calling after all.

-

Caleb's life took a harsh turn after that. He rushed home, avoiding any person he possibly could. He felt.. restless. He entered his house, stumbling to the bathroom as his breath hitched. He looked in the mirror, a hand coming up to graze his own cheek. Had he always been so pale? And why was he so sweaty? 

His days started getting worse. First, it was just the being restless, the paleness.. Then the noises were too loud, his work at the fleet turning into pure hell. He would occasionally space out in the middle of meetings, all he could think about was you.. No, not just you, but your scent. Your sweet, sweet scent. It made him so..hungry.

He eventually had to excuse himself, saying he was sick so he had to take a break from work. It didn't take long for people to buy it, after all, Caleb was looking pale and twitching, restless as if he hadn't slept in a while. And it was true, he hadn't. Since you had left, he had not gotten a blink of sleep. 

Caleb started ordering groceries at home, he had noticed that whenever he stepped outside, he'd get sunburnt way too easily. He even tried applying sunscreen, but it only lasted for 15 minutes. He often found himself walking to your room, the one he always kept ready for your stay. He would fall on the bed, nuzzling in the sheets, sniffing your scent as his heart raced and his lips parted to take in the fabric. It was the most he could taste of you, and when he realized what he was doing, he'd quickly get up, face flushed all the way to his ears, and leave your room in a hurry. 

  He was standing in front of the stove, it had been a harsh 4, 5 days maybe? He had lost count, he hadn't seen the light of the sun, his whole house was dark and lit with candles. He was trying to cook a steak, but he hadn't been able to eat anything, and he didn't have the energy to cook, either. He thought a nice, homecooked meal might do it, just like it did it for you whenever you were sick.

But Caleb realized how mistaken he was. He found himself gulping while looking at the raw steak, still in its container. He hadn't turned on the stove yet, and it wasnt the steak that appealed him, it was the blood. Caleb involuntarily gulped, he didn't know what was wrong with him, but he couldn't help but lean down, his tongue darting out to lick at the red liquid in the container.

"..Fuck."

He groaned under his breath, gripping the container as he brought it to his lips. He didn't even realize he drank every single drop till he set it down, licking his lips and breathing heavily. Caleb didn't know what was wrong with him, but at least he had realized something. He needed to stay away from you. This need he felt.. he couldn't satisfy it. Not with animal blood, not with another person's. It had to be you. He'd never forgive himself if he were to hurt you, and since he was sick, he locked himself up.

-

Caleb always texted you good morning. He texted you before work, during work, after work.. It didn't matter where he was. So why hadn't he texted you these days? You were busy fighting wanderers, and there were also some cases of people supposedly biting and sucking other people's blood. The two seemed to be connected, especially since it all started from a person being scratched by a particular wanderer, but you weren't entirely sure yet.

You had tried to call Gideon, but he said that he hadn't heard from Caleb either. You called Liam, and he said that Caleb hadn't gone to work lately. So you had no choice, you just had to go see for yourself just what was going on with him, right?

You made your way to his apartment, and immediately noticed the way his blinds were all shut. You could only imagine how dark it was inside, but you were definitely going to find out. You reached for the door, using the keys Caleb had explicitly given you so you could make yourself at home whenever. 

But the keys didn't work. Had he changed the lock? Why was he going this far to keep everyone out? To keep you out? You wouldn't let this stop you, though. You took out your gun, aiming it at the lock and shooting at it. The door hung open, and you made your way inside.

It was extremely dark, or it would of been if it weren't for the candles that adorned the place. You looked around the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, and his room.. But Caleb was nowhere to be seen. That only left one room to check, so you made your way to his former bedroom, which was now yours.

The door was creaked open, and you could see the silhouette of a tall guy laying on your bed. It was Caleb. He was gripping the sheets, and he seemed to be holding them against his face. You couldn't help but feel extremely confused as you pushed the door open, a soft creak emitting from it as you stood at the doorframe.

You walked closer, as Caleb's eyes shot towards you. You stood in front of the bed, gun dropping to the floor as you stared at him. His face was flushed, all the way to his ears, and his drool coated the sheets. The fabric was directly in his mouth, and he was curled up.

Caleb had sniffed your scent from the moment you had entered the house. He was so desperate, trying to hold back, curling up in himself and gripping the sheets as he kept some in his mouth. That's all he was allowed to have, who knows what he would of done to you, if you were in front of him? But now you were. You were right there, and Caleb couldn't help but bite down on the sheets harder.

"Caleb? What are you... No, moreover, are you okay?"

