#and suddenly everything better for just a moment

[trypo-p]

TF2 ISSUE 7 SPOILERS //

Alright alright I know everyones going crazy over the ending of the comic (I am too) but I don't see this moment talked about enough and how beautifully done it is.

We start with the Administrator: The man who took everything from her is finally dead. She reigns victory. She is now living alone in peace, leaving flowers for each and every gravestone that was left before Zepheniah Mann's passing. The gravestones left before him are carved out beautifully, time and effort put into each and every one of them. The Administrator even lays out the roses so they look like they're grown out around the gravestones.

And here we have Zepheniah Mann's grave. A slab of rock with only his initials carved into it. The other gravestones are large, extravagant, and have their full names carved into them. Zepheniah's remains small; little thought put into it.

The gravestone wasn't even for him in the first place. It was for whichever of his son's died first, whichever one failed him. He himself didn't put much care into the gravestone, so why should he deserve anything better? In the end, he was treated the way he treated others. He was the failed son.

The Administrator leaves the stems of the roses out for him. She just places them there, no thought put into it seemingly. But there is SO much thought in this very moment. She had everything planned out from the very beginning.

Every day, she watched as the man grew older and older. She was there for his passing, and as far as we can tell, she caused his death. She leaves out roses for each and every grave, except for his. She leaves the stems. To her, he doesn't deserve the flower, he deserves the thorns. They aren't placed with care like the other flowers had been, they are simply put down. She gives him exactly what he deserves.

The atmosphere has suddenly lost that beautiful lighting and vibrant colours, the sky has become more gray and dreary. The Administrator is waking up more devastated, putting less time and effort into her daily life. The stems are turning brown, wilting under her eyes. She cares less. She seems relatively unaffected by the things around her. She gets stung by a bee, but doesn't seem to care. However that last panel says everything. She's growing tired of doing the same thing day in and day out. The cycle of depression is a tiring one. Soon enough you realize: is it even worth it? After all of this, after I finally got the one thing I wanted. But what now?

The scene is now almost completely devoid of colour. The weather is gloomy, and the Administrator looks like she has been bedridden for a while. She has taken the gravestone into her bedroom, now having to wake up to the reminder that he's dead and gone, she got what she wanted. But at what cost? There's nothing left to do anymore. She set herself out for one goal and one goal only her entire life. What was the point anymore?

There's so much to unpack in these panels, I doubt I've even scraped the surface of this. She's lost all emotion, the next few panels showing that she doesn't believe there's a point in living anymore. It's a terrifying thought, setting your entire life up to do one specific thing, getting that thing done, and then having nothing else left to live for. It's such a well-done portrayal of how depression can destroy you from the inside out.

Revenge is sweet, but it has a bitter aftertaste.

[insidekatmind]

"Under the Parisian Sky"- Trent Alexander Arnold

The sun was gently setting behind the majestic silhouette of the Eiffel Tower, painting the sky with shades of pink, orange, and purple. Paris, with its timeless beauty, seemed to have stepped out of a love fairy tale. The streets were crowded with tourists and Parisians, but at that moment, everything seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the two of you.

"Do you like it, my love?" asked Trent Alexander-Arnold, his English accent making you melt every time. His brown eyes, as deep as molten chocolate, shone with a special light as he gazed at you with infinite tenderness. His warm hand wrapped around yours with such gentleness, as if the entire world was held within that simple gesture.

"It's perfect, Trent," you replied, letting your gaze get lost in the wonder of the view. "I couldn't have imagined a better place to be with you."

"I knew you'd like it," he said with a sweet, knowing smile. "But it's not over yet, my love."

You tilted your head to the side, curious. "Oh yeah? What else do you have in mind, Mr. Alexander-Arnold?" you asked with a mischievous, playful smile.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You'll find out soon, my princess. For now, just trust me."

You continued walking along the cobblestone streets, hand in hand. Every so often, Trent would stop in front of a flower stall or a street artist, his sincere curiosity for the little things in the city on full display. That was just like him — always attentive to details, just like on the football pitch. And it was this very way of being that made you fall in love with him more each day.

"Shall we go there?" he suggested, pointing to a small pier overlooking the Seine. It was a secluded spot, away from the bustle, with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, which now glowed with thousands of golden lights like a jewel in the heart of Paris's night.

"It's beautiful," you said, stopping beside him. The cool air caressed your skin, and the scent of the Seine's water mixed with that of wildflowers. It was as if nature itself wanted to bless this moment.

"Yeah, it is," he replied, but his gaze wasn't on the Eiffel Tower. It was on you.

You turned toward him, your heart beginning to beat faster. There was something different in his eyes, a light you had never seen before. His smile was tender, but also serious.

"What's wrong?" you asked, suddenly aware of the silence between you.

"I want to tell you something," he said, taking a deep breath. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the edge of his jacket. "Actually, I want to ask you something."

You frowned, your heart now racing wildly in your chest. "Trent, are you okay?" you asked, a hint of concern in your voice.

He laughed, but there was a note of sweet nervousness in his voice. "Yeah, I'm okay. I’m just… I’m just a little emotional." Then he took a step back and slid a hand into his pocket. When his hand reemerged, he was holding a small blue velvet box. Your breath caught in your throat.

"No…" you whispered, bringing a hand to your mouth. "Trent, I don't believe it…"

He got down on one knee, pressing his knee against the cold surface of the pier. Around you, the world seemed to freeze. Every sound of the city softened, and the only thing you could hear was the frantic pounding of your heart.

"My love," he began, lifting his eyes to meet yours. His eyes glowed with emotion. "Since you came into my life, everything changed. You made every day brighter, every moment more special. I can't imagine my future without you by my side."

Your vision blurred from the tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn’t speak, your throat tight with emotion.

"I want to be there for you — in every joyful moment and every challenge. I want to be the man who makes you smile, who supports you, who loves you more and more every day." He opened the box, revealing a ring with a diamond that sparkled like the stars above you. "Will you marry me?"

A tear slid down your cheek, followed by another, and another still. A wave of overwhelming emotion swept over you. Your voice came out trembling but firm.

"Yes, Trent. Yes, I want to marry you!" you exclaimed, letting the tears stream freely down your face.

He laughed with joy, getting to his feet and pulling you into a tight embrace, spinning you around. His arms wrapped around you with such strength, and your hands clung to his shoulders as if to make sure you’d never let him go.

"I love you," he whispered against your ear, his voice full of emotion.

"I love you too, Trent. I love you more than words can explain," you replied, burying your face in his neck, the scent of his skin bringing you comfort and peace.

Paris, the city of love, had now become the symbol of your promise. And under the golden lights of the Eiffel Tower, you both vowed to love each other forever.

[benispunk]

Ticklish

logan howlett x reader

Maybe you discovered Logan was ticklish. Maybe you used it to your advantage.

TW: it's pure fluff, it's a little bit funny and the end is a tiny bit suggestive. let's just say Christmas came early this year...this was written this morning when I woke up and it's fully inspired by my own post

Masterlist

Every morning before getting out of bed, you and Logan had a quiet ritual. These stolen moments of peace were rare in the chaos of the mansion, where every day brought new missions, training, or too many kids running around. It was the one time you could just be. No responsibilities, no noise— just the two of you.

This morning was no different. Your head rested on Logan's chest, his fingers combing gently through your hair, while your hand traced slow, lazy patterns on his chest. It was a small act of intimacy, but one you both cherished.

Lost in the rhythm, your hand absently wandered lower, brushing against his side. Suddenly, Logan jerked like he'd been electrocuted. His entire body tensed, and he shifted away so abruptly that you sat up, startled.

“Logan, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Concern laced your voice as you reached for him.

He cleared his throat, his usual gruff tone tinged with embarrassment. “Nah, you didn’t hurt me. Just… don’t do that.”

You blinked, confusion evident on your face. “Don’t touch your sides?” You tilted your head, studying him as if trying to solve a puzzle. He refused to meet your gaze, instead settling back into bed and opening his arms to you, clearly ready to move on.

“Come here. We don’t have much time left before breakfast,” he said, his voice low and coaxing.

But you didn’t move. The way he avoided eye contact and the faint flush on his cheeks told you there was more to this. You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Logan…”

“Don’t,” he warned, catching the glint of mischief sparking in your eyes.

You smirked. “Are you… ticklish?”

The look of horror that crossed his face confirmed everything. He groaned, running a hand over his face. “Don’t you dare,” he growled, but the threatening tone only made you laugh.

“Oh my god, you are!” you exclaimed, grinning like a kid who just uncovered a juicy secret.

“I mean it, sweetheart. You’ll regret it.” His expression was deadly serious, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Still laughing, you raised your hands in mock surrender. “Relax, Logan. I’m not going to tickle you. It was an accident— I didn’t know!”

He gave you a skeptical glance, clearly trying to decide whether you were trustworthy. After a tense moment, he let out a heavy sigh and opened his arms again. You nestled back against his chest, your fingers returning to their absent-minded pattern-drawing. His hand resumed its place in your hair, but his body remained slightly tense, like a predator waiting for an ambush.

The silence stretched comfortably for a few minutes before your curiosity got the better of you. “How did I never realize you were ticklish?”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Because it’s a secret, and I’m careful. You’re lucky you caught me off guard.”

You laughed softly, your breath warm against his chest. “You know, I can keep a secret… but I can also use it against you if I want.”

His hand froze in your hair, and you felt his heartbeat quicken just slightly beneath your ear. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” You tilted your head up, giving him your best innocent smile.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but when your hand wandered dangerously close to his side again, he didn’t notice until it was too late. Your fingers pinched his ribs lightly, and the sound that escaped his mouth—a startled yelp—was priceless.

“Y/N!” he growled, but he was already moving. In the blink of an eye, you were flat on your back, your wrists pinned above your head as he loomed over you.

“What was that little scream you just did?” you teased, bursting into laughter as he glared down at you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he rumbled, his tone low and menacing, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips told you he was more amused than angry.

“Well, in that case…” You grinned up at him, eyes gleaming with defiance. “Maybe I should do that more often.”

Logan shook his head, clearly trying to hold onto his serious facade, but it crumbled under the weight of your laughter. The corners of his mouth twitched before he finally broke, leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss that left you breathless.

When he pulled back, his lips hovered over yours, his voice gravelly and teasing. “You sure you want to keep playing? Because I’ve got other ways to make you behave.”

You arched a brow, your smirk never wavering. “Oh? Like what?”

A low growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could blink, he nipped at your bottom lip, making you gasp. His hands trailed down your sides, slow and deliberate, his touch feather-light but enough to send a shiver through you.

“Keep testing me, darlin’,” he murmured, his tone dripping with suggestion. “You might not make it to breakfast at all.”

You bit your lip, trying to fight back a grin. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

His smirk widened as he leaned closer, his voice a whisper against your ear. “Good. Because breakfast can wait.”

XXX

[levisjinchuriki]

truly, madly, deeply - toji fushiguro

summary: since you left him, toji has been indulging in nothing but bad habits. he makes an impulsive decision stumbling home from the bar one night

warning: post-breakup angst, mentions of heavy drinking, depression, being numb, a whole lot of angst

it’s late—too late for toji to still be out. the bar is nearly empty, quiet except for the scraping sound of chairs as the staff begins their nightly routine of wiping tables and stacking stools. the bartender shoots toji an unimpressed glance as he sets down another glass of whiskey in front of him, grumbling about closing tabs soon. toji doesn’t argue, just wraps his calloused fingers around the glass and lets the amber liquid burn as it slides down his throat. it’s painful, but the familiar sting is something he’s come to crave recently. as much as it hurts, he tries to savor the taste before throwing some cash on the table and heading out.

it’s the kind of quiet that makes the weight in his chest feel unbearable, pressing harder against ribs that have long since forgotten what it’s like to feel light. 

he stumbles out of the bar, unsteady on his feet, muttering curses under his breath as he fumbles for his phone in his coat pocket. outside, the cold bites at his skin, the damp air clinging to him as the rain had never truly stopped. 

the screen glows dimly, the battery dangerously low, but it’s enough to illuminate the list of names he hasn’t touched in weeks. his thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling sluggishly past contacts that don’t matter. then he sees your name. and time stands still. 

for a long moment, all he can do is stare. his thumb trembles, hesitating, like his drunk mind is at war with itself. there’s a part of him that knows better, that knows he should put the phone back in his pocket and walk away. but the other part—the louder, more desperate part—wins. his thumb moves, and the call begins to ring.

once. twice. three times.

toji squeezes his eyes shut, already regretting his actions. he’s not your problem anymore. he lost the right to call you, to hear your voice, to ask for comfort. and yet, here he is, a fool hoping for a miracle at a time when no one should be awake.

“toji?”

he freezes. he hasn’t heard your voice in… how long has it been? the days have blurred together into a haze of alcohol and sleepless nights since you left. he grips the phone tighter, his throat suddenly dry.

“hey” he drawls. there’s a pause on your end. he cringes when he hears a muffled yawn from you. 

“it’s late. are you okay?”. your voice is soft, groggy from the sleep he undoubtedly pulled you from. his heart breaks at the sound of it. 

“yeah. -m fine. jus’….” he slurs. 

“toji… are you drunk?” your voice, laced with concern, strikes a nerve. you sound just as worried as it always did when it came to him, a tone he doesn’t think he deserves anymore. you’ve seen these parts of him before—the ones he hides from the world but somehow always let slip in front of you. 

“nah” he lies. “just a little… tipsy”. his feet shuffle clumsily against the wet pavement as he stumbles down the block. he feels everything and nothing all at once—silly, hopeless, in love, and heartbroken. 

“toji–” your voice is soft but unmistakably disappointed. it’s a tone he’s heard before, one that digs under his ski. he knows that sound. it’s the same one you used to have when he broke promises, when he let you down, when he let himself down.

there are countless reasons why you and toji aren’t together anymore—reasons that keep replaying in his mind whenever he has too much to drink. but none of those reasons stop you from caring about him, even now. and that makes it worse somehow.

“listen…” his voice drops lower, thick with the slur of alcohol. “i know it’s late. s’probably real stupid to call, huh?”. he laughs, but it’s half-hearted, a dry, almost painful sound.

your silence is heavy and suffocating. toji knows you’re probably shaking your head right now, caught between concern and frustration. he can picture it so clearly—how you’re probably biting your lip, wanting to say something but holding back. it almost makes him smile.

as the silence stretches, the sound of heavy rainfall in the background fills the space, a constant, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of his tired, aching heart.

“where are you?” you ask, your voice barely audible above the rain.

he blinks, his mind swimming in a fog that doesn’t seem to clear. he’s disoriented for a second, now realizing that he’s walked in the wrong direction. “why?” he mumbles, a slight frown tugging at his lips.

“because i’m coming to get you” you reply, your tone gentle but firm. “you shouldn’t be out alone”. toji closes his eyes for a moment, your words sinking in, a warmth creeping through his chest despite the alcohol and the cold rain. he hears the shuffle of movement on your end of the line, and he can almost see it—the way you’re probably slipping into those ridiculous bunny slippers he always teased you about. 

a small, tired smile threatens to break through as leans back against a lamppost. “don’t bother” he mutters, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “i’m fine”. another lie, but he doesn’t expect you to believe it.

“tell me where you are” you demand. he’ll take your tone over no contact with you any day. 

“always so good. so… responsible” he mutters, the words slurring as his mind drifts. “you don’t gotta save me, y’know? i’m fine. always fine” he drags out.

“toji, tell me where you are” your voice is stern. it’s the same tone you used when he was in trouble, the same one you’d use when he messed up, the same one you used when you finally told him you were done.

he slumps against the cold, damp wall of the nearest building, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. he mutters the name of the street, barely audible, his words jumbled and ragged.

“i’m on my way” you tell him. there’s a brief pause before you add, “stay there”. for once, he listens. toji just stands there– drunk, stupid, soaked and numb to the rain as it continues to hit him. 

he doesn’t know how long it takes before your car finally pulls up. the headlights shine bright, momentarily blinding him. he blinks a few times and there you are—stepping out of the car, pulling a coat around yourself and wondering how he’s been out here this long. you look at him, and for a split second, toji sees everything he’s been trying to drown out. disappointment flickers behind your eyes, sharp and painful. but there’s something else there too—worry. 

“toji…” you sigh, a sound filled with exhaustion. he feels it in his chest like a punch. he’s happy to see you, but upset that you’re out here in the storm, chasing after him like this.

“you didn’t have to come” he mutters, but even as he says it, he stands up straighter—forcing himself to make the effort, even if it’s not convincing. his legs feel heavy, like they’re made of lead, but he tries to pull himself together. he doesn’t want you to see how much he’s been drowning.

your gaze doesn’t miss anything. he’s drenched, soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging to him, but worse than that—he’s drunk. and sad. more sad than he’s let on, even to himself. he knows it. you know it. it’s clear to you both that he hasn’t been taking care of himself—not in the way you always hoped he would.

“get in the car” you say, the command simple but firm. your voice is steady, unaffected by the storm, and it somehow cuts through the haze of his thoughts.

he doesn’t argue. not with you. not when you’re looking at him like that, not when he knows you’re right, and you’ve always been right about him.

---

the drive is quiet at first. the only sound is the soft hum of the heat, keeping toji from succumbing to hypothermia, and the rain as it taps steadily against the windshield. toji sits slouched in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes half-lidded as he stares out the window. his gaze is distant, unfocused—lost in the mess of his own thoughts.

“you shouldn’t drink like this,” you say, breaking the silence. your voice is soft but firm. “it’s dangerous.”

toji doesn’t respond immediately. you can see the way his jaw tightens, his shoulders stiffen just slightly. he’s a big guy, tough, but even toji has his limits. he might not show it, but you know how close he is to the edge. and tonight, it’s clear that he’s just a few drinks away from being completely inebriated.

“don’t start with me” he mutters, his voice rough with frustration. you’ve heard that tone before—the one he gets when he’s pushed, when he knows he’s in the wrong but doesn’t want to hear it.

you sigh quietly to yourself, knowing exactly where this conversation is going. you’d always had a habit of acting like his mother, trying to take care of him, trying to get him to listen to reason. it’s inevitable, really—toji always acted like a child in so many ways, and you, stubborn as you are, always fell into the role of the one who tried to save him.

“how many times have i—” you begin, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“i know!” he snaps, his voice sharper than he means it to be. “i know, alright?”

the words hang in the air between you, heavy with the tension that always lingers when the two of you argue. you’re quiet for a moment, the only sound now the swish of the windshield wipers fighting against the rain.

you grip the steering wheel a little tighter, steadying yourself. the urge to push, to argue further, is strong, but you know better than to start that fight now. the last thing he needs is more words thrown at him, more of your frustration tangled up in his guilt.

right now isn’t the time to argue.

"then why?" you ask quietly, your voice barely rising above the sound of rain hitting the car.

toji presses his head back against the seat and lets out a humorless laugh. “why not?” he replies, his words slurred but sharp enough to sting.

you furrow your brows. he’s being difficult, like always—pushing you away with his deflection, his refusal to take anything seriously. “that’s not an answer” you say, glancing at him briefly before returning your eyes to the road.

toji turns his head to look at you then, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the car. the streetlights outside streak shadows across his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, the weariness etched into his features. he looks tired—not just from tonight, but from everything.

“i don’t owe you an answer” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now.

it’s true. he doesn’t owe you anything, not after everything. not after the way you left, after the way you shattered him. you feel a pang of guilt in your chest, sharp and unforgiving, but you push it down.

“i’d still like to know” you admit, your voice softer now, almost hesitant.

he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he turns his gaze back to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. the silence stretches between you again, heavy and unyielding, but you don’t press him further. you’ve learned by now that toji won’t be pushed into answers he’s not ready to give.

the road ahead blurs slightly through the rain, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to bridge the distance between the two of you.

he scoffs, turning his gaze back to the window. “what’s the point?”. it’s not a question meant for you—it’s one he’s been asking himself for a while now. you chew on your bottom lip, trying to think of what to say next, though you’re not sure anything will make a difference.

“you don’t always have to carry everything by yourself” you finally sigh.

toji snorts, a bitter sound that cuts through the tension. “yeah? and who’s gonna help me? you?”

the sharpness in his tone catches you off guard, and you flinch despite yourself. his words hit harder than they should, not because they’re unfair, but because they’re true. you left. you made the choice to walk away, and now you’re here, pretending you can fix something that might never be fixable.

he notices. if there’s one thing toji’s always been good at, it’s noticing things, even when he’s drunk and falling apart. he exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “sorry” he mutters, his voice quieter now. “i didn’t mean that”.

you know he didn’t. toji’s harsh words were never the ones that hurt the most—it’s the truth buried in them that stings.

“it’s fine” you reply quietly, your gaze fixed on the road ahead. but it’s not fine, and you both know it.

neither of you says anything for the rest of the drive. the rain continues to tap against the windshield as the distance between you grows wider.

---

toji doesn’t move after you park your car. he just sits there, staring blankly at the dashboard like it holds answers to questions he’ll never ask. his shoulders are slumped, his jaw tight. even with the alcohol dulling his senses, his thoughts refuse to let him rest.

“you wanna go inside?” you turn to look at him, suppressing the urge to reach over.

he blinks, the question pulling him back to the present. “yeah” he mutters, but his body remains rooted to the seat.

you don’t rush him. moments like these are rare—when toji lets you see him vulnerable. it’s heartbreaking, and it makes you ache in ways you thought you’d forgotten.

instead of pressing him, you wait. he’s always been a man who needs time to gather himself. and tonight, for whatever reason, he’s letting you stay long enough to witness it.

eventually, he exhales, a slow, shaky breath that seems to release some of the tension coiled in his chest.

finally, toji looks at you. really looks at you. his eyes are glassy, the alcohol making them more vulnerable than you’ve seen in a long time.

“you’re too good for this” he says, his voice heavy with sadness. it’s not just the words that hit you—it’s the way he says them, like he’s admitting something he’s been too scared to face. for the first time, toji acknowledges there’s something wrong with him. that something is his fault.

“for what?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“for me” he says almost defeated. “i’m no good. i’m just… this” he gestures vaguely at himself, his hand falling back to his side as if the effort of even that small movement is too much.

it’s clear in the way he’s looking at you that he means it. that he’s thought about this, felt it deep in his bones. you’re not sure if he’d ever admit it sober, but tonight, it’s out there in the open.

you don’t know what to say to that. words feel inadequate, like they’ll only make things worse. 

“you should get some rest” you whisper instead. “it’s late”.

toji releases a breath, his gaze shifting to your apartment building. he’s been here countless times before. but it’s different now. where he used to feel at home, he suddenly feels like a stranger. 

“okay”. his footsteps echo softly behind you.

when he walks in, all the memories come rushing back. the faint scent of the candle you always light fills his nose. the throw blanket draped over the couch is in the same place it’s always been. even the little details—the spaces in your home where you’d made room for him—are still there. his boots still sit by the door, his favorite mug in the cabinet, the sweatshirt he thought he’d lost folded neatly.

you lead him to your room without a word, offering him a towel and setting a pair of dry clothes on the bed. they’re his– clothes he left behind when things fell apart. you didn’t have the heart to throw them out, and he didn’t have the heart to come back for them.

“you’ll get sick” you mutter, setting a black shirt and grey sweats on the bathroom sink before turning to leave. you always fussed over him like this—still do, even now. toji doesn’t know what to do with the tight ache in his chest. he wants to cry.

by the time he emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in warm clothes, he hears the hum of the dryer from the hallway. of course, you’d snuck in while he was washing up to scoop his sopping clothes off the floor.

in your room, you’re finishing fixing the bed, smoothing the sheets and adding extra pillows—just the way he likes. it doesn’t escape him, the way you still remember these small details.

“i can take the couch” he says, his voice low and reluctant.

you shake your head, dismissing the offer as you grab a pillow and blanket for yourself. “sleep” you say firmly, leaving no room for argument.

he hesitates for a moment, but the exhaustion weighing on him makes it hard to fight back. his body aches for rest, and though a part of him wants to address the unspoken words that hang heavy between you, he knows it’s not the time. 

“we’ll talk later” you whisper as you step toward the door, your hand brushing the light switch.

toji watches you for a moment, standing there in the dim glow of the hallway. his throat tightens, and he wants to say something—anything—but no words come out. instead, he nods silently as you turn off the light and leave him alone in the room.

“thanks” he murmurs, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost in the stillness of the room. but you hear it.

toji lies awake in the bed you once shared, staring at the ceiling. the familiarity of it all threatens to undo him—the soft sheets, the faint scent of you lingering on the pillow. it’s overwhelming. 

he wonders, not for the first time, how someone like you ever loved him. the thought twists in his chest, sharp with regret. he thinks about how things ended, how he pushed you away, and yet here you are—offering him kindness he doesn’t deserve.

the bed feels empty without you beside him, but as his heavy eyelids finally close, he clings to the comfort of your lingering presence. it’s enough, for now, to ease the ache as he drifts off to sleep.

---

to be continued... thank you for reading!!!

[inthemiddleofmae]

everything is romantic - paul mescal x reader

summary - you and paul take a trip to italy during the summer. lots of photo-taking and kissing.

word count: 761

a/n: everybody say thank to pedro pascal for these photos that have got me going absolutely feral!!!!!!!! it is absolutely freezing where i’m from and seasonal depression is getting to me so i’m writing something about summer to make me happy :) and thank you so much for the love on my last fic it means the world <3 i hope you enjoy this one just as much!!

the air smelt of salt and wild rosemary as you and paul walked down a narrow cobblestone street in the amalfi coast, hands locked together in a tight, loving embrace. paul had his beloved camera round his neck; a gift you had gotten him when you first started dating.

the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting a golden glow that seemed to warm everything it touched. the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore played like a lullaby in the background.

“this doesn’t feel real,” you said, your voice tinged with awe as you glanced up at the laundry fluttering on balconies.

paul looked over at you, a loving smile playing on his lips. “you’ve said that every ten minutes since we got here.”

“well, it still doesn’t!” you shot back, bumping his shoulder lightly. “it's unlike anything i've ever seen before. how am i supposed to stop talking about it?”

he laughed, gently letting go of your hand so he could grab your waist and pull you even closer as you both wandered down the uneven path. “i like it when you ramble. means you’re happy.”

you felt your face suddenly get hot. “i'm not just happy. i’m...i don’t know. full.” you gestured around. “this place, this trip, being here with you - it’s everything.”

paul stopped walking and turned to face you, his blue eyes warm and soft as they searched your face. “you’re everything.” he said, and you swore you could actually feel your heart swell.

you wrapped your hands around paul's neck as he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a passionate series of pecks and one longer kiss that you both fought for control over. as you both realised your very public environment, you pulled back. you couldn’t help but smile as you rested your forehead against his.

“alright, lover boy,” you teased, though your voice was thick with affection. you stepped away from him and paused in front of a charming doorway painted a faded blue with potted geraniums clustered at its base. with a pout and a few bats of your eyelashes, you then said, "can you take a picture of me?"

rolling his eyes but unable to suppress his smile, paul raised the camera and pointed it at you.

you leaned against the blue door, tilting your head slightly as you brushed your hair back. paul snapped a few shots, then lowered the camera, his expression softening.

“alright, one more,” he said. “but don’t pose this time.”

“i wasn’t posing!”

“you definitely were,” he teased, lifting the camera again. “just laugh or something.”

you huffed a laugh at his instructions, and in that moment, he took a photo that he would never forget; your head was tilted back slightly, sunlight was on your face, and your eyes crinkled with happiness - he was unsure if he'd ever seen you look so beautiful.

when you realised paul had stopped taking photos and was now staring intensely at his camera, you ran forward and playfully smacked his arm. “let me see, babe.”

paul handed over the camera with a grin. as you scrolled through the pictures, you smile widened. “okay, these are actually really good. you’re getting better.”

“fuck off,” he said with a laugh, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

the two of you walked further down the street, but after a while decided to pause on a set of wide, sun-warmed stone steps to take a break from wandering. paul was in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees as he scrolled through his phone.

without a word, you picked up paul's camera that was still in your possession and adjusted the lens. the light hit him just right, illuminating the soft lines of his roman profile, his hair ruffled slightly from the breeze. you snapped a photo, then another, the sound of the shutter drawing his attention.

paul tilted his head at you and laughed. “you’re supposed to be taking pictures of the scenery, not me.”

“you’re part of the scenery,” you said cheekily, snapping another.

"alright give me back my camera - i'm starving, lets get some lunch." paul said, playfully snatching his camera out of your hand as he rose from his seat. he placed the camera back around his neck as he gave you his hand to help you rise from your own seat.

"you're my lunch, too,' you said, bringing your lips close to paul's ear once you had gotten up, and you watched his face turn pink.

[hyunjins-orange-slice-too]

a severe case of the saddies

daddy!chan hurt/comfort

cw: crying, baby talk, pet names (i tried to keep them gender neutral this time bc ive been feeling bad about always using baby girl or princess when i know that doesn’t apply to everyone.)

masterlist

“baby?” his soft voice carried through the closed door, his knuckles softly rapping on the surface. when he received no answer, he turned the knob. he poked his head in. “angel?” his baby voice combined with your favorite pet name, caused tears to spring to your eyes. you squeezed them shut, holding the tears back, though they leaked out of the corners and onto your pillow.

he could just make out your form in the dim light of your shared bedroom, your body under the covers, stuffie hugged tight to your chest and face. you wanted to reach for him, so happy that he was finally home. but you couldn’t force your muscles to work. he crouched down next to the bed, bringing his face level with yours. he used his fingertips to brush the hair out of your face.

“baby are you takin’ a nappie?” he asked, smiling fondly at you.

you shook your head no. though you wanted to take a nap, sleep would not come. so you had been laying there for over an hour.

“is everything okay?” he asked, pouting his full lips in your direction. “are you feeling alright?” he reached out with his index finger and poked the top of your stuffed bear’s head. “is Beary doing his job of chasing the sadness away?”

the tears pooled again at your waterline. you looked up at him, shaking your head no, unable to speak. he took one look at your watery eyes and jutting bottom lip and it broke his heart. “oh my sweet baby..” he cooed. “you got a severe case of the saddies, huh?”

“let me in there.” he gently lifted the blanket, crawling into the bed next to you. you could instantly feel his body heat next to yours, warming your skin. “c’mere baby. let daddy hold you.”

he wrapped his strong arms around you, cradling your head as you buried your face in his chest. you couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, and they flowed freely down your cheeks. “there you go, baby.” he said, kissing the top of your head. “you’re okay. daddy’s got you.”

he let you cry for a little while, rubbing your back and hair, giving the occasional kiss. you felt better with him there. felt like you could finally let everything out. everything that you’d been holding in for the last few weeks. it all bubbled to the surface and with his arms wrapped around you, you could finally let go.

“my love.. do you want to talk about it?” he asked, softly. he pulled back just enough to look down at you, your eyes red and puffy, you cheeks stained. he used his fingers to wipe at your tears. “my brave little baby.”

“everythi-ing has just been too-o much.” you said, hiccuping, your voice small.

“baby..” he soothed. “you’ve been working so hard, huh? doing such a good job. daddy is so proud of you. but i think you need a rest, yeah? your body is telling you it needs a break.”

you nodded, feeling better after your big cry. you wrapped your arms around his middle and squeezed as hard as you could. “oh so strong.” he giggled. “such a big hug, baby. thank you.” he squeezed you back.

“thank you for always taking care of me.” you said. “you’re the best— the best daddy ever.” your sentence was broken by a big yawn, feeling suddenly sleepy.

“oh my gosh you’re so cute.” he smiled. “gimme a kiss.” his plush lips found yours a few times in quick succession. “you can go to sleep baby. daddy will stay here and keep you safe from the saddies.”

you leaned away for a moment and pulled out Beary from in between your bodies, holding him up.

“oh i think Beary got a little squished.” he giggled. “serves him right for not making you feel better.”

you tucked the bear back under your chin protectively. “he did his best.” you huffed.

“oh well i guess that’s all we can ask for, huh baby?” he pulled you close again, careful not to squish Beary in the process. “and i’m always here to make things better when little Beary isn’t enough, yeah?” he rubbed your back soothingly, your eyes drooping with exhaustion.

“mm.. love you, daddy.” you mumbled against his chest, breathing in his scent.

“i love you too, baby.” he kissed your head and snuggled closer. “now go to sleep, okay? daddy’s here.”

and the weight of the last few weeks melted away, your heart was full, and you finally slipped into blissful unconsciousness, wrapped in the safety and security of his loving arms.

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

if you saw my little mental breakdown on here this morning, you know why i wrote this lol i have lots of posts like this on my blog i think, but it comforts me to write them. but anyway, i’m feeling much better now. i honestly just think im so exhausted and overwhelmed that my body and mind are not having it. thanks for allowing me a space to vent those feelings and then post cute little drabbles hehe. if you’re new here, sometimes i have depressive episodes and post some crazy sounding sad shit. and that’s just something that comes with my blog. but i promise im really nice and pretty cute and you should stick around anyways. ♡

[goblinontour]

Consequences

is there such a thing as too much love?

warnings: dad!alex (well, not quite), fluff, smut, raw fucking, ya know

word count: 7k

He had his eyes closed. He should’ve been dreaming. Instead, he was thinking of you. Not just you, but the spaces you occupied, the way you breathed air and made it yours. He wasn’t sure if it was obsession or something softer, something quieter but more profound, something that stretches across the distance between the two of you and doesn’t snap. Either way, it kept him awake, even now, as the rest of the world surrendered to sleep.  