Your tone was soft, as you tried to walk closer to him. The sheets fell from Caleb's mouth as he growled, scooting back to the other end of the bed. He brought his hand to his mouth, biting down on it so hard that it drew blood. You reached out towards him, yanking his hand away as his eyes widened in surprise.

"Pips...fuck, please stay away"

His tone was desperate, it was needy. So how could you stay away? You let go of his wrist, and with your hands coming up to cup his cheeks, you turned his head to look at you. His eyes.. they had a faint, red hue to them, his face was pale, yet his cheeks were flushed. And when your eyes landed on his mouth, you couldn't help but notice the tiny fangs poking through as his jaw tensed. 

"Caleb..?"

You muttered his name, and god, he hated your for it. You were making it so hard for him to hold back, he really was trying to not hurt you. But he couldn't help it, he was way too fast for you to stop as he pinned you down on the bed. He breathed heavily on your neck. Your pulse, your scent.. it was sweet, almost fruity. Like a pomegranate.

At first, you squirmed under him, calling out to him and trying to snap him back from whatever was going on with him. But then it clicked. The wanderers, the infected people, the blood sucking... Caleb, somehow, had gotten bitten, and ingested infected blood. But how? It didn't matter now. Your instinct wasnt to push him off, nor to call for backup. If they had found out what Caleb was.. what would of happened to him? Would they of killed him? Experimented on him, maybe? You would of never let that happen to him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, as you couldn't help but shiver as his lips brushed against your neck. Caleb was gripping the sheets tightly with one hand, but the other was holding yours, fingers intertwined. You could feel his body tensed up, his breath heavy, his heart racing. It followed the rhythm of your own perfectly. 

"Please..push me off.. God, please shoot me."

Caleb groaned against your neck, and you felt a pang hit your chest. He had locked himself up, isolated himself, and possibly starved himself.. He had ignored you up untill now, all to protect you. It's what he always did, and so you bit the inside of your cheek, fingers curling tighter in his hair as you pulled his head closer. Caleb's eyes widened, his face couldn't possibly flush more than this, as his eyes shot up. He couldn't quite see you, but he was confused, and he was in pain, he needed you, and he didn't want to.

"It's okay, Caleb. Drink up. I promise you it's okay, you won't hurt me"

You whisper, voice soft against his ear as you stroke his head. If he didn't eat, he would die. And from the other cases that had been documented, you knew that he needed to consume blood. 

Caleb tensed up, breathing heavily as he hesitated. He really didn't want to hurt you, but God, you smelled so sweet, and he was so hungry. You were all he had been thinking about. His tongue darted out, licking a long stripe up your neck. The taste of your skin made him grip the sheets tighter, as his other hand held onto yours equally tighter. He suckled at the sink, just relishing in your taste. But god, it wasn't enough, he wanted to go deeper. 

You couldn't help but bite the inside of your cheek harder at his action, tasting your own blood, breathing heavily as you felt your face warm up. He was on top of you, holding your hand while he got ready to feast on you. You could only squeeze his hand, as if giving him permission.

And Caleb took it as that. After a taste of your skin, he couldn't hold back anymore. He parted his lips, sinking his fangs in your neck as he feasted on you. The taste of your blood was intoxicating, making him moan pathetically against your neck. His face was flushed all the way to his ears, and he was absolutely devouring you. He was drooling all over your neck, sucking desperately, as if it was not enough. He needed more, he wanted to taste you till his throat couldn't gulp anymore. 

And the worst part was, that you were loving it. You tugged on his hair, not urging him to stop, but urging him to continue. It felt equally intoxicating to you, as you let out soft sighs, your whole body burning up. Eventually you started to feel dizzy, so you tugged harder on his hair, urging him to stop.

Caleb took the cue, kind of coming to his senses as he pulled back from your neck, slightly. Once he pulled back fully, he looked down at you with those soft, puppy eyes you've always loved. They were fully red now. You could see the guilt spreading on his face as he realized what he had done.

You ran your hand through his hair, earning a shuddering breath from him as he looked down at you. 

"Shit.. I'm so sorry, oh my god. I'm so sorry, pips"

Caleb panicked as his eyes shot to your neck. He had let go of his self control, he had bitten you. He had feasted on your sweet blood and he couldn't forgive himself for it. That's what he would of liked to say, but what was he supposed to feel, when you looked at him like that?

Your eyes were so soft, and your face was flushed. Your heart was racing, and he could feel it against his chest. You held onto his hand tightly, refusing to let go, and you ran your other hand through his hair, as if he hadn't just drunk you dry. You looked so pleased with yourself.