They told him not to wait for it. Don’t wait for the world to align itself, for the stars to blink their approval. Create it yourself, they’d said. Your world. Alone. Stand alone. Build it brick by brick, carve it out of the nothingness. Then the love will come to you. Then it will come. But they never warned him what it would feel like when it did. How it would crash into him, fierce and unrelenting, how it would unravel him piece by piece until he wasn’t sure which fragments of himself belonged anymore.  

The day you met, the wind howled like it had something to say. A storm was caught in its lungs, a promise in its teeth. It yanked at his coat, bit at his neck, and wrapped itself around the moment like a ribbon tied to a gift neither of you knew you were giving. Later, he’d wonder if it wasn’t the universe itself exhaling, breathing out its relief as he whispered, under his breath, finally.

You were like that — something that wasn’t supposed to be here but was. A misplaced star, maybe. Or a stray thread tugging at the edges of his life, unravelling him just to see if you could put him back together in a new way. And he let you. Every time. No questions asked. Somehow, you always did it right, reassembling him into something unfamiliar yet more whole. A new version of himself, one he didn’t know he’d been waiting to meet.  

He hadn’t expected it to be so easy for you. The way you looked at him — steady, like you weren’t afraid of what you might find — left him feeling exposed. But it didn’t stop him from leaning closer. You had this way of throwing things off balance. He let you throw him too.  

You wandered into his orbit with the kind of quiet that still felt loud and changed everything without saying a word. And suddenly, colors tasted better on his tongue just from the sight of them, without even taking a bite. The sound of rain became music, no rhythm, no melody, just noise, and yet it sang.  

He swore — God, he swore — he could fly. Not in the grand, sweeping sense of it, but in the way a bird feels the wind cradle its wings, like gravity might just loosen its grip if he asked nicely enough. That’s what it was like with you. Effortless. Dangerous, too, because he knew he was risking the fall every time.  

There was something about you that turned the ordinary into something else entirely. The way you looked at the world — curious, amused, like everything was both a puzzle and a punchline — made him want to see it the way you did. And sometimes he could.  

He noticed the little things because of you. The sound of a door creaking open, the way sunlight moved across a room, the way your hands spoke a language he didn’t know he understood. You taught him how to look, not just at the world but at himself. And he hated it, at first. How vulnerable it made him feel. How much it made him want to be better.  

But then there were moments when it felt worth it. Like when you smiled at him — not just with your mouth, but with your whole face, your whole being. Like the universe itself was bending toward him, just for a second, just for the briefest of moments.  

He wondered if you knew what you were doing to him. If you knew how completely you’d taken up residence in his thoughts, in the spaces between them, in the cracks he’d refused to acknowledge until you. You were there now, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to leave or if he wanted you to stay forever.  

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need to know, that the knowing wouldn’t change anything. But the truth was, he wanted to understand it — this thing between you. This force that felt too big to name, too wild to tame, and yet somehow quiet enough to fit in the silence between his breaths.  

You threw him off balance. And he let you.  

Because somehow, in the chaos, you always managed to put him back. Differently, but perfectly. Each time. No exceptions.  

And if he had to fall apart a thousand times just to feel this way again, he’d do it. Without hesitation. Without regret.  

Because with you, even the falling felt like flying.

There was silence and peace and dreams. Dreams of possibly him or possibly something else entirely — though most probably him. It was always him, even if you couldn’t be sure when the dream dissolved into fragments the moment your eyes opened. You could never recall them when you woke, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. And this time, any hope of clinging to the memory of it was stolen by the sensation of something — someone — poking gently at your eyes.  

It was light, barely a touch, but the area was sensitive enough that it startled you awake. You blinked against the soft intrusion, vision blurry. But then you saw him, and suddenly, you didn’t mind.  

He was leaning over you, his face framed by soft curls and morning light. His smile was small but unmistakable, curling at the edges like it had nowhere else to go but wider. His finger was still hovering close to your face. Caught in the act.  

“You’re so cute when you sleep.” 

You frowned, not because you were upset, but because compliments always made you feel like you were being caught off guard, like a spotlight had been aimed directly at you. “Then why wake me up?” you murmured, your voice still heavy with sleep.  

“I didn’t mean to.” He tilted his head, and the way he said it was genuine but not regretful. Unapologetic in the way he always was. “You’re cute when you’re awake too.”  

Your nose scrunched instinctively, an automatic reaction you couldn’t control. You weren’t sure if it was because of the compliment or the sleepiness still clouding your mind, but either way, you turned your face slightly, almost embarrassed.  

And he laughed — soft, breathy, like he couldn’t help himself. The sound of it filled the room, made the silence feel alive again. He reached out with that same finger, brushing against your scrunched nose as if to smooth it out.  

“Don’t do that.” he teased, but his voice had softened.  

You closed your eyes for a moment, scrunching them too, tightly shut as if to escape him, but you could feel him leaning closer. It was a subtle shift, but you noticed it immediately — the warmth of him inching toward you, the space between you shrinking with every second.  

And then he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin mixing with your own. Your eyes fluttered open just slightly, enough to catch the way his gaze softened, how he looked at you like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.  

Maybe this was better than any dream you could’ve had. 

His thoughts tangled and unraveled in waves as he watched you. Watched you like he was trying to memorize every detail — the way your eyelashes fanned across your cheek, the way the light kissed your skin before he could, the soft part of your lips as you exhaled in quiet breaths. There was a gentleness to you in that moment, the kind of softness that made his chest ache. It wasn’t just beauty, though there was plenty of that. It was something more, something that couldn’t be captured in words or paintings or songs. And then he thought of nothing at all, because the need — the want — was too loud, too consuming.  

The longer he looked, the more the thought rose in him. It wasn’t impulsive, exactly — it was inevitable, a truth he couldn’t hold back any longer.  

“Kiss me.” 

You hadn’t moved a bone, a muscle, hadn’t even flinched or twitched in surprise, and there was no hesitation in your eyes. No question. There was no other choice but yes. In the stillness of your body, there was an answer.  

And in that moment, his chest swelled. Delight, relief, something brighter and bigger than both. His gaze flicked down to your lips, his own puckered, and for a second, he looked younger, freer, like all the weight he carried with him had been set aside in favour of this one, perfect moment.  

When he kissed you, he moved slowly at first, his lips brushing yours, feather-light, testing, savoring, like he was afraid to rush and ruin it. But the hesitation didn’t last long. It melted away as soon as he felt you leaning into him, your warmth meeting his, your lips parting just enough to let him in. But then you responded, tilting just slightly toward him, and that was all the invitation he needed.  

He tilted his head, his hand rising to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against the curve of your cheek. Every second of this must be engraved somewhere in his memory — how you felt, how you tasted, how you leaned into him like you too were falling and he was the only one to catch you.  

How could humans possibly be solitary creatures? How could they bear to live untouched when the dip of every neck and the curve of every palm seemed sculpted for connection, for closeness? The hollow of his hand fit against your face as though it had been waiting for this, for you. And in the way your cheek softened against his palm, like you were surrendering, he felt the answer to a question he hadn’t even known he was asking.  

His fingers traced lightly along the edge of your jaw, as though mapping something sacred, and it occurred to him — suddenly, achingly — that this was what people were made for. To hold and be held. To press themselves into the spaces of someone else and find that they fit. That they belonged.  

And as he kissed you, he thought maybe you knew this too. Maybe you’d always known, and that’s why you leaned into him so naturally, like the world itself had softened and settled just to make room for this. 

For you and for him. Together.

“Mhm…” he murmured.  

You pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “What?” you whispered.  

He stayed close, his forehead brushing lightly against yours, his lips curved in a lazy, lopsided smile. “I woke up wanting to kiss you.” The simplest truth.  

And then he kissed you again, slower, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t want to stop. Like maybe, if he kept kissing you, he’d never have to.

Lips lingered on yours for a moment longer before he pulled back, just slightly. He couldn’t bear to move too far away. His fingers were still on your face, his thumb stroking gently along your cheekbone, a touch so light it felt more like a memory than a moment.  

“You once told me,” he murmured, quiet, like a secret being shared in the dark, “that the human eye is God’s loneliest creation.”  

You blinked slowly, still caught in the haze of sleep, of him, and his closeness. “Yeah.” you said softly, the word almost swallowed by the air between you.  

He tilted his head slightly, his lips grazing your temple, more instinct than intention, drawn there by some magnetic pull. “I don’t believe that.” he said, muffled against your skin.  

“God?” you asked.  

He laughed with a quiet exhale. “That too.” he admitted, brushing his nose against your hairline. You couldn’t help it — you laughed, and he smiled against you.  

“But…” His hand moved, slipping from your cheek to your jaw, his fingers tracing the curve there, trailing down your neck with the lightest pressure. “But…how so much of the world passes through the pupil, and it holds nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, doesn’t even know there’s another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, just as empty.”  

Words sank. And for a moment you couldn’t respond. He didn’t seem to notice, his lips brushing a kiss along the curve of your jaw, so gentle it almost tickled. His other hand found your waist, resting there with no real purpose except to feel you beneath his palm.  

You swallowed hard. “That’s…sad.”  

“Yeah.” he murmured,  grazing your skin again, this time at the edge of your collarbone where your shirt had slipped just slightly. “But I don’t think it has to be. Not when there’s this.”  

His hand tightened, just slightly, at your waist. A squeeze. His fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand stayed at your neck, thumb pressing gently at the hollow of your throat, like he could feel the rhythm of your pulse and was trying to match it with his own.  

Everywhere he touched felt like both too much and not enough. He seemed to be following some invisible thread that connected you both, pulling him closer, closer, closer. His lips pressed to your shoulder, his thumb brushed the curve of your rib, his fingers slipped to the back of your neck, tangling lightly in your hair.  

You felt his breath as he leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your bottom lip, soft and slow, trying to draw out the moment forever.  

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t think the eye is lonely.” he said. “Not when it has this. Not when it has you.” And before you could answer, his lips found yours again, more sure this time. 

He pulled back just as slowly, resting his forehead against yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns along the curve of your waist. You opened your eyes and you forgot what words even were. His eyes held you there, heavy and unmoving, and you felt it — something alive and raw and impossible to name. Staring into him might undo you completely.  

“Maybe if we stare into each other’s eyes long enough,” you murmured, “they’ll reflect into a supernova.”  

You said it to lighten the air, to make him smile, to pull him back into something playful and safe. But he didn’t laugh. There wasn’t even a flicker of amusement on his face. He blinked once, and when he looked at you again, there was something there that made your stomach flip.  

“Maybe.” he said softly, and he wasn’t joking. Not even a little. “You think I’m joking.” he said, his breath warm against your mouth. “I’m not.”  

The way he said it sent a shiver through you, not because it was absurd but because you believed him too. The quiet in his voice, the steadiness in his gaze, the way his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, holding you gently, made you feel like the impossible wasn’t so far out of reach.  

“I know.” 

His touch wandered everywhere and nowhere all at once. He didn’t know where to hold you because there wasn’t a single part of you he didn’t want to touch.  

“Maybe.” he murmured again, quieter this time, like the word was for him, not for you. “Maybe we already have.”  

Heavy and electric, and you couldn’t tell if it was the room spinning or just you. All you knew was the way he was looking at you — like the supernova had already started, like the light was already spilling out of both of you, unstoppable.

His eyes were hungry. Not the kind of hunger that could be sated with a kiss, or even a touch, but something deeper, raw and untamed. It wasn’t desperation — it was desire, pure and unfiltered, like he’d been holding himself back for too long and now the dam was cracking.  

His lips were still parted, flushed from the kisses you’d already given him, but there was something else there now. Something darker. Lust, thick and heavy, dripping from him like honey. You could feel it in the way his hands twitched against you, in the way his chest rose and fell faster, like he was trying to keep control but failing.  

So you starved him a bit longer.  

You leaned back just slightly, enough to create space, enough to make him feel the loss of you. His hands followed instinctively, one on your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck, but you didn’t let him close the distance. Not yet.  

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and pleading, but you held your ground, tilting your head just enough to make it clear this was your game. You watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, like he was preparing to speak but couldn’t find the words.  

“Please.” he murmured finally, his voice rough, hoarse, like it had been dragged through gravel.  

The sound sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. “Deprivation brings out our inner animal.” you said softly.  

His grip tightened on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you gasp. His gaze was molten now, his hunger bleeding.  

“Is that what you want?” he asked, low and dangerous, barely holding himself back. “To see me lose control?”  

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You leaned in just enough that your breath ghosted against his lips, close enough that he could almost taste you. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, his resolve cracking, but you pulled back before he could close the gap.  

You wanted him wild.  

And when he opened his eyes again, there it was — the animal, unleashed. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, gripping you harder, pulling you flush against him. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back so your neck was exposed to him.  

“You want wild?” he growled, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below your ear. His teeth grazed the spot lightly, enough to make your breath hitch, enough to send a spark shooting through you. “Careful what you ask for.”  

His mouth was on you then, hot and demanding, trailing along your jaw, your throat, down to the curve of your shoulder. Rougher. Needier. His lips and teeth and tongue marked you in ways that felt dangerous.  

You gasped, your hands finding their way to his chest, his shoulders, clawing at him without meaning to. He groaned at the sensation, a deep sound that rumbled through his chest and into yours.  

And when he finally kissed you again — fully, deeply — it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was everything he’d been holding back, all his hunger, all his need, pouring into you.  

It was wild. Exactly the way you wanted him.

Balance was easy. Everywhere else. In your day, in your mind, in your carefully crafted world where everything had its place. But not with him. Not with you. Together, you tipped the scales every time. Because balance required restraint, and restraint didn’t exist here.  

You both wanted all of it. All of him, all of you, all the time, every time. No measured doses, no patience. Just hunger, mutual and endless, spilling over like it had nowhere else to go but into each other.  

A hand cupped your cheek, firm but tender, grounding you even as it made you feel like you were floating. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw, his fingers splaying out to cradle you. But the other hand — that was something else entirely.  

It slid down your side, slowly, before finding the curve of your breast. His palm was big, hot, and unrelenting as it pressed against you, his fingers dragging just so over the fabric covering your nipple. It was barely a touch, but it set you alight, your back arching instinctively into him.  

“You’re shaking.” he murmured, edged with satisfaction.  

“You’re irresistible.” you managed, breathy and uneven.  

He chuckled, low and quiet, his lips curving against your skin. “I know.”  

“Do you?” you said, trying to sound exasperated but failing when his thumb brushed over you again, teasing and firm all at once. “Because you-”  

“Did I tell you,” he interrupted, suddenly conversational, like you weren’t both teetering on the edge of something consuming, “that I had the weirdest dream last night?”  

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”  

“Dream.” he repeated, trailing maddeningly slow kisses down your neck. “I was on a beach. Except it wasn’t really a beach. There was no sand. Just water. Endless water. And fish, flying through the air.”  

You laughed despite yourself, your fingers curling into his shoulders. “Flying fish? Seriously?”  

“Yeah.” he said. “But they weren’t normal fish. They had wings. Big ones. Like hawks.”  

You shook your head, laughing softly. “I can’t tell if that’s poetic or just bizarre.”  

“Both…you know me.” he said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. His hand, still on your breast, gave a gentle squeeze, dragging your attention back to the moment. “But I woke up thinking about it. Wondering what it meant.”  

“Maybe it means you’re going insane.” you teased, trying to steady your breathing as his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over the fabric.  

“Or maybe,” he said, his voice dropping again, “it means I was dreaming about you.”  

The sudden shift in his tone made your laughter catch in your throat. “Me?”  

“You.” he confirmed, leaning in again. “You’re the water. The endless part. The thing I can’t get enough of.”  

“That’s ridiculous.” you whispered.  

“Is it?” he murmured. “Why else would I wake up wanting to kiss you? Tell me it doesn’t make sense.”  

“I can’t.” you admitted, your voice barely audible.  

He smiled against your skin, his hand sliding from your breast to your waist, holding you. “Thought so.”  

There was silence for a moment, heavy and charged, before you broke it. “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t…you?”  

He paused, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you. “If I weren’t me?”  

“Yeah.” you said. “Like, if you weren’t…you know. This.”  

He laughed, fingers tightening on your waist. “I’d be a fisherman.”  

“A fisherman?” you repeated, incredulous.  

“Yeah.” he said, his grin widening. “Out at sea. Catching fish. Flying ones, obviously.”  

You rolled your eyes, your laughter bubbling up again. “You’re ridiculous.”  

“And yet,” he said as his lips found yours, “here you are. Laughing with me. Touching me. Wanting me.”  

“Don’t let it go to your head.” you muttered, but it was much too unconvincing.  

“Too late.” 

And just like that, you were back where you started — off balance, undone, completely at his mercy. But you didn’t mind. Not even a little.