"It's okay.. Are you okay? Are you feeling better now?"

Caleb couldn't help but let out a shuddering chuckle as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He had drunk you dry, and here you were, asking if he was okay. He pressed another kiss to your nose, your cheeks and then, reluctantly, he brushed his lips over yours. He looked into your eyes, as if looking for confirmation that this was okay, that he was allowed to do this. You only squeezed his hand, eyes fluttering shut, and Caleb couldn't help but smile, leaning in to press his lips against yours.

It was a slow, intimate kiss. Your hearts beat in unison, your bodies almost melting into one. You couldn't believe it, but you could certainly feel it. You felt everything, every emotion Caleb poured into this soft, gentle kiss. You had trusted him to not hurt you, and sure enough, he hadn't hurt you. 

It was a moment before he pulled back, his eyes looking over your face like he was memorizing every inch of it. He trailed his lips over your jaw, down your neck, and over the bite marks. He kissed over them softly, slowly, muttering praises of how good you took it, and how sorry he was for putting you through this.

"Are you okay? Did it hurt? I'm sorry.. I'll run you a hot bath and cook you your favorite, does that sound good?"

Caleb's voice filled your ears as he continued to place gentle kisses over your neck, and you couldn't help but smile. He must of passed a horrible few days, so it was good to see him back to his usual self, all worried about you and trying to cheer you up with food. Sure, you didn't need to be cheered up, you loved this, but who says no to a free hot bath and food? You played with his hair, basking in his warmth as you nodded.

"Sounds good, but add some kisses and cuddles to that. And an explanation of everything that went down, from start to finish"

You declared, and Caleb chuckled softly, pulling back to kiss your forehead once again. He nodded, getting off of you very reluctantly as he tugged at your hand, pulling you to sit up. He placed one last kiss on your cheek as he walked towards the bathroom. The distant sound of running water filled your ears, as your hand trailes up to touch your neck. You winced as you found your bite marks, and yet your face was filled with warmth. It's as if he had marked you.

You pulled out your phone, with a message from your boss, Jenna, asking if everything went well on your mission, and if you found anything about those weird wanderers and the infection that came from them. You bit your lip, looking at the message, before replying.

"Nope, found nothing. I'll have to search some more."

You pressed send, before throwing your phone far away on the bed. You'll never let anyone find out about this, and you'll never let anyone take Caleb away from you.

[reileftthechat]

Guys please post-war dabi. Like with Endeavor’s money and influence theres no way he’s letting Touya die. At the VERY least he has to make a public statement by atoning and taking responsibility for his actions towards his son. He’s in that tube for another few years before he gets the treatment to regenerate his body. If its possible to do it once when he was a kid, its possible to do it again.

Slowly he gains more energy, with some ups and downs of course. The treatment is pretty extensive, y’know? Eventually his skin regenerates enough to be transferred to a medically equipped cell. Its fresh and pink and a bit sore if he’s being honest. Some spots are darker than others. The same spots that where held together with staples aren’t as pigmented as they once where and attach to the rest of the body without aid. He’s missing his right arm, that unfortunately couldn’t be saved.

A few more years are spent in confinement. You visit him as often as you can, always worrying in the back of your mind that you’ll force him in your presence just a bit too often and he’ll tell you to stop coming. You acknowledge that he prefers his space, in any other circumstance. You’re not much for romance anyway. He isn’t either. A match made in heaven, really.

It started off as casual sex. Slowly, it went from quickies in an alleyway to you inviting him to your apartment. He didn’t stick around after. Not at first. Once he did, once he pressed his face into the nape of your neck and you reciprocated, he touched you more often. Not your thigh or your chest, but a casual touch here and there that didn’t feel casual. Up and down your arms and hands, a guiding hold on your waist or the back of your neck. Not too often, but noticeable.

You’re the one that opens up first. About what brought you to a position where you crossed the path of a villain like him. He’s not much for comfort, so he chaces it with a joke about his own issues. That’s how you form less of a sexually-reliant relationship with him.

You don’t find anyone else in the time he’s locked up. You’ve definitely ran into the Todoroki’s a few times, but kept the conversation as minimal as possible.

When Endeavors order finally passes, offering to take on a chunk of the responsibility for Touya’s actions in return for him to spend the rest of his days in the Todoroki abode, you’re like a ghost in their house. If caught, you make polite conversation before scurrying to Touya’s room.