He was the kind of man who understood the subtle difference between heat and warmth. He knew how to be both, how to burn without consuming, how to hold you close without smothering. His touch was calculated, precise, but it felt instinctive, natural, like he’d known your body long before he’d ever laid a hand on it.  

His hand moved on your breast again, his fingers tightening slightly, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Tell me how it feels.” he said, his voice softer now, but no less commanding.  

“It feels…” you started, your voice trailing off as he rolled your nipple gently between his fingers.  

“It feels?” he pressed.  

“Good.” you admitted, the word tumbling out of you. “Too good.”  

He smiled then, not just with his mouth but with his whole body, like he was basking in the effect he had on you. “That’s the point, baby.” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.  

And then his hand left your cheek, sliding down your neck, your shoulder, until it joined the other. He was everywhere again, his hands roaming, exploring, mapping out every inch of you with the kind of care that felt almost reverent. But it wasn’t gentle. Not entirely.  

“Look at me.” he said suddenly. Your eyes fluttered open, and when you met his gaze, it was like the air had been sucked out of the room. “I want all of you. Every part. Every thought. Every breath. Don’t hold anything back from me.”  

And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Because you wanted the same thing. All of him. All the time.

He took your shirt off, slow and unhurried. The fabric pooled somewhere behind you, forgotten, and he leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and steady against your skin.  

“I love breathing you.” he’d told you once, the words so simple yet so heavy they’d stayed with you. He was doing that now, his chest rising and falling against yours, his lips brushing your collarbone as though he was inhaling you, drawing you in, needing you to fill every corner of him.  

His hands moved with that same steady rhythm, skimming down your sides, tracing the curves, writing something only he and you could understand. He spoke to your body rhythmically, each touch a sentence, each kiss a line of poetry. He didn’t rush. He didn’t falter. It was with ease. He knew every word, every movement, by heart.  

“You’re beautiful.” 

“You’ve said that before.” you whispered, your voice barely audible.  

“I’ll say it again.” he said simply, grazing the hollow of your throat. “Every day, if you’ll let me.”  

You didn’t respond with words. You tilted your head back, giving him more space, more of you, and his lips followed the silent invitation, moving down, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin along your chest.  

He whispered something then, something you couldn’t catch. “What did you say?” you asked, your voice shaky.  

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. “I said,” he repeated, “you’re going to ruin me.”  

“Me? You’re the one-”  

His hands moved again, cutting you off, his fingers brushing the underside of your boob. “You.” he said again, his voice firm this time, like a declaration.  

He spoke to your body, and somehow his whispers made you scream — not with noise but with feeling, with the way your whole being seemed to vibrate, caught in the current of him. You never did understand how he did it, how his voice could unravel you with nothing but a murmur, a word, a sigh.  

You never cared to, either.  

So long as he’d — “Please” — keep talking.  

And he did. His words came in waves, washing over you, soft and relentless. Compliments, confessions, half-formed thoughts spilling from him like he couldn’t keep them in.  

“You feel like heaven.” 

He murmured, his lips brushing your shoulder.  

“My little trouble.” 

He teased, his hands skimming down your sides.  

“You’re everything.” 

He whispered, his voice breaking just slightly. 

And each word, each syllable, sank into you, filling the spaces you hadn’t even known were empty. Arching into him, holding him closer, whispering back with every touch, every gasp, every shudder.  

You didn’t need words. He understood you just fine.

The routine of it never got boring. Same steps every time, same heat every time. The way his hands found your body, the way your body responded like it was made for this — for him. Never stale, never cold. It always took your breath away, the way his body would talk for him when words weren’t enough. Like it did now. Automatic, instinctive. Clothes off, parts touching, skin to skin, deeper than deep.  

Penetrating.  

“Oh…” you gasped, the sound escaping before you could catch it.  

“Oh…” he echoed, his voice vibrating against your ear.  

Just as good as the first time. Just as good as the best.  

His hands tangled with your pillow, gripping it because he just needed something to hold on to. Yours roamed over his back, your nails raking down his sensitive skin, leaving traces, marks, scratches. Little reminders that this happened, that you were here, that he was yours.  

“So tight.” he murmured. Agrowl, a confession, a prayer.  

“So big.” you praised, your words coming out breathless, like they’d been pulled from the depths of you.  

He moaned at that, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers through you. Without thought, your body responded, contracting around him, pulling him in, holding him there. It was heaven on earth, this give and take, this rhythm you’d perfected together.  

The pure, seductive nature of eye contact. The kind that never breaks.  

It was impossible to look away, impossible to do anything but drown in him. Your breath hitched, your hands clutching at him, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between you.  

People don’t say “the eyes are the doors to the soul” for nothing. You could see everything in his — the hunger, the devotion, the way he was completely lost in you, with you. And you knew he could see the same in yours.  

Your lovemaking was slow and patient, yet filled with an intensity that made your head spin. It wasn’t about chasing an ending — it was about this. About feeling. About being as close to him as humanly possible. About holding him and being held, about losing yourself and finding him in the process.  

It was the best way to start a day.  

The absolute best way to fuck.  

“Harder?” he asked.  

“Yeah.” you moaned.  

He shifted then, adjusting his angle, his pace, his intensity. His hips moved against yours with more force, more urgency, and the sound that tore from your throat was pure, unadulterated pleasure.  

“Harder?” he asked again.  

“Yes.” you whispered, then said it louder, breathier, “Yes, please.”  

Alex grinned, slow and cocky, the kind of grin that made you want to kiss him and slap him in equal measure. He didn’t make you wait long, though, shifting his hips and giving you exactly what you asked for. The first thrust had your head tipping back, and he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your exposed throat.  

“You’re so polite.” he teased, his breath hot against your skin. “Always asking so nicely.”  

“Shut up.” you countered, and his laugh turned into a groan as you clenched around him, just to make your point. “You’re cute.” you said, because you couldn’t help it.  

He rolled his eyes, but the grin didn’t leave his face. “Cute?”  

“The cutest.” you confirmed, teasing, but there was truth in it. He was the cutest thing you’d ever seen, and you were sure it would be the death of you one day.  

“Cute.” he repeated, as though testing the word. Then he shook his head, leaning down until your foreheads touched. 

And he kissed you again, slow and deep, and you sighed into it, your hands slipping around his neck to pull him closer. But impatience was building, a steady drumbeat in your veins that wouldn’t be ignored.  

“You feel…” he started, his voice breaking, his forehead pressing against yours as his thrusts slowed just slightly to drag out the moment. “My God, baby…you feel like everything.”  

You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t stop.” you whispered against his lips.  

“Never.” he promised, his hands sliding under you, holding you tighter, pulling you closer. “Never.” 

“More.” you begged. Or demanded. Or pleaded. Or somewhere in between. The word came out broken, trembling, desperate. How much more of him could there possibly be? He was already everywhere. Over you, under you, inside you, wrapped around you in ways that felt almost cosmic. And yet, somehow, he delivered.  

He gave himself to you more.  

It felt illegal, this level of connection. Like there was some universal law being broken, some boundary being shattered, some line you weren’t supposed to cross. This is too much, you thought, even as your body cried for more, for everything. It was too much. And still not enough. Never enough.  

“Baby.” he groaned, his voice cracking. He was unraveling in your arms. “I’m gonna come.”  

“Do it.” you whispered, your voice shaking with anticipation, your legs tightening around him, holding him to you.  

“God-” he choked out, his hips stuttering as his movements became frenzied. “I’m gonna fill you up-”  

Heaven. The words were heaven to your ears, a promise and a plea all at once. It felt obscene to think it, but you felt it, and he felt it, and that was all you needed. No logic, no explanation. Just this.  

And then he was gone.  

His body stiffened, his head dropping to your shoulder as his breath hitched, caught in his throat. He groaned, vibrating through you as his hips pressed flush against yours, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could feel it, the way his body gave in, the way he let go, spilling into you with a force that felt like surrender.  

It was warm, searing, a flood that made you gasp, made your body tighten around him instinctively, pulling him in, holding him there. He cursed under his breath, his voice hoarse and raw.  

“Fuck…” he breathed, wrecked and shaky. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”  

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your mind was too hazy, your body too overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling you, completing you in a way that felt almost holy.  

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, all heavy-lidded and full of…disbelief. Like he couldn’t quite comprehend that this was real, that you were real, that you were his.  

“I love you.” he whispered. It carried his whole soul.  

“I love you.” you echoed, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, pulling him down for a quiet promise in the aftermath of the storm.  

And for a moment, just a moment, it felt like enough.

He stayed there, pressed deep inside you. You thought he might speak, but for a moment, there was only the sound of your shared breaths.  

Then, finally, his voice came, quiet and raw. “What are you thinking?”  

“I’m thinking…” you trailed off, your lips curving into a small, tired smile. “I’m thinking I might actually melt into you.”  

His laugh was soft, but his eyes stayed serious, searching yours. “Good.” he murmured. “That’s good.”  

You shifted slightly beneath him, your body instinctively starting to move, to stretch, but his hands tightened on your hips, holding you still.  

“No, don’t move.” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Please.”  

You froze, your brows knitting together. “Why?”  

“Because,” he said, hesitant, “that way I can imagine we’re a single body.”  

Your breath caught at the way he said it, at the vulnerability in his tone. His hands softened their grip, but he didn’t let you pull away. His eyes stayed on yours, wide and unguarded.  

“That’s…” You swallowed hard, your voice faltering. “That’s beautiful.”  

He smiled, a small, almost shy thing, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure he should be smiling at all. “It’s true.” he said simply, his hands moving up to cradle your face again, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “I don’t want to lose this. Lose you. Not even for a second.”  

“You’re not losing me.” you whispered. “I’m right here.”  

“I know.” he said. “But I want more than that. I want…” He trailed off, his eyes closing as he took a shaky breath. “I want you to be a part of me. Like…physically, spiritually. All of it.”  

“You already have me.” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your own emotions. “Every part of me. You know that, right?”  

“I do.” he said softly. “But sometimes it feels like it’s not enough. Like I’ll never have enough…enough of you.”  

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you kissed him, pouring everything you couldn’t say into the way your lips moved against his. And he kissed you back like he was trying to do the same, his hands sliding down to hold you closer, to keep you there, connected, inseparable. 

And you knew, somewhere deep in the quiet corners of your mind, that one day you would awaken with the bitter taste of regret lingering on your lips where his kisses used to live.  

Because he wasn’t the kind of lover you could replace.  

He was that Sunday morning, stay in bed till noon kind of lover. The kind who made the world outside your bedroom feel like it didn’t exist, who made time irrelevant, who made you forget there was anything beyond the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body pressed against yours. That lose ourselves between the sheets, forget where you end and I begin kind of lover. The kind who could turn every sigh, every gasp, every moan into a symphony, who knew the exact rhythm of your body like he’d been born to play it. That double climax, let me taste you again kind of lover. The kind who never seemed satisfied, who always wanted more of you, who could spend hours tracing your skin with his mouth like it was the most sacred map he’d ever seen.  

“Don’t leave me.” you whispered suddenly.  

His head lifted, his eyes finding yours, wide and questioning. “What?”  

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. “I mean…don’t leave this.” you clarified, your voice softer now. “Don’t let this, us, fade. Promise me.”  

His expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.” he said, his voice steady, reassuring.  

“But what if-”  

“No.” he interrupted, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there. “No ‘what ifs.’ I’m here. I’m staying. With you.”  

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift entirely. There was a part of you that knew nothing this good, this intense, this all-consuming could last forever.  

“Hey.” he murmured, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him and nowhere else. “You’re stuck with me, alright? No one else is ever going to make me feel like this. Like…” He hesitated, his brows furrowing slightly as he searched for the words. “Like I’m alive for the first time.”  

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. What could you possibly say to that?  

So you kissed again. And in that moment, you believed him. You believed in him, in this, in the impossible, fragile thing you’d built together.  

But somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew that someday you might wake up and realise it had all slipped through your fingers.  

And you would miss him like you’d miss air. 

But like everything touched by man, there would be consequences.  

Because now, you’re in that same bed, with that same man — your Alex, your same Alex — and she’s tugging on his hair with all the determination her tiny fists can muster. He’s wincing from the sting, his jaw tight, but he won’t pull away. He never does.  

She’s kicking him in the face with those minuscule  onesie-covered feet, relentless and uncoordinated, all raw energy and discovery. The kind of kicks that make you wonder how someone so small can have so much force behind them.  

And he’s tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your soul and refuses to let go. His eyes are heavy, the dark circles beneath them a testament to too many sleepless nights and too many early mornings.  

But he keeps them open.  

He keeps them open because every time he blinks, every time his lids lower even for a fraction of a second, she stops. And then she waits. She waits for him to look at her again, and when he does, when his eyes meet hers, her tiny face lights up with a smile so pure, so full of joy, it’s as if the entire world was made just for her.  

And you’re watching it all unfold.  

You’re watching your daughter fall in love with the same eyes you did.  

Consequences.  

They’re everywhere now — in the scattered toys on the floor, in the half-drunk cups of coffee that go cold before he can finish them, in the tiny socks that never seem to stay on her feet.  

But they’re also here, in this moment. In the way Alex leans into her, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, his hands gentle but steady as they cradle her wiggling body. In the way he whispers something soft to her, something you can’t hear, and she lets out a high-pitched giggle that fills the room like sunlight.  

“Did you hear that?” he asks, turning to you with wide, wonder-filled eyes, his voice hushed because he’s just witnessed a miracle. 

You nod, your chest tightening as you take it all in. “I heard.”  

“She’s perfect.” he says, his voice cracking slightly, and you know he means it with every fiber of his being.  

“She’s you.” you say softly, watching as his gaze shifts back to her, his expression so tender it makes your throat ache.  

“No.” he murmurs, shaking his head. “She’s…she’s us.”  

And in that moment, you know the consequences are worth it. Every sleepless night, every ache, every fleeting moment of doubt or fear. They are worth it for this — for the sight of your Alex, your same Alex, falling in love all over again, just like you did.  

Consequences.  

You wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

a/n: I think I’m getting a bit obsessed with the concept of him finishing inside. I went on about it for a bit too long in another thing you’ll see soon too. Ugh.

Also, adding this just because. I was scrolling through some old playlists and whatever, landed on this song randomly and it really gave me the vibe of this, like what I was tryna express in here.

[psychoticallykind]

Jegumas Day Twenty-One - Mistletoe Kiss

1,197 words

@noblehouseofgay

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

Regulus

Regulus should have known it was a useless endeavor.

Useless, no matter how much he wanted to avoid this. Because when did Regulus ever get something he wanted?

It was stupid anyway. Stupid that he cared, stupid that he’d been trying all night to avoid the enchanted plants.

And really, this was the best case scenario, right? This was what people daydreamed about. He was stuck under enchanted mistletoe with his boyfriend. The perfect excuse to kiss someone he was already attracted to and knew he was safe with.

It was the best case scenario.

“Regulus, I need you to breathe, love.”

The words were quiet, appearing with a gentle pressure around his wrist as James tried to pull him out of his head.

“We don’t have to do anything,” James whispered, dark eyes wide and earnest. “It’s okay, Regulus. We’re okay.”

Regulus blinked away tears, trying to speak over the pounding in his chest. “It’s - the - it’s enchanted.”

It was an unnecessary statement - everyone at the party knew that the mistletoe was enchanted. Everyone. Including James and - though he’d been stupid enough to walk under it - Regulus.

And it wasn’t that Regulus didn’t love kissing James. It wasn’t - he loved kissing his boyfriend. He loved everything that he did with James.

In private. He loved all of those things - adored them, really - in private.

Not in a crowded common room where everyone could see them.

Regulus was going to throw up.

James

James tried to stay calm as he watched Regulus get even paler, eyes darting around the room. Thankfully, no one had really noticed them yet.

He’d been trying so hard to avoid this tonight. He knew Regulus better than he knew anyone, and he knew from the moment Mary had announced the mistletoe that he needed to keep Regulus out of that situation.

This situation, that is.

“Regulus,” he tried again. “Reg, hey. Look at me, love.”

Blue-grey eyes flickered to his for a second or two before squeezing shut as Regulus shook his head. His breathing stuttered for a moment, lips pressed together, and James had to take a deep breath to avoid panicking with him.

He traced a heart into Regulus’s palm, glancing up at the plant and mentally running through ways to undo the charm. He wouldn’t kiss Regulus like this. Not in a room full of people while his boyfriend was on the verge of a panic attack. He could never disrespect him like that.

But there was more than one way to kiss someone.

Ways that wouldn’t trigger Regulus’s anxiety any further. Not his lips, or his cheek - really anything on his face was out, James knew that.

“Hey, Reg?” James shifted his hand so that their fingers tangled together, gently squeezing. “I want to try something.”