Fuyumi tried quite a few times to invite you to dinner, hoping maybe it would lure out Touya as well. But you seem fixed on keeping those boundaries for Touya’s sake. You know the last thing he needs is for someone like you to rush him. You’re his last source of pure comfort without strings attached, and he has all the time in the world to make amends with his family.

But really. He isn’t allowed to drink anymore (though nobody would inforce it if it werent for the weekly parole check-ins), has nowhere outside the house to smoke without everyone flocking towards him, not to mention his lack of freedom. Its almost devastating knowing he’ll never see the flashing neon lights and people the size of ants walking below the building he sits on.

He doesn’t have a tv in his room. His therapist advised against easy dopamine that close to his bed. One night he sits in the living room with only the tv lighting up his face. Rei watches from the hall, her head leaned against the wall. Slowly, she makes her way to the sofa and wordlessly sits beside him. Episodes come and go without a single word being exchanged, but he’s not paying attention.

“If it was this easy this whole time, why couldn’t dad ever look at me?” He tries to mask his words in bravery, but he’s obviously quivering. “My baby..” she hums out, “i’m so sorry.”

Words fail him, so he curls up in her lap with a quaking chest and damp eyes. Even still, he refuses to cry. Not now. A gentle hand holds him close, and the other grazes the soft white hair that drapes over his ear.

Eventually, Touya you around the family. Labels never fail to scare him, but everyone knows by the way you look at him with such a gentle and tender love that you’re not just a friend.

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

men may kiss men

Joel Miller x OMC Jack | wc ~1.4k | explicit, mdni | ao3

summary: during a heatwave Joel and Jack go skinny-dipping on their patrol break. they talk and... kiss.

warnings: no smut in this, sorry, fluff but still explicit, bi!old! Joel, agegap (omc Jack is 50, Joel 60), gay!omc, two naked men in a peaceful body of water, brief talk about figuring out their sexualities, a ✨kiss✨, the hats stay on

a/n: this is my fic for @sp00kymulderr's gay-spiration. Gideon, you might have noticed that this isn't the pic you sent me 😅 @guiltyasdave and I talked and decided to swap prompts (once again). this pride i'm in my brokeback mountain feels (Wyoming, a gay man named Jack, on a horse? see what i did there? anyway...) and i just want Joel to wear a cowboy hat and kiss a man 😩 (and i want to skinnydip in a lake with him, but that's besides the point) thank you, Jana, for reading this over for me, and for letting me have your inspiration pic <3

The clip-clop of the hooves is echoing through the forest. The damn heatwave has dried out the usually spongy ground that used to swallow almost all sounds. 

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. A deep exhale of one of the horses morphs into a long, low snort.

The heads of the mares hang low, the coat on necks and bellies and flanks is a couple of shades darker. They’re sweating in the heat, and even more so with the weight of the heavy saddles and men on their backs.

“They need a break,” Jack says, wiping the beading sweat from his forehead.

“Yeah, we need a damn break, too,” Joel says. He isn’t sure if his ass hasn’t already merged with his jeans and the saddle. It sure feels like it. “We’ll get to the lake soon. Horses can drink and rest there.”

Some time later they reach a hidden spot. The trees seem to lean apart and the forest floor gives way for gravel and shingles, turning into a pebble beach. Every small wave of the lake lets the small stones murmur in the water. And even though the sun is burning down relentlessly and both men have to pull their straw cowboy hats deeper down to shield their eyes, it’s cooler here, by the lakeside.

Jack and Joel unmount and start to wordlessly unsaddle the mares. The saddle pads are soaked, smelling like horse and sweat and leather. With the reins in their hands they lead the horses into the water. The lake is shallow here, the animals sigh relieved once the cold water touches their bellies, shoulders and finally, when they lay down for a moment, washes over their heated bodies.

“Wish I was a horse, too,” Jack says and leads his mare back out the lake and ties her loosely to a tree in the shade.

“I sure ain't stoppin’ you, if you wanna go skinny dippin’.” Joel follows Jack to the close by treeline and knots the reins of his bay roan to a tree trunk. “Hell, I'll be in the water in under two minutes.”

And he is. Undressing with a lazy hurry, some kind of weird speed you only have during hot summer days, lining up his boots, holding his jeans and shirt, putting it all down on a log, next to the drying saddle pads. Joel stops for a moment when he reaches for his boxers. Glancing over to Jack he sees that the other man is busy with peeling his socks off his feet.

Joel hooks his thumbs behind the elastic of his boxers and pushes them down, steps out of them, folds them in half and then again. A cool breeze blows down from the Tetons, he feels it against his thighs and pubes and his dick. Christ, when was the last time he felt a breeze brush over his naked body.

Slowly he stalks across the pebbles, huffing each time a sharp edge bites into the soles of his feet. With measured steps he walks into the water, just like the horses before. Sighing when the cold water crawls up his calves and over his knees and thighs.

He hears Jack following him, just as ungracious as Joel, cursing when he nearly slips on a big, slippery stone just below the waterline.

“You ever–…” Joel holds out his hand, grasping Jack’s arm to keep him from falling into the water face first. “...–ever tried it with a woman?”

Jack doesn’t twitch, not even blink. It’s an open secret in Jackson that he is gay. It took two weeks until the rumor spread like mycelium. He didn’t mind it, didn’t mind talking about it. Not with people like Joel. Now, with his feet firmly planted in the lake he puts his hands on his hips. Just enjoying the cool breeze on his dick and balls. He inhales deeply, inhales the July air, dusty and dry.

“Sure did. Had to make sure I wasn’t… wired the wrong way, y’know?” Jack glances over to Joel. The older man simply nods his head, the grey-brownish curls on the back of his neck sweaty under the straw cowboy hat.

“Didn’t like ‘em, then, I take it?” Joel takes a step forward, each small wave now licking his balls. He hums in delight.

Jack dips down, giving himself a little push. Half swimming, half crawling a few feet deeper into the water. He turns around to look at Joel, who is still cooling off only balls and dick, in all his bare glory. Jack quickly focuses back on the older man's face.

“Women are alright. Just not for me,” Jack says, paddling with his arms in the water. “But I liked that they’re soft all around.”

Joel splashes some water on his stomach and chest, mustache twitching whenever his heated skin is met with the refreshing coldness. “Yeah, they’re soft alright,” he murmurs and plunges into the lake with a soft hiss.

With a few strokes he reaches Jack. He looks at him, noticing once more that Jack is clean shaven, a tedious task Joel had given up decades ago. Little flickers of sunlight, reflected by the rippling water, dance over Jack’s bare cheeks and jaw.

“I always found men to be surprisingly soft, too,” Joel says now, casually, like it’s not a big deal. Because it isn’t a big deal.

The younger man raises his brows until they almost disappear under his hat. He is waiting for the punchline, the grande gotcha, gay man moment. But it doesn’t come.

“So, you…”

“Sure did,” Joel says, echoing Jack’s words back to him.

The breeze picks up, waves lapping at the sweaty necks of the men as they look at each other. The thick forest surrounding the lake starts whispering, leaves rustle, talking about the promise of a cooler night in their hushed voices.

Joel sees the curiosity, the hope for a deeper understanding in Jack’s eyes. So he shrugs and with a few strokes he swims farther away from the shore. Jack follows, silently, waiting.

“I like 'em. Men,” Joel finally says. As if he just has declared that he likes tea. “But I like women, too. Somehow stuck with them. T’was easier anyway, in Texas during the nineties.”

Something touches Jack’s leg and for a moment he is convinced it must have been a fish. Both he and Joel lazily bob up and down, hands and feet slowly paddling to stay afloat in the water. Another accidental touch. Must have been Joel’s foot.

Jack nods his head and one of the mares neighs. Both men turn their heads, reminded that this is not a fun swim in the lake, but another day in a post-apocalyptic world. The horse neighs again, softly, quietly. Simply demanding alfalfa or water or the familiarity of the stables in Jackson.

Joel looks back at Jack, relief painted across the features of both men. Paddling hands brush against hands beneath the small waves. Feet reaching for the ground and just finding the feet of the other man. A silent chuckle drowns in the murmuring lake.

Fingers find Jack’s arm, loosely wrapping around his bicep. Tugging him into Joel's direction, if the younger man wants to follow the invitation.

He does and drifts closer, close enough for the brims of their hats to touch. Then their noses, breaths mingling like their legs. Like seagrass. 

The men lock eyes and when neither Jack nor Joel pulls back, they kiss each other. It’s a soft and salty kiss, tongue tips touching, tasting. They share this kiss and then a smile and drift apart again. 

“So… what now?” Jack asks after a few beats of silence.

Joel looks back to the pebble beach and the horses, the now dry saddle pads. “We should head back to Jackson.”

They stay in the lake for another couple of minutes before they emerge from the water. Wading through the molasses thick heat they begrudgingly put on their clothes again and saddle their mares back up. And after half an hour it’s just the dull clip-clop again.