Regulus’s eyes flew open, wide as he shook his head. “No - no, Jamie, I can’t - please, I’m sorry, not here please, I can’t -”

“I know,” James interrupted as gently as he could. He took Regulus’s other hand, adding light pressure. “Reg. Regulus.” He waited until Regulus met his eyes, keeping his tone even. “Do you trust me?”

Regulus

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do this - this was wrong, it was wrong, people were watching, they were watching, he was wrong -

“Hey, Reg?”

Wrong, wrong, all wrong, they were watching, they could see him, they could see him.

“I want to try something.”

Terror washed through him, and suddenly the world was too bright again and Regulus said something but he wasn’t exactly sure what because he was terrified that James was going to do it anyway and everyone was going to see -

“Regulus.”

There was pressure, gentle and grounding, and a solid tone that broke through everything else for a second. Just a second, and Regulus was looking at James. His James.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Regulus replied without thinking, the word effortless and automatic. Of course he trusted James.

He blinked, the situation hitting him. “But - James, I can’t - they can -”

“They can see,” James finished for him. “I know. Do you trust me?”

Regulus nodded, not sure how that solved anything.

“Okay.” James smiled, soft and kind, and something in Regulus relaxed. He knew that smile. That smile was safe. James was safe. “I’m going to try something. I’ll go slow, okay?”

His heartbeat kicked up again, but Regulus forced himself to breathe as he nodded. This was James. James had never done anything to push his boundaries. He wasn’t going to now. “Okay.”

James lifted one of his hands, slowly, making sure Regulus understood what he was doing before he did it.

And Regulus did. Oh, he did, and he loved James so much for this.

Soft lips brushed against the back of his hand, and Regulus felt the magic holding them there dissipate.

James moved, tugging him to the side, away from the awful plant. Regulus took a deep breath. He was free. He was okay. No one was watching him.

“Want to go upstairs?” James offered.

Regulus nodded - a small, controlled thing. It had to be controlled. He was in control.

He was in control all the way until the door to the dorm room closed behind them, and then he didn’t need to be in control anymore.

James caught him as he collapsed against the other boy, humming softly. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Regulus nodded, gasping, inhaling pine and eucalyptus like it was oxygen and he’d been holding his breath. “So stupid,” he managed, curling his hands in the fabric of James’s shirt. “Sorry. Sorry. So stupid.”

“Not stupid,” James denied. “Not ever. We’ve talked about it, remember? We don’t do anything in public.”

“Because of me,” Regulus pointed out, slowly recovering and refusing to acknowledge the tears burning in his eyes. “Because I’m this stupid, broken mess who can’t handle it.”

“Because you have boundaries, just like me, and that’s one of them and that’s perfectly okay,” James reminded him, holding him tightly. “A mistletoe kiss doesn’t mean anything, Reg, it’s just a tradition. Just a thing that someone made up somewhere. It’s not important.”

Regulus just nodded, trying to breathe somewhat evenly as he came back from the heightened state he’d been in. The pressure of James’s arms and the familiar scent and warmth helped. So did the soft, even tone that James used as he continued to speak.

“I know that must have felt awful, getting stuck there and feeling trapped with all those people in the room. It’s valid, love. You’re valid and it’s okay to feel whatever you need to. I’m not upset. No one is upset with you, you did everything right. So brave for me, you know that? So perfect.”

“I’m not perfect,” Regulus mumbled.

James shook his head - Regulus could feel it. “You are. So perfect. My amazing, perfect Regulus.”

They stayed that way for a while until James urged him to lay down, and then it really wasn’t long before Regulus drifted off to sleep, surrounded by warmth and comfort and soft, earnest words.

[5-puthyyy]

The Apprentice (Agatha x Rio x Reader) - Chapter 7

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 7.7k

Summary:

Life has been about survival for you ever since your coven banished you for the simplest thing: desire. Since then, you've travelled from Inn to Inn, making ends meet, until you sense a powerful Magick presence coming from two mysterious women. They take you in as their apprentice and you end up learning far more than what you came for...

CHAPTER WARNINGS! -- (18+ ONLY) SEXUAL CONTENT + STRAPON + CHOKING + SQUIRTING? + MAMA KINK

A/N -- this chapter is 7778 words of pure smut and filth, and this entire series is my ted talk on why p/w/plot is better xoxo

Ch.1 ~ Ch.2 ~ Ch.3 ~ Ch.4 ~ Ch.5 ~ Ch.6 ~ Ch.7

Before your lips even touch, Agatha’s throat lets the softest of sighs escape and you absolutely melt at the sound; melt into her lips, her body, her arms. The moment it happens, you realise how royally screwed you are because kissing Agatha is addictive. It’s narcotic, ridiculously hot, and invading in a way that makes you want to surrender every atom of yourself to her. So you do.

It’s soft at first, Agatha letting you take, test the waters, experiment however you’d like. You kiss her gently, brushing your lips against hers as you switch between her lower and upper lips trying to get a taste of everything you can. Her lip moves with yours, sucking every second or so to pull you in. It’s sensual the way you dance with each other, Agatha letting you in the instant your tongue experimentally swipes over her bottom lip.

You lost track of time getting lost in her this way, mouths in a slow dance, sucking on her tongue a few times after memorising the whiney moan it elicits from her throat. When you finally pull back with hooded eyes darkened with desire, you see it reflected in Agatha’s eyes too. It’s wet when you pull apart, a string connecting your lips together still. The thrill shining in Agatha’s eyes shines in yours when you realise how much this affected her too.

A throat clears to your side and your head snaps to the sound. “Excuse me?” Rio scoffs, feigning her anger. A ball forms in your throat as dread sinks down to your stomach. You forgot to ask. You didn’t ask at all, asking would have been ridiculous in your head. Who asks if they could kindly kiss a person’s partner?

“I–I’m so sorry, Gosh, I don’t–”

Rio interrupts your rambling with a chuckle, her gaze darkening from anger to…to lust. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t you know it’s rude not to share?” Rio teases with an easy smirk, poofing that fear in your stomach away. Agatha feels the relief in your body as she reaches a hand around your waist, her face slithering between your neck. But she doesn’t get a chance to kiss it yet because Rio’s snapping her fingers and you’re suddenly wrapped in a green rope and dragged off the chair.

“Oh, jealousy is not a good look on you, my love,” Agatha says through gritted teeth, clearly frustrated at you being taken from her. But you’re suddenly too occupied being in Rio’s space. You stumble to stability with a gasp, standing right in front of her with your knees pressed to hers.

Rio smirks up at you, her brown eyes filled with mischief. “Well?” she lifts a brow expectantly, glancing down to her lap. She’s sat on a smaller chair and there’s clearly no room for you to sit other than directly on her. 

But this time, you turn back to look at Agatha, just to make sure this is okay. Before she can nod her head, a rough hand grips your jaw and forces your face back harshly.

You gasp and Rio grins wickedly, all teeth. “Eyes on me.”

While Agatha is all soft and sensual, Rio is pure chaos, pulling you onto her lap with urgency not caring if you stumble a little. Your hands fall to her shoulders, gripping tightly for stability and Rio, the maniac, moans at your rough touch. She closes the gap, attacking your lips with her own. You gasp and she takes that opportunity to slip her tongue in, not asking for dominance but simply taking. 

She kisses you as if she owns you, doing what she wants to do with no questions asked, and she knows you like it. You’re sure Agatha knows you like it too by the needy whimpers you can’t help but let out. Rio’s hand roams and grips around your waist while the other leaves your jaw just to hold the back of your neck. It keeps you close to her, wrapped up in her, wanting to smell, taste, feel nothing but her. And Agatha.

At the realisation, you pull back quickly. “Wait, stop,” you call out, stumbling as you slip off her lap. They both watch you for a moment, observing as you open your mouth and close it, unsure of what you even want to say. What are we doing? What does this mean? Is this not wrong? “I’m confused,” is what you end up settling on.

Agatha sighs as she stands up. She gently guides you to take her place and you sit back, tense and anxious and filled with so much desire you can’t help but feel wrong when that’s what you’ve been told your entire life. Rio comes up behind you, her fingertips glazing over your shoulders before digging in gently. You moan instantly at the relief and she takes that as a sign to continue, using her fingers in ways you’ve never felt before to ease the tension out of your body.

“What are you confused about?” Agatha asks, settling in front of you. You try to move your legs up and press your knees to your chest just to give her space, but she holds onto your ankles. She places your legs over her lap, her fingers now doing the same as Rio but to the muscles in your calves.

“God,” you groan out at the feeling of both their hands on you. Rio lets you close your eyes a moment to relish it, but within seconds she snaps her fingers, forcing them back open. 

Rio’s finger traces your jawline for a moment before gripping, forcing your head down to meet Agatha’s intense gaze. “Agatha asked you a question, sweetheart.”

A stutter slips out of your lips for a moment before you collect yourself. But your collected words end up being rambles anyway. “I don’t understand what is happening. Do you not think I’m ruining your relationship? Why do you want me? Is this not…wrong?” you ask, your mind going back to the argument and Agatha yelling at you for not being able to control your desire. 

Agatha’s expression scrunches into something between frustration and sympathy, her hands stilling for a moment against your skin. She seems torn, unsure of what to say, or how to answer your questions. She hadn’t expected it, rather thought you’d give in the moment your lips touched. She nods her head towards Rio who begins massaging your shoulders again to ease your nerves.

“We were not upset with you because of your desires,” Agatha begins, carefully choosing her words, “We were…frustrated because you seemed to want her, more than you wanted us.”

Your brows pinch together in realisation. They were jealous. They’ve wanted you all this time and you were just too blind and insecure to see it. But instead of telling you in the moment, they decided to build your confidence up and make you see it for yourself, make you want it enough to push your insecurities away. A soft, grateful look passes in your eyes as Agatha looks at you with tenderness and hope in hers. Leaning down to tug at her hand, you give your permission for her to climb on top of you, her arms falling over your shoulders. Her gaze is hot, soft, filled with want, and a mischief similar to Rio’s. She leans down for a moment, her breath hot against your lips, but instead of kissing you she pulls back, leans up and meets Rio’s lips in a hot, rough, and messy kiss. 

You can only manage to watch them for a moment before your hips start grinding up seeking friction. A desperate whine escapes your lips, wanting the attention, wanting their lips on you, anywhere, everywhere.

Blue eyes come back into your vision once they break apart, and Agatha comes down to give you a wet kiss and you moan into her mouth as you taste Rio on her lips. It’s almost too much, you think, to have Agatha kissing you with passion and fire, while Rio’s lips have found their way to the side of your neck. But you realise it’s not too much, it’s simply your excitement. In fact, it’s not enough; you need more.

“More,” you pant as you pull back, your teeth biting Agatha’s bottom lip in a demanding manner, “Need more, please,” you moan, desire clouding your mind as Agatha’s roaming hands tugging on your night clothes drives you crazy.

Rio chuckles into your ear, her hand slithering to lightly press against your neck. You gasp into her touch, arching, nails digging into Agatha’s back as she kisses across your collarbone. They’ve both mastered that balance between tender and rough, keeping you on the edge waiting for you to beg for it. And you’re more than willing to do so.

“Please,” you breathe out.

Agatha groans in response, forcefully moving Rio’s hand from your throat just so she can roughly bite, suck, lick at your neck, successfully staking her claim. Rio smirks at Agatha’s possessiveness, deciding to retaliate by fisting your hair and tugging your head back; she leans down and kisses you aggressively, tongue forcing its way past your lips and claiming every inch of your mouth. It’s rough, messy, dirty, a clash of teeth, tongue, lips; you can’t control the moans leaving your throat and Rio happily swallows them down.

When Agatha decides to give your neck some mercy, she smirks down at her work. Your neck is painted in all shades of red, purple, blue; she trails her fingertips along the patterns, slithering her hand down until she reaches low on your stomach. You gasp into Rio’s kiss, your hand gripping Agatha’s waist, silently begging for her to touch you there, to cross over that line, to let you give in to your pleasures. But her hand stays right there, slipping under your shirt to lightly circle your skin.

A groan slips out your lips as you pull back from Rio for a moment. “Agatha,” you complain, as she slides her hand further up instead of down to where you need it most. Her wicked eyes tease as they look up at you but you look down with a pout, brows furrowed and eyes almost tear-filled. The desire is too much, overwhelming you with a need that can only be filled by them. It’s all too soft, too slow; you need more.

Agatha sees the primal hunger in your eyes, and paired with that pout she could never resist, Agatha gives in. “Bedroom.”

It’s a single command, not for you but for Rio who nods and lets go of your hair. She slides by the side of the chair as Agatha slips off of you, and Rio pulls you into her arms. You yelp at the quick movement, gripping onto her bicep as she lifts you with ease, manhandling you until your legs are wrapped around her waist, arms around her neck.

“Hold tight,” she teases, pecking your lips before you all disappear in a green smoke. Your hands stay gripping the back of her neck as you all reappear in their bedroom. 

“We could have walked,” you roll your eyes jokingly. Rio lifts a brow at the brattiness in your tone, clenching her jaw before slamming her lips to yours. Her teeth bite at your bottom lip hard enough for you to whimper and dig your nails into her neck. Unsurprisingly, she groans at the pain mixed with pleasure, gently laying you on the bed without breaking the kiss.

Grinding up against her like this feels heavenly, your thighs keeping her in place as hers rests between your legs. The pressure is perfect, hard and solid against your core letting you seek that friction. Rio pulls back from the kiss just to rip your thin nightshirt off. You gasp at the strength, instinctively wanting to cover your naked chest but Rio’s hands grip your wrists, pinning them to the side. She looks down at you with wide, hungry eyes, her gaze dark and possessive as she gives in to temptation by diving down and sucking a peaked nipple into her mouth.

“Oh, fuck, Rio, yes,” you hiss, moan, whimper at her relentless roughness, arching your chest into her mouth. Suddenly there’s a hot tongue against your other nipple that has you gasping, whining, and finally snapping your eyes open to look down. Agatha has taken your other breast, both of them now looking up at you with devastatingly beautiful eyes darkened by desire. The sight paired with the pressure between your legs is almost too much already.

The contrast of their touches – Rio rough and Agatha tender – has your mind spinning, hands coming down to press against both their heads. You’re unsure what you want more, which touch drives you crazier, but eventually you realise you don’t care at all; you just want them, in whatever form they’ll let you have them. Agatha kisses up your body to your lips, smiling against them as you moan immediately at the first touch of her mouth against yours.

“Eager?” she whispers as she pulls back, then in, and back, her soft, wet kisses driving you to insanity. You nod like a lust-driven maniac, slamming your lips to hers, falling into her as Rio replaces Agatha’s mouth with a hand to your other breast. Her tongue stays at your nipple, circling, flicking, pressing hard against it until you’re arching and writhing against her touch.

“Ugh, God, I need…” you stop yourself, suddenly shy, averting your gaze from Agatha’s knowing one. 

The blue-eyed witch tilts your head back to her with her finger. “What do you need from us, little dove?” she whispers, demanding your honesty. Not just with them, but with yourself. 

You gather up that last bit of courage. “I need you to touch me.”

Agatha chuckles, low and dark, her tongue swiping your bottom lip before sucking it into her mouth to coax another moan out of you. “We are touching you.”

Rio moans in agreement from her position, elaborating with a rough squeeze of your chest. But it’s not enough. The heat and fire between your legs need to be put out. They try to search for that friction from Rio’s thigh but it’s not enough, not now that you’ve tasted them, now that you’ve felt the pleasure you can get from their mouths, their hands, from those intense gazes. A flash of Rio’s head between your thighs takes over your mind for a moment, Agatha’s hips grinding against your stomach before climbing up to your face. The image has you squirming, writhing, the wetness now uncomfortable. 

“Please, I need you to take me,” you finally whine out and see the immediate effect on the women on top of you. Agatha’s breath hitches as Rio’s rough ministrations freeze for a split second. You take that as a sign and spill the rest out with ease, “Claim me, use me, fuck me.”

The tension in the room reaches its peak, silence following your desperately honest words. The pants Agatha’s letting out near your ear are warm, doing nothing to calm the heat between your squirming legs. There’s barely any movement at your chest, Rio’s mouth long gone as she looks up at you with a clenched jaw, clearly trying to control herself. But she can’t. 

A sound akin to an animal growling escapes Rio’s throat, croaky and dark, and she rests a hand by your hip to push herself up. Agatha doesn’t want to get in the way of a predator, so she slides off and instead settles behind you, watching over with a smirk as you gulp, wide-eyed and terrifyingly wanting more. Agatha’s hands hold yours back, keeping you locked in your place for Rio to do as she pleases.

“Is this what you wanted?” Rio’s tone is dripping with control, power, and hunger. Her eyes darker, the warm brown a deeper shade mixed with black, but still wide and as honest as ever. Something you’ve learnt about Rio is she never lies, never hides; it’s almost as if she doesn’t have the ability to do so because her eyes are so expressive. And right now, they’re screaming for you.

“Yes, please,” you whimper as she growls again, this time pairing it with eager hands tugging at your pants until nothing is left but your naked skin. It’s vulnerable, raw and you, and, again, part of you wishes to hide it all away but the way Rio’s eyes widen slightly, tongue peaking out to lick at her lower lip in hunger has your thighs opening up wider for her. It’s almost subconscious how your body reacts to her.

Agatha hums a soft, “Good girl,” behind you, nipping at your ear as she says so. Her hand creeps around to your chest, fingers pressing gently, experimentally, seeing what you like best.

A firm but warm touch on your inner thighs draws your attention back to Rio whose fingers are trailing higher and higher. You’re breathing faster by the second, practically a panting, waiting mess by the time Rio’s fingers finally slide through your folds. It’s a touch, a brush, really, but it still has you moaning, throwing your head back to rest against Agatha’s shoulder. The witch takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, happily marking whatever clear skin you have left.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Rio mutters almost mockingly, pouting up at you, “Have we been neglecting you that long?” she teases, “You’re soaked, baby,” she observes in awe before sliding through your slit again, gathering your wetness on her fingers. But before she gets a taste, she reaches up. Your mouth opens up instinctively and Rio grins wickedly at your obedience, but she passes by you and instead offers her glistening fingertips to Agatha.

The blue-eyed witch hums in appreciation, flicking her tongue out for a taste. The moan she lets out permanently imprints itself into your head; you’re seemingly addictive enough for her to wrap her lips around Rio’s fingers, eagerly sucking and licking every drop she can. The act itself is enough to have you whimpering and grinding your hips upwards, trying to bring Rio’s attention back to your aching, swollen cunt. That’s all it took, which doesn’t surprise you given the way she’s been looking at you.

“Fuck,” you groan, drawn out and guttural as Rio’s tongue suddenly invades your warm, swiping up your slit to your clit, circling it teasingly, “Please,” you easily beg, trying to pull your hands down to tug at her hair but Agatha’s hands come back to hold your wrists in place.

You can feel the smirk on Rio’s lips against your lower ones, but she doesn’t seem in a teasing mood after getting a taste. No, she looks like she’ll do anything to absolutely devour you and nothing will stand in her way. She circles around your clit once, twice, and then finally presses her tongue flat against it, giving you the perfect surface to roll your hips against.

The pleasure takes over and you grind your hips without a hint of shame, chasing your high. Her tongue is firm and warm against you; Agatha’s fingers suddenly flicking at your nipples only adds to your pleasure. They’re eerily silent as you use Rio’s tongue, wanting to memorise every sound that comes out of your mouth; a high-pitched moan as Agatha pinches your nipples curiously, a whimper as you grind fast enough for the tip of Rio’s tongue to probe at your entrance, a groan as Rio’s hands find their way to your ass to dig her fingers into.

Agatha’s shaky breath behind you makes you wonder if this is also too much for them, if they’re just as affected by you in all of this, if they’re struggling to come to terms with the fact that they can finally have you like this. Just as Rio’s tongue takes back control and slides right past your leaking walls, Agatha attaches her lips back to yours, eagerly swallowing your surprised moan, which only grows louder when you realise you can taste yourself on Agatha’s tongue.

“Look at you, my little dove,” Agatha whispers against your lips, her eyes lidded and voice so incredibly raspy it sends shivers down your arched spine, “Look at you,” she says again, this time breaking your gaze with a hand at your neck, forcing your face down to Rio’s eyes.

Your breath hitches at the intensity in them, the hunger and possessiveness as she looks up at you. When your eyes meet, she growls into your cunt, holding your legs further apart so she can dive her tongue in even deeper. It expertly slithers, twists and turns and curls with precision, as if Rio knows exactly how to drive you to insanity.

It won’t take much longer, you know it, they know it. But it definitely doesn’t matter because they will be nowhere near done with you after you reach your first climax. Rio’s tongue continues thrusting in and out, your wetness clearly coating her nose, her chin, your own thighs. This is what Agatha meant. Look at your mess. It’s beautiful.

You sigh deeply, body relaxing into Agatha’s as you throw your head back again, seeking her lips. She gives them to you with a soft, tender smile, letting you kiss her gently. It’s all surprisingly soft and intimate, the way you exchange quick pecks, your tongues coming out to shyly meet. The way Agatha’s hand strays, coming up to rest tenderly against your cheek. Before you know it, her other hand sneaks down your body and suddenly presses against your throbbing clit. You gasp into her, arching your back as you run up that cliff faster and faster. 

The tension in you coils, your hands finally coming down to grip Rio’s wild locks. Her eyes encourage it, flashing with approval and you tug and tug until she’s moaning between your throbbing walls, the vibrations sending a shiver through you. It doesn’t take a moment longer as Agatha’s fingers rub firmly, her teeth biting down hard into your neck with a growl, a silent statement screaming mine echoing in your head. With a final arch, you freeze, tense and overcome with pleasure. It rushes through you, Rio’s tongue and Agatha’s fingertips not stopping for a single moment to allow you to breathe. A strangled cry escapes as you finally fall off that cliff and all you hear is white noise, all you see is darkness as your eyes shut tight, and all you can feel is them. All over you, all inside you, taking over who you are until they are all you know.

When Rio’s tongue finally slides out, you sigh a strange sound of both happiness and disappointment. You wish for her to stay but you’re also so content with them this way, still in disbelief of what just happened. You wish for it to never end, you think, smiling softly as you lazily blink up at the ceiling.

Agatha hums behind you, laying a soft kiss just below your ear. “How do you feel, sweetheart?” she husks, genuinely checking in, but there’s a hint of impatience beneath the surface as if she’s struggling to wait her turn.

“Amazing,” you sigh, twisting your head around to feel Agatha’s addictive lips against yours again. 

Getting lost in the kiss, you twist around until you’re lying on top of her, deepening the kiss with a passion that wraps around your insides. Agatha kisses you like it’s all she’s ever wanted, but with such tender restraint too. Gentle fingertips trace your jaw, tuck your loose hair behind your ears, and wrap around the back of your neck to keep you close and secure. 

Feeling braver and braver by the second, you risk a wandering hand down the beautiful curve of Agatha’s hip, wrapping around to pull her closer to you. Adjusting yourself, you press a thigh between her legs and she instantly breaks away to gasp; a similar sound escapes your own throat at the heat and wetness you can feel against your skin, even through her nightdress.

“I want to feel you,” you whisper against her lips, unable to resist the urge to kiss them again, and again, until Agatha whines into your mouth, tongue swirling against yours in a beautifully tender dance.

A chuckle from behind interrupts your kiss. “Oh, did you think I was done with you?” Rio rasps, asserting her dominance with a slap to your behind, soothing the wound with a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, God,” you moan at the pain, rolling your hips down against Agatha’s. You can feel Rio’s intense gaze as she watches for a moment, indulging the two of you as you seek pleasure with your grinding hips but find that it’s not enough. Before you can turn over to glimpse the brown-eyed witch, she’s settling in behind you, forcing you back down with a hand to your back. Your breasts press up against Agatha’s through her nightdress, the thin material doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples are.

Rio growls behind you and flicks her fingers, green tendrils coming out to magically remove Agatha’s clothing. A croaky groan echoes in the space as your naked body is finally flush with Agatha’s warmth, the wetness between her legs unmissable now. Rio’s strong hands move you and Agatha as they please, positioning the two of you until you’re straddling her waist.

A strangled, desperate moan suddenly comes from Agatha’s lips, her neck strained as she throws her head back. You frown, wanting to turn back and see what Rio’s doing but her hand remains strong against your back. Whining in frustration, you grind down, whimpering as your clit brushes against Agatha’s wet core. You’re sure you’ve absolutely soaked her trimmed curls by now but she pays no mind to you, completely wrapped up in the pleasure Rio is giving her. 

Then you hear it. A squelching sound as something thrusts in and out of Agatha’s tight heat. It’s as if Rio senses the moment you realise, chuckling low and dark, leaning down to leave teeth marks at the junction of your shoulder.

“She usually likes it when it hurts,” Rio murmurs into your ear, “Hence my wooden creation you saw that night,” she reveals, surprising you, but she continues before you can react, “But this one is leather…Agatha’s just getting it nice and wet for you.”

Agatha groans aloud at the words, her nails finding their way to your back as if you’re Rio atop of her, fucking a leather cock into her. Those nails dig into your shoulders painfully, causing you to hiss, but it quickly mixes with pleasure as Rio’s fingers slide into your slick entrance with unsurprising ease. 

Both you and Agatha moan filthily in unison, Rio groaning at the power she holds as she pistons her hips and fingers into the two of you with precision. There’s barely a moment to breathe, the overstimulation getting to you already. Agatha’s hard nipples brushing against yours, her intoxicating moans and hot breath directly in your ear, Rio’s fingers curling to perfectly brush against the spot inside your walls to drive you to insanity, the way every thrust has your clit rubbing against Agatha’s.

You’re just a few thrusts away from reaching another climax but before you can, Rio’s fingers suddenly disappear. Whining at the loss and pushing your hips back does nothing to temp Rio; she remains firm as she tuts at you, swiping her wet fingers along your skin.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckles again, “So greedy,” she punctuates with a bite to your shoulder again, her eyes gleaming as they meet Agatha’s over your shoulder, “You don’t get to come again, not until Mama does.”

Primal desire takes over you at the phrase, your eyes wide and wanting as they meet Agatha’s as hers flutter open. It’s soft and tender, but also dominant and powerful, especially as her hand creeps up behind your back to pull you down into a rough kiss. All you want to do is make her feel good, you realise, rolling your hips now not to seek your pleasure but to push Agatha over the edge.

“Oh, just like that, little dove,” Agatha whimpers into your lips, sighing deep and low, pressing her forehead to yours, “You’re doing so good,” her nose brushes against yours as you lean down to kiss her quickly. Just a peck, you tell yourself but groan as you push into her again, sliding your tongue across her bottom lip until she lets you in. She hums, playing with your hair, tugging and twisting, gasping and moaning as Rio thrusts harder, faster, angling her hips to push deeper.

“She’s close,” Rio says. You can practically hear the smirk on her lips as she casually swipes her thumb through your slit just to see you jump in pleasure, “Careful, don’t come before Mama,” Rio warns again, this time pushing her thumb in, pressing inside as if she knows exactly what buttons to push. Agatha’s mouth drowns your moans, her tongue curling inside your mouth to taste all of you. Rio doesn’t stop her thrusting, replacing her thumb with two fingers and a third within a minute, filling you until you’re gasping and writhing on top of Agatha.

But you remember Rio’s words, and see how close Agatha is. Her kisses are sloppier, messy and wet, her moans now high-pitched as they escape from those bruised, pouty lips. She sounds just like she did that night, you realise, and the reality of the situation sinks in, sending a thrill through you. Determined to get her to make those sounds and reach her climax, you sit up slightly, the angle putting more pressure against her clit. She groans, her hands sliding to tightly grip your waist.

You moan seductively on top of her, grinding your hips bouncing against her clit and on Rio’s fingers as your own hands wander, tracing meaningless patterns across her stomach. It’s your next action of curiously flicking and pinching her sensitive nipples, paired with your words that send her brutally over the edge. “Wanna make you feel good, Mama,” you whine, throwing your head back as you seek your own pleasure. The grind feels too good. With your slick mixed with Agatha’s, there’s barely any friction but she looks so good, sounds so unbelievably filthy; you could have come just by looking at her unravelling as she does now.

Her body arches beautifully, and you swear if she were a sculpture frozen in time you would believe in no other religion but her. The veins across her neck and on the side of her temple throb as she tenses. You can hear the wet sounds of Rio’s hips refusing to stop her fast pace, thrusting into Agatha’s throbbing hole. The squelching is louder, as if Agatha’s tightening as she comes, and you can’t help but wish it were around your fingers. You wish to feel her, taste her, know it were you that pushed her over the edge. But she finally flutters her eyes back open and they let you know that it was you.

That’s enough for you to shudder, bouncing up and down as you arch your back. Rio’s fingers remain trapped between you and Agatha’s bodies as you use her hand to reach your own climax. It only takes another few seconds before you’re panting and moaning obscenely, grinding against Agatha’s clit to prolong her pleasure. Rio eventually forces your hips to slow, giving you a reassuring kiss on your back as she gently guides you off to lay on the bed by Agatha’s side.

You lay on your stomach, sighing deeply, smiling contentedly as Agatha softly brushes your hair out of your eyes. She grins at you, leaning over to leave a lingering kiss across your temple.

They let you rest for a moment, your eyes fluttering shut in peace, but then you hear a ragged breath followed by a wet sound and have to open your eyes in curiosity. Agatha’s now sat up, back resting against the headboard with Rio on her lap. She’s still wearing the leather cock which you finally get a glimpse of; it’s black, glistening in the candlelight and still somehow dripping with Agatha’s slick. 

The movement beneath it catches your attention and you inhale sharply when you realise Agatha’s hand has slipped beneath the straps holding it in place. She’s rubbing at Rio expertly, her years of experience mapping out Rio’s body making it easy for her to know exactly what the brown-eyed witch needs. Their eyes are locked together in a deep, intense intimacy that has you breathing heavily, a simple observer to the love they hold for each other.

But then you remember what they said that night you saw them in their bedroom. How badly they wanted you, and it seems as if now you’re looking in at a private moment between them, a silent conversation of ‘Finally. Doesn’t it feel amazing? To finally have her?’ It takes less than a minute for Rio’s panting to turn into grunts and guttural moans, her limbs freezing as Agatha’s arm moves faster, the pads of her fingers rubbing circles to push Rio over the edge.

By the time her eyes flutter back open, a soothing satisfaction in them, your legs are pressed against each other in desperate want. You hadn’t realised you’ve been practically humping the bed until their heads turn to you with matching smirks.

“Turn over,” Rio commands and you follow with quick ease, your eyes drawn back down to the intimidating leather piece hanging between her legs. It’s thick, long enough to reach deeper than anyone, any woman’s fingers from your past.

Once you’re on your back, Rio steps off the bed and stands at the foot of it. She grips your ankles and pulls you towards her with ease, smirking in amusement as you squeal and giggle. 

“Oh, this is funny, huh?” she says playfully, spanking the inside of your thigh to earn another squeal, “Are you going to behave for me?” the glare on her face has a layer of intimacy and adoration beneath it, and you cannot miss it, not with her expressive eyes shining brightly at you.

A wide grin spreads across your lips and you bite your lower lip seductively, urging her in. Your legs spread for her, the wetness and slick coating your thighs all over. Rio can barely control herself, clenching her jaw as her hands ball into fists. She wants to tease you, to draw this out, but you’re so inviting, so wet for her, and you’re here, wanting this, and she can finally have you after waiting so long.

“I can’t–I, uh,” Rio stutters for a moment, gulping as her eyes flicker from the mess between your legs to your marked chest and neck, and then your eyes, wild and wide and so free compared to how they were when she first saw you. She did this; they did this. A sense of pride swells in her chest.

You’re shocked seeing her so uncomposed for the first time, so much so that you close your legs and sit up slowly, urging her to come towards you. She does after hesitating for a moment, and she’s suddenly descending to her knees to meet your eyes. Your hand slides up her neck, thumb circling over her jaw as your eyes flicker with affection. Pulling her in, she sighs immediately into the kiss, letting you show her that you want her. It’s soft until it deepens, Rio growling with newfound hunger to devour.

She stands and shoves you back on the bed, tugging your legs again until the leather cock presses against your wet slit. A strangled cry croaks out of you at the simple touch, a warning of what is to come. It’s far more intimidating when you feel it, the head probing at your entrance as it soaks itself in your glistening heat.

“Wait, wait,” you begin to panic, pushing against her chest lightly, “You’re big, I–I don’t know–”

Rio shuts you down with a laugh, leaning down to kiss you reassuringly. “You can take it, sweetheart. I know you can,” she says simply, pressing the head against your entrance again. You moan as you leak around it, “And Mama’s right here to distract you from the pain.”

Your head snaps to the side, remembering Agatha who’s now crawling over to you after catching her breath. Agatha was content watching the two of you, but Rio involving her certainly is a plus for her. She lays by your side, playing with your hair with a reassuring look in her eyes.

“You can take her, little dove,” she whispers, kissing down your jaw to your neck.

Rio uses the opportunity to push the head past your entrance. You immediately hiss at the stretch, arching your back at the invasion but Agatha’s there to soothe the pain with a gentle kiss to your lips, swallowing your sounds. Her hand comes up to grip your chest, squeezing to give you a mix of pleasure, while Rio’s fingertips rub tight circles over your clit.