They ride in silence and when the shadows become longer and a breeze from the Tetons lets the treetops whisper again, Jack breaks the silence.

“What happened there, in the lake?” His question holds no expectations. Expectations are a luxury when the world is going to shit. Jack is just… curious.

Joel looks back over his shoulder with a nonchalant smile somewhere under his greying beard. “Men may kiss men, is all.”

general masterlist here

btw, if you want to come whining in my asks about how Joel wouldn't kiss a man: 1. do you know this fictional man personally? 2. google 'difference fiction reality' 3. just don't come whining, i literally don't care

dividers: @saradika-graphics

and for those interested, here's the original pic Gideon sent (to Jana, ahem) for inspiration:

[sibillascribbles08]

Honestly the eclipse makes me think about the final shots from The Rite of Spring segment of Fantasia and how every time I watch it I just have to sit there and stare at a wall for a few minutes processing it all and I wonder if literally anyone else feels the way I do about that segment

[telesodalite]

I love the idea that, whenever a Cybertronian space-faring vessel lands or docks within a predominantly non-Cybertronian space station or port, that it's required that they either confirm or deny whether their vessel is sentient or not before being permitted to land.

1. For proper accommodation and clarification, along with the chance for communication between the vessel and crews working the station/port.

2. Because there has been... incidents... incidents that have led to the requirement of the above reasons.

[stormyoceans]

100 plots are waiting for you. Do you want to elaborate on the topic of murders in a closed school?

I DO MISS MY VERY BAD ATTEMPTS AT THE 100 JIMMYSEA SERIES

i actually did try to come up with a vague plot inspired by the elle photoshoot here, but im not too convinced about it tbh, it just feels very predictable and unoriginal ;;;;;;; i do find the boarding school murder mystery subgenre really fascinating tho, and i know the setting gets linked a lot to ya literature and dark academia, which don't have a very good reputation, however i think there are elements of it that are so interesting if done right, like the school also being a home, the characters’ isolation from the real world, the hierarchical structure and the inevitable rebellions against the teacher and clashes between students that come with it, the unorthodox education, the knowledge of a dark past that lurks amidst the hallways........

that's why i was very into home school the first few episodes, because i still really love the idea of a boarding school where wealthy and privileged parents send their (most of the times) unwarrantedly-labeled 'bad kids', the ones who have fallen from grace or embarrassed their rich families by partaking in some behavior that violates those families' social mores. and i wasn't much into what turned out to be the mystery in the show, nor do i know how would i like to change it for that matter, but i would LOVE a series like this for jimmysea and namtanfilm

like you have the very first episode with, say, jimmy being the new student and coming to this school which is a small society with already very defined groups he does not care to fit in. he dodges namtan's flirting, he shares the same space as film but they don't really talk because she is just like him, he clashes with sea, and during their fight the viewers find out that the school is just a place for the rejected and the unwanted ('you act like you're so much better than everybody else, but you're just trash that was abandoned by your parents like the rest of us'). and the thing is, the students don't really know why the others are there. like some are easier to guess than others, but no one knows for sure, and you have kids who are there just because they're different than what their parents wanted them to be, and there are kids who are there because they robbed a place, or were involved in a drug case, or even murdered someone, and their parents bought off the police and then sent them there to get rid of them

and so when the murders start to happen inside the school, it makes sense for the students to start investigating, because their parents don't care about them, the teachers don't care about them, the police doesn't care about them, if they're dead society just thinks 'good riddance', so if they want to survive they're the ones who need to do something about it

AND THIS IS SO UNNECESSARILY LONG WHILE ALSO SAYING NOTHING AT ALL IM SHUTTING UP NOW

[somelazyassartist]

Love watching old movies from my childhood that are so average but I hold in my heart so fondly. Like I just rewatched The Seventh Brother and it's so painfully average but it had so much potential and it was one of my favorites growing up, there's a part of me that wants to make my own adaptation just to make it actually good. Not saying I could make it GREAT, I don't know if I have that much talent lmao, but I could definitely make it good lmao. It's so close to being something worth watching and then it just isn't lol.

[mostie01]

These are the vibes I have for Misako in the Necromancer Misako au.

Like if I could draw I’d be combining these two’s outfits because they’re the exact vibes I need.

(The first one is Asec the Savior/Morgan Le Fay before she got betrayed continuously be the fae of an alternate world or rather timeline’s Britain. And the other is Miss Crane who’s based off the Crane Wife a Japanese myth. They’re both from Fate Grand Order aka FGO.)