“Fuck, oh, fuck, please,” you cry out, not sure if you’re begging for her to have mercy on you or push in deeper. But the mix of pleasure quickly takes over, leaving you panting, the stretch now maddening.

Rio pushes in deeper as your eyes lock, a darker look in yours now as the pleasure takes over. “Agatha,” Rio calls out, her lips parted as she stares at you. The blue-eyed witch turns her gaze back to you, her breath hitching at the change in your expression.

“More,” you pant out, demanding it, needing it, craving it. Rio slowly pushes in deeper, panting with you as if she can feel how tight you are against her. You groan deeply at the invasion, at how full you feel and then the realisation that she’s nowhere near done, “God, I need more.”

“I’ll give you everything,” Rio promises, whining as she thrusts deeper, her eyes locked to yours in a hypnotic gaze.

Agatha’s kisses trail down from your neck to your chest, her tongue pressing firmly against your peaked bud; you arch into her mouth with a gasp, your hand coming up to press against her head as your fingers tighten in her wild curls. Agatha’s hand slithers down and slaps Rio’s away, replacing Rio’s fingers with her own. Tight circles around your clit to tease you until you’re writhing, only giving in when you let out that obscene whine that is beginning to become her favourite sound.

Agatha gathers some of your wetness before bringing her fingers back up, brushing them against your lower lips. You open up obediently, breaking your gaze with Rio to look into those darkened blues as you suck Agatha’s fingers into your mouth. You twirl your tongue expertly around them, licking every inch of your slick off of them. Agatha pants at the feeling, suddenly pushing her two fingers deeper until you unexpectedly gag. She smirks at the sound, pulling out to slide them back down for another round but you hold her wrist in place.

“No,” you protest, shaking your head, gasping as Rio thrusts deeper, a reminder of the pleasure waiting for you.

Agatha tilts her head at the slight sign of disobedience. “No?”

“N–” you groan at another push of Rio’s hips, deeper, stretching you more than you’ve ever been stretched before, “No, please, I–I want to taste you.”

Rio pants softly as a silence falls between you and Agatha, the latter’s eyes switching to something territorial, primal, and wicked. Agatha leans forward and you ready yourself for a kiss, but instead her hand rests against the sides of your neck and squeezes until you’re gasping, and she sucks those sounds in as if taking your power. Within seconds, Agatha climbed on top of you, now grinding high up your stomach. She’s leaving her slick behind on your skin, groaning at the pressure against her clit.

“My love,” Rio calls out between her groans, Agatha looking over her shoulder sensually to meet her partner’s eyes, “Face me,” Rio commands, sending a shiver down Agatha’s spine. The blue-eyed beauty gracefully turns over, sliding up slowly until her dripping lips are just over your face. The heady scent immediately makes your head spin with pure hunger, tongue already coming up to try to catch a taste but Agatha pulls up teasingly. Her eyes are locked to Rio’s as she does so, and the brown-eyed witch is fuelled by the action, thrusting her hips forward fast until she’s completely buried deep inside you.

“Fuck, Rio,” you moan her name out, the sound immodest at best. Agatha shuts your moans out quickly by dropping down, finally giving you what you want. The vibrations of your pleasure go straight to her clit and she reaches down to stabilise herself with strong hands to your chest.

“Y/N, darling, yes,” Agatha moans deliciously, rolling her hips against your firm, eager tongue. 

Rio groans at the sight, pulling back just to slam back in, suddenly starting up a rhythm. Your moans get louder by the second, thighs already shaking from the stretch and brutal pace as your walls cling to her cock. She keeps you in place with a strong hold on your hips, pressing down which somehow makes it feel as if she’s thrusting even deeper inside you.

“Let her use you,” Rio pants, and through your narcotic haze of everything Agatha, you realise she’s talking to you, “Until she gets close, and then take control again. She likes to be teased,” Rio guides you through it and you think this is probably the best lesson you’ve ever had with them.

You do as told, keeping your tongue firm for her to grind against, the mix of sweet, salty, and something distinctly Agatha coating your tongue. You swallow eagerly, refusing to let a drop of her sweet nectar go to waste.

“Good, so good, little dove, my good girl,” Agatha pants above you, already losing control as she squeezes your chest in her hands, only adding to your pleasure. Rio pulls your thighs apart, pushing them back as she puts a knee on the bed. You immediately whine at the change of angle, your mind too foggy to think any coherent thought but Agatha and Rio, but you feel it in your stomach, poking, prodding, finding that spot that will push you over the edge over and over again.

Agatha’s thighs tighten around your head and you immediately slide your tongue into her hole for the first time, pleased with the reaction of a drawn-out gasp that catches in her throat. Rio lets out a gasp of her own as she thrusts down into you harder, deep inside to start grinding her hips seeking that pressure of the toy against her clit. Agatha bounces on your tongue, her claws coming out to play as she leaves red streaks on your stomach. You’re not sure where you haven’t been marked yet; if you didn’t think they were possessive after their reaction to the Innkeeper’s daughter, you definitely know it to be a fact now.

“You’re still so tight, baby,” Rio groans, eyes locked to your cunt, “Taking me so well, so pretty, so wet, fuck, tell me it’s for me.”

The sound is muffled by Agatha’s cunt covering your mouth, so she answers for you, gasping as you curl your tongue inside her. “It’s for you,” Agatha pants, Rio’s eyes snapping up to meet hers, “For us,” she says again, desperately clawing her hands forward until they pull at Rio’s hair, tugging so hard the brown-eyed witch moans lewdly at the show of power.

“For you,” Rio pants back, “Us,” she moans, brushing her nose against Agatha’s as she thrusts harder and harder, deeper and deeper until she hits that spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and she stays there as you scream into Agatha’s wet lips, tongue pulling just for her to grind her clit against again, “She’s ours.”

It all snapped for you at the same moment. Rio’s words and her thrusting up against that spot inside you sends sparks through you, her thumb coming down to rub quick circles over your clit despite the fact that she’s grinding her own hips down to chase her own high. Agatha and Rio are locked in a kiss as they come with you, Agatha’s movements slippery and manic, desperate and raw. Your entire face must be covered in her slick by now. You’re writhing under them both, clawing at whatever your hands find, hips twisting as the pleasure becomes too much, but Rio doesn’t stop. Her thrusts only curl deeper, her thumb circles faster until you’re falling again, this time able to breathe in a gasp as Agatha sits up.

“That’s it, that’s our good girl,” Agatha pants out, still catching her breath after coming down from her climax. Her hand creeps around your neck, pulling your head up so you can see the maddening look in Rio’s eyes, “Look at what you do to her,” she whispers to you as you both watch Rio’s wide, almost black eyes fixated on your red, swollen cunt. The vulgar sounds of your hips meeting, of your cunt meeting her cock has you whimpering, and it seems your sounds of pleasure fuels her even more. She thrusts harder and faster, fingers bruising your hips, and the pressure builds impossibly fast, “Let go, little dove, you can fly now,” Agatha whispers again, holding onto you tight as you fall.

Your thighs immediately start shaking as the dam breaks. An orange glow emits from you, your Magick coming out uncontrollably. It heightens everything, all your pleasures, Agatha and Rio’s eyes turning orange too, influenced by your power. They gasp as Magick connects all of you together, as if they can feel it as you build and build, finally gushing out against Rio’s cock. The pressure is too much for her to keep thrusting. She has to pull out, her gaze burned into your skin as she looks down, mesmerised at the wetness flowing out of you. She pulls back in again, and out, in, and out, watching in awe until you collapse with a raw moan coming from the deepest depths of your soul.

Your eyes flutter shut in exhaustion, and the last thing you feel is Agatha and Rio all around you, pulling you into a deep embrace.

masterlist + guidelines

VOTE RN IS P*RN W/ PLOT BETTER YES OR NO

[cherrysurf]

Tall blonde and evil! | Katsuki Bakugo x f!reader

chapter 6; eh your not bad.

Just like he said the chauffeur arrived on time, with everything honestly it felt kinda nice to be spoiled by a man since your lack of male attention was little to none you basked in the moment even if it was from your shitty boss. I mean like you said before, rude,ignorant and yells a lot but treats the people who work for him with respect. Even if you two bicker constantly it became the norm it was comfortable and neither of you took it to heart thinking about it made a stupid smirk grow on your face “why am i smiling over this blonde bastard” you say in your head slapping your face to wake you up from this delusion, luckily you arrived to the mall finally bakugou's chauffeur said to call him when you were ready to be picked you, you politely thanked him and headed out into the mall. “mmh a red or black dress…” you say in your head looking over the vast amount of stores seeing what would catch your eye you passed by prada before you could find a store for a dress and decided to get the professional work outfit done and out of the way you walked in a bit nervous about the whole situation “hi how can i help?” a nice lady in her mid 40’s who still looked youthful as ever and looked like she carried herself very well approached you with a smile “hi yes my name is yn im here for an appointment” you say smiling back “ah yes your with me come come darling” she says guiding you to the back of the store and leading you into a room with many options of office like clothes that were all in the dark gray, black color pallets. Your eyes scanned the entire room to admire how beautifully decorated and secluded it was “here miss yn i’ve had a few already picked out for you, if you don’t like any of these or need an opinion im right here to assist you” she says “i’ll bring you some tea for right now while you get started on trying on outfits” she continues “thank you so much, i really appreciate it” you say smiling “my pleasure” she says with a small nod making her way out the room. The first two outfits didn’t look quite right on your figure, bakugou’s shopping assistant walks back in as you finish putting on the third outfit “wow that one looks stunning on you” she says in awe “you really think so? i think it’s really cute too” you say looking at yourself in the mirror “yes i do. We have it in white if you’d like to try it on?” she proposes “uhm do you think he’d mind if i wore white to the interview?” you ask nervously “not at all i think it would look even better, here let me go get it for you” she says “oh- okay thank you again” you say you weren’t entirely sure if bakugou would get upset at you for wearing something that wasn’t specifically laid out but it was just a color change and clearly he trusted her enough so why not take her advice, and oh boy was she right it looked absolutely beautiful on you “i think this is the one” you say feeling confident “i think so too. It’s perfect and professional, you can change and i’ll get that all set for you” she says “thank you so much for your help today i see why bakugou trusts you so much your choices are amazing” you say happy “thank you i’m glad he’s an amazing customer one of my top clients actually” she says “that’s something new i learned about him today i guess” you say “he’s a man of mystery at first but becomes really easy to read after a while” she says with a giggle “come darling let’s go to the front now” she says you collect your things and you both head to the front, you pay and thank her for everything and she bids you farewell.

“Okay dress and heels now let’s do this.” you say trying to hype yourself up but the hard truth was you only found a nice pair of manolo blanhink hangisi kitten-heel satin slingback pumps that were perfect but no dress at all. “why the fuck is it so hard to find a dress” you groan after hours of being at the mall then it suddenly hits you, that one crimson red dress that your mother left for you and told you to bring when you moved out to the city because “you never know when you need a nice formal dress” she said i guess she’s right all along you decided that you were done and over with today and called bakugou’s chauffeur to come pick you up to head home for a much needed nap.

hopefully this long chapter makes up for all the short ones bye guys

taglist; @kalulakunundrum @sweetadonisbutbetter @rednicotine @ikissfade @bakugouswh0r3 @allurearia @themultifandomgirl @junehasnotbeenfound @darhinadadragon @kodzubaby @harryzcherry @kholethecutie @s4ikooo1 @babylambdietcoke @lover-no-lover61 @sikuthealien @sahrii

[engie-ivy]

949 words

Sirius Black is known as the office Grinch, so what has suddenly gotten into him?

You Make It Feel Like Christmas

You Make It Feel Like Christmas - Gwen Stefani

“You're delusional.”

“I'm not!”

“You must be.”

“No, I swear,” Benjy hisses.

“Well, maybe you misheard,” Hestia offers.

Benjy huffs. “You think I would not recognize ‘Jingle Bells’?”

Emmeline shakes her head. “Anything is more likely than Mr Black humming that song.”

“He was in front of me at the coffee machine,” Benjy says. “And I swear I heard him do it!”

You see, the reason why the mere idea of Sirius Black walking around the office humming ‘Jingle Bells’ is so preposterous, is because Sirius Black is known as the office Grinch.

The man dislikes everything that's even remotely related to Christmas.

When Mary and Dorcas were hanging the Christmas lights, Mr Black commented on energy savings for the office and the necessity of cutting down on the electricity bill. In his opinion, Christmas was a huge waste of energy in its entirety. No one actually knew if he was still talking about electricity.

When the first Christmas song was played on the radio, Mr Black pointedly put on his noise canceling headphones. Plus, he actually has no idea who Mariah Carey is, which is shocking in its own right.

When Edgar came to work wearing his Christmas jumper, Mr Black reported him for inappropriate work attire (though luckily Lily from HR simply told him to get over it).

Moreover, Mr Black constantly complains that Christmas Day is an obligatory day off, instead of him being able to save his vacation hours for, in his words, ‘when he actually needs them’.

He has also called Christmas markets a trick to sell junk no one needs, he's known to think that a gift certificate makes for the best Christmas gift, and that black coffee tastes better than any hot chocolate ever could.

“Okay, I'm actually getting really worried,” Caradoc whispers as they convene at the coffee machine.

“Me too,” Edgar replies in a concerned voice. “Maybe he's come down with some sort of illness?”

“Did you guys hear what he said when he saw the little Christmas tree on my desk?” Mary hisses. “He said it looked ‘nice’. Nice! No eye roll, no sarcastic undertone. Just nice.”

“I almost had a heart attack when I saw his tie this morning,” Emmeline says faintly. “I mean, tiny snowmen?”

Dorcas bites her lip. “Could it be some sort of brain disease?”

“Or maybe he hit his head and he has a concussion?” Benjy offers.

“Should we like… take him to the hospital or something?” Fabian asks.

“Gosh,” Hestia says. “Why are you all so negative? Maybe he just finally caught the Christmas spirit!”

“Excuse me?”

Everyone pauses their work to look at the man who appeared in the doorway to their office. He's got floppy, honey-coloured hair, is wearing a rather tattered coat and is carrying a box with a bow tied around it.

“I'm looking for-”

“Remus!” Mr Black jumps to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

A light colouring appears on the man's cheeks as he looks at Mr Black and he smiles a little sheepishly. “I hope I'm not disturbing you?”

Mr Black closes his laptop without giving it a second look. “Not at all! I can always make time,” says the man who once almost made Gideon cry because he dared ask him a question while he was in the middle of an Excel sheet.

“Great,” the box-carrying man, Remus, grins, and despite the scars on his face, it makes him look strangely endearing. “My mum and I baked Christmas cookies, and we, of course, made way too much for just us, so I thought I'd drop by your office to bring some?”

“That's so sweet of you!” Mr Black happily takes over the box. “I absolutely love Christmas cookies,” says Mr Black, who has never even touched any of the cookies Caradoc baked for the office.

“I see you're wearing the tie I gave you,” Remus says.

“Of course,” Mr Black replies. “It's my favourite.”

“That's good,” Remus smiles softly.

They both just look at each other for a moment, while the rest of the office exchanges looks.

Then Remus averts his eyes and looks down at his shoes. “You know, I was wondering…” He begins. “Would you like to go and look at the Christmas lights together tonight? It may sound cheesy, but they're actually really pretty and it's one of my favourite Christmas activities to-”

“I would love to!” Mr Black replies a little breathless. “I've been really wanting to go and see the lights.”

Mary makes an indignant sound, but both men hardly seem to notice there's anyone else in the room.

“Great!” Remus looks up and beams at Mr Black. “And I was thinking that maybe we could visit the Christmas market and drink some hot chocolate together?”

“I love the Christmas market,” Sirius replies without skipping a beat. “And I'd love to drink hot chocolate with you.”

“Good. Great. Perfect,” Remus says. “So, it's… it's a date?” The colouring on his cheeks increases.

"It's a date,” Mr Black agrees.

Both men stare at each other for a long moment, having completely forgotten there's a room full of people looking at them, people who start shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.

Remus is first to snap out of it. “I… I

I should let you get back to work.”

“Work,” Mr Black repeats, like he's trying to remember what the word means. “Right. Work.”

“See you tonight?” Remus asks.

“Can't wait,” Mr Black replies.

As Remus leaves and Mr Black turns back to the room, everyone immediately turns to their computer, pretending to be working.

Hestia exchanges a look with Emmeline.

Sirius Black definitely caught something alright, but it ain't Christmas spirit.

[artistsfuneral]

a/b/o, but for once the story is actually about the beta

big no progrom pack with Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, Gweld and Gardis and Aubry and Clovis

with Lambert still being the youngest of their pack, a beta (thank fuck) who they all say matches really nicely with their scent

Lambert, fresh out of presentation (still changed his body, still felt weird and intrusive and absolutely exhausting, even without it ending in a heat or rut) just goes with it - surely they know what they're talking about

so Lambert is pack. he sits with them, eats with them, trains with them and shares a den (not his bed, he needs his own bed) with them

and nobody really explains anything to him? do they just assume that he knows what to do?? have Gweld and Gardis instinctively know what to do once they presented as omegas? then, why doesn't he know what to do??

why does it feel so wrong?

cue Lambert, during his pack's heat cycle, feeling more like a handmaiden than a pack member. when Gweld and Gardis care for their omegas, they're rewarded with bright smiles and soft kisses, when Lambert does he gets a 'good job'? when Gweld and Gardis care for their alphas, they're hugged and scented and when Lambert does he gets a pat on the shoulder?

do they even want him there?

it feels obvious that they do not. so after their cycle is over he walks out on them (hates that his instincts won't let him leave while they're still at it, while he still can work for them) and doesn't look back

two years later he finds himself in Tretogor of all places, chewing through a stale piece of bread that seriously has seen better days but was half off at the market, while watching a newly mated alpha omega pair making eyes at each other

and he just- he feels his pack bond breaking and he cries, silent tears running down his face while he eats a piece of bread that suddenly tastes so much worse

Meanwhile Madison is grappling with the fact that not every issues can be settled by committee

meanwhile six other witchers are going absolutely nuts over the fact that they feel the bond to their youngest, sweetest, grumpiest pack member fading away

this is how things went from their perspective:

they're litter mates, close knit and seemingly perfectly balanced: two alphas, two omegas, two betas

and then - decades later - they scent a new pack mate and it's that one guy, only surviver of his cohort, half-feral, spicey, grumpy Lambert

he doesn't really fit a beta's usually calm, softspoken demeanor, but they don't care, because he fits their pack so well, they never knew how much they needed him until they met Lambert

immune to their omegas' charm and their alphas' dominance, Lambert does what Gweld and Aubry would never be bold enough to do

he openly berates them when they're being stupid, always saying out loud what he thinks, doesn't cower in front of the alphas and neither is too soft with their omegas

but

but he never initiates anything that could be interpreted as more than just friendly, sleeps in his own bed, doesn't seem to like prolonged contact and not once has asked for anything during their heat cycle

they just assumed Lambert wasn't interested. because he's always so up front with everything else, surely he'd just say something, right?

wrong. and they realize that as soon as he vanishes right after they calm down from their latest cycle - "I thought he just stepped out for a moment, what do you mean he's gone?!"

and for two years he doesn't return to Kaer Morhen and the pack grows morw and more worried

and then they feel their bond to him fail

and all hell breaks loose

[derww]

for @heartcircus.

its not like zam actually tries to talk: he stands, carefully holding his notes, just staring at spawn, noticing one familiar face after another, feeling like all thoughts in his head became too heavy, and then just. turns around. and leaves.

you know, all of the princezam nature is to oppose, is to fight. but the last seasons taught him about just how important it is to appreciate people around, to do not only for yourself but for them too. and just today he promised to not interfere with mapicc's plans.

he can't fight, but he can't support. so he leaves. first time in many days, he has no words to say anymore.

all of it is just too familiar, and memories of the past cloud his mind and make every part of his body weak and stale. story repeats itself, and hed hate to see it continue and weave hemself into it, so he does not. i need some time to be alone, he says to derapchu and goes almost to the border – to sunny hill, surrounded by snow-capped mountains.

this time something in it reminds him too heavy. he doesn't build a castle. instead, he builds a hut.

it's not so bad, he says to himself, laying firewood in the stove, it's not season 4 anymore, noone will backdoor the server and mapicc will stop. sooner or later. i cant fight him, but i dont have to. everything will end. and then ill go back.

he feels so fucking tired. only now he understands just how tired he is. so he lies down. and sleeps. and sleeps. and sleeps.

it never gets better; the tombstone of exhaustion only presses him down harder and harder. he sleeps and sees dreams. he cooks himself food and eats it, feeling no taste. he plants flowers and takes care of them. sometimes he talks to derapchu. he never tells where he is.

only in so slow time he suddenly understands just how misplaced he is. he's patch on patch, stitched over and over again with scraps of fabric, no matter how worn or unsuitable they may be, over and over and over, stitched with scars running through his spine. he is a trace of something forgotten, overlaid by images of other people and experiences, accustomed to it so much that it feels like himself. he sleeps and sees no nightmares. maybe it's for the worse.

so far from anyone, without any real goal, Immersed deep into himself, he easily starts missing hours, days, and weeks. time doesn't feel real, and he, at the end, too. people write him. sometimes he answers. he never agrees to meet.

i'll go back when the mawn thing will be over; he promises to derap but hardly believes in it himself. something makes him feel like he has nothing to come back to. this house is also not his home, but it's at least silent here.

derap persists, but in the end he gives up too. and, in the end, he is left alone. he grows dandelions in the field around. when an unfamiliar flower appears in the field, he does not prevent it from growing nearby.

he blinks and feels like he missed a whole week. sometimes he just lies there and doesn't move. he doesn't feel the softness of the pillow, the springy floor under his feet, and, after all, he doesn't feel pain either. a ringing void freezes in his head. he feels tired, but sleep doesn't help.

he missed a moment something changes.

something about how the world exists around him. something about how forest smells like. something about how the grass is rustling under his feet. something is wrong, but he barely makes himself care. it doesn't matter, not really, but time still slows down. he slowly dips his hands into the loose earth, feeling the coolness and texture. nothing here belongs to him, but that's not the point. he plants some poppy seeds. one of them ends up in a pot on his windowsill.

i'm fully okay, he says to derap while not being able to remember what he ate today, i'm just in retirement for now. i will go back to you, i promise. i just need some time.

the boards under his feet creak differently. sometimes something whistles, like an unfamiliar bird. sometimes it seems to him that the grass next to the house is crushed.

isn't this a true peaceful life, he asks himself. to run away from everything and be alone. in the end, there is no way to harm anyone if you are alone. he feels like he was running a marathon all this time and only now stopped.

he adds blue orchids, but their blue is drowning in the red. he takes the smallest orchid inside and turns it into a magnificent flower. In a moment of weakness, he takes the cornflower inside. the next one turns out to be an orange tulip. he doesn't comprehend it.

is it what i wanted in season four, he asks himself. this place strangely reminds him of it. he reminds himself of it, too, allowing himself to feel anything. he still can't decide if it's a good thing. 

the rain is pounding on his window. someone is knocking on his coffin lid. poppies fill the whole field.

i miss them, he writes on a paper. but i can't go back yet. not while spawn is someone's. not while i have to fight my best friend.

when he comes back from the forest, his house still keeps warmth. his footsteps are echoing, and his diary is open by the wind. i miss being able to decide, this page says. i was good at it once.

he doesn't feel sick. he feels dump. the green in his cape is starting to fade.

sometimes it seems to me that i won't be able to overcome this, he writes. but I know i can handle it. i always can. i will overcome anything. i just can't give up.

the forest smells of pine and fir, and it has not been lost in the trees for a long time, wandering far beyond the edge. the forest always brings him back when he wants to. it never holds him by force and generously supplies him with tree cones and wet moss. he always comes back because he has nowhere to go.

this time, when he comes home, he has a visitor. he is not surprised: he calls them by name, nods, makes tea from fir needles.

mapicc rests his head on his elbows.

– lets go home, – he says. zam shakes his head.

– to mawn? – he asks.

mapicc squints.

– yes.

– i won't.

– why.

zam looks at him almost regretfully.

– because i refuse to fight you, – he answers simply, – and i will have no choice but to.

– even fighting me is much better than- than whatever this is, – mapicc remarks irritably.

– i don't want to fight you ever again, – zam signs, – i know you like me as your enemy. i do not.

– you don't have to fight me. join me.

– i hate everything you've created, – he answers with pity, – and i can't change it. please, leave me alone. do whatever you want to do. and one day i'll be able to go back.

– i dont understand why you oppose it so much. you haven't even given it a try. is it, like, that bad? people love it; you can love it too.

zam shakes his head.

– did you really come to convince me to love what I hate?

– i came to invite you to my thing.

– not this time.

in the end, mapicc still leaves. only after that zam takes his floor apart to find a secret passage under the boards. it leads to a dug-out underground room filled with anything. there are books everywhere. an unmade bed. and a pot with a dandelion in the middle of the makeshift countertop.

mapiccs room, says the sign. he adds a glow ink to it and looks around again.

for an infinitely long moment he considers just starting to live here.

[xypheris]

Writer Jargon 101 ✨

Show, Don’t Tell – The golden rule! Instead of flatly stating emotions, reveal them through actions, dialogue, and sensory details. Like, don’t say, “She was angry.” Show her slamming a door or clenching her fists.

Head-hopping – When you switch POVs in the middle of a scene without clear demarcation. It's confusing and jarring, like taking a sudden detour while driving.

Purple Prose – Over-the-top, flowery writing that can come off as trying too hard. A little flair is fine, but don’t smother your reader with excess.

In Medias Res – Starting a story in the middle of the action. No boring build-up, just bang—we’re already in the heat of things.

Foreshadowing – Dropping subtle hints about what’s coming next. A small detail now could be a huge reveal later. It’s like dropping breadcrumbs leading your readers to an epic twist.

Chekhov’s Gun – If you introduce an object or detail, it better serve a purpose later. No random things just hanging around. Everything matters.

Canon vs. Fanon – Canon refers to the original source material, while Fanon is the fan-created version. You can take liberties with Fanon, but Canon needs to stick close to its roots.

Saturation Point – That place in your writing where things become too repetitive, too familiar. You’ve got to find a way to push beyond it to keep your writing fresh and engaging.

Bait and Switch – Leading your reader to expect one thing, then suddenly giving them something unexpected. It’s like pulling the rug out from under them.

Plot Device – Any element (object, event, or person) that drives the plot forward or allows the resolution of the story. It’s the item or moment that has to exist for the plot to make sense.

Vignette – A brief, evocative scene that focuses on one moment or idea, often without a formal plot. It's about capturing a snapshot of a bigger picture. Think of it like a small, poetic portrait within a larger narrative.

Mise-en-Scène – A French term used to describe the setting or visual elements within a scene, especially in film and theater. It refers to how everything is placed or designed to create a specific atmosphere.

Framing Device – A structure or technique used to tell a story within a story. It's like having a character tell their experiences through flashbacks or letters, giving the plot a layered, nested feel.

Endowment Effect – When writers unintentionally overvalue a character or plot point simply because they created it. It’s the I’m so proud of this, it’s got to stay! mindset. Sometimes less is more, so watch out for this.

Conflict (Internal/External) – Internal conflict is the emotional struggle within a character (e.g., wanting something but being afraid of it), while external conflict comes from forces outside of the character (e.g., fighting an enemy or dealing with societal pressures).

Pacing Breathers – Moments in the story where the action slows down to allow the characters to breathe and reflect. These help balance the high-energy scenes and give readers time to process.

Symbolism – Using objects, actions, or settings to represent larger ideas. Think of a wilting flower symbolizing the decay of a relationship. It’s subtle but adds layers to your story.

Subtext – The hidden or underlying meaning in a scene or dialogue. What isn’t said, what’s implied but not directly stated. Like that tension between two characters that’s so obvious but never spoken aloud.

Red Herrings – Misdirection! These are the details or clues that seem significant but lead readers down the wrong path. It’s like planting a fake trail to keep your reader guessing.

Narrative Whiplash – When you suddenly change tones or perspectives, jerking the reader’s expectations. It’s like riding a bike and then suddenly taking a sharp, unexpected turn. Used well, it adds suspense, but too much can feel disorienting.

To those readers who became writers ✍🏻, we instinctively and intuitively know what works and what doesn’t, but just in case I’m putting it out here so writing becomes easier. The more you write, the more these little tricks and tools become second nature. Keep going, trust yourself, and keep honing your craft. ✨

[ms-snape]

Hi could you please write an imagine in which snaps and reader are together, reader grew up in a muggle house, didn’t go to a wizarding school therefore doesn’t know a whole lot about magic. Somehow they find out the other has powers and Snape takes it upon himself to teach her everything.

Title: Magic?

Warning: None

Words Count: 2000+

Masterlist

___

Severus Snape was a man who kept his life meticulously ordered—every detail tightly controlled, every secret well-guarded. His flat in Spinner’s End reflected that precision: shelves lined with books on obscure topics, an assortment of jars containing rare herbs and powders, and not a single item out of place. For years, his life had been predictable, secluded, and exactly as he preferred it.

Until Y/N.

She had appeared one rainy autumn afternoon, moving into the house near his with a clatter of boxes and the faint sound of her laughter through the place. He’d paid her no mind at first, assuming she was just another ordinary muggle passing through the neighborhood. But Y/N had a way of quietly insinuating herself into his life, her warmth and curiosity chipping away at the walls he had spent years constructing.

It started with small conversations, then turned into shared cups of tea on dreary afternoons. Severus found himself drawn to her despite his better judgment, captivated by her wit and her ability to see through his sharp exterior without fear. Before long, her presence became a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

But Severus Snape was no ordinary man, and secrets like his had a way of complicating even the simplest of relationships.

The first time Severus noticed something unusual about Y/N, it was during one of their many tea sessions. She had been recounting a frustrating encounter with a nosy coworker, her voice tinged with exasperation, when the sugar bowl on the table suddenly slid toward her without anyone touching it.

Severus froze, his sharp black eyes narrowing as he watched the bowl settle.

Y/N, however, seemed entirely unaware. She simply reached for the sugar and continued talking as if nothing had happened.

The incident lingered in Severus’s mind for days. It wasn’t an isolated occurrence. As their relationship deepened, he began to notice more of these oddities.

One evening, while she was cooking dinner, she muttered under her breath about needing a spoon. A drawer across the room creaked open, and a wooden spoon floated out, landing neatly on the counter. She had stared at it in confusion for a moment before shaking her head and muttering something about exhaustion.

Then there was the time they had gotten into a mild argument. The moment her voice rose, the lights flickered ominously, and a glass on the counter shattered. Y/N had apologized profusely, blaming her clumsiness, but Severus couldn’t ignore the growing evidence.

She was no ordinary muggle.

He debated telling her for weeks, but every time he tried, the words caught in his throat. How could he explain magic to someone who had lived her entire life unaware of its existence? More importantly, how could he tell her that she might possess magic of her own?

As he hesitated, Y/N’s curiosity began to grow. She wasn’t blind to his odd behaviors—the way he seemed to know things he shouldn’t, the strange ingredients she occasionally glimpsed in his kitchen, or the books with titles written in languages she couldn’t understand.

It all came to a head one fateful evening.

Severus had been in his study, absorbed in a particularly complex potion, when Y/N’s voice broke through his concentration.

“Severus, can I ask you something?”

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “What is it?”

She stepped into the room, holding a thick, leather-bound book in her hands. His heart sank as he recognized it immediately.

“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.

“It was on the shelf,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “I was looking for something to read, and this caught my eye. But… Severus, what is this? It’s not just a book, is it?”

He rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. “Y/N,” he began, his voice measured, “that is not something you should have been reading.”

“Why not?” she pressed. “It’s not like I can understand half of it. But the parts I do understand…” She flipped the book open, pointing to a page filled with detailed instructions for a potion. “This talks about powdered unicorn horn and asphodel. These aren’t… normal things, are they?”

Severus stared at her, his mind racing. There was no more hiding it.

“No,” he said finally. “They are not.”

She waited, her expression a mixture of confusion and determination. “Then explain it to me. Please.”

And so he did.

Severus spent the next hour explaining everything—the wizarding world, Hogwarts, and his own role as a potions master. He spoke of magic and its many forms, carefully observing her reaction as he revealed the truth he had kept hidden for so long.

Y/N listened in stunned silence, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. When he finished, she exhaled a shaky breath.

“So… you’re a wizard,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“And you’ve been hiding this from me the entire time we’ve known each other?”

“I was protecting you,” he said, his tone defensive. “The less you knew, the safer you were.”

She frowned, her gaze piercing. “Safe from what?”

“From the dangers of my world,” he replied. “Magic is not always a gift. It can be a burden—a dangerous one.”

Y/N shook her head, her expression softening. “Severus, I understand why you wanted to protect me. But don’t you think I deserve to know the truth? Especially if…” She hesitated, her voice faltering.

“If what?” he prompted.

“If I’m part of it too,” she said quietly.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

She looked down at her hands, twisting them nervously. “I’ve always had… strange things happen around me. Things I couldn’t explain. I thought I was just unlucky or clumsy, but… after what you’ve told me, I don’t know anymore.”

He studied her carefully, his mind racing. He had suspected as much, but hearing her say it aloud confirmed what he had been reluctant to admit.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, “it is possible that you are not a muggle.”

Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he continued, “that you may be a witch.”

___

The morning light filtered softly through the windows of Severus’s flat, illuminating the scattered remnants of the night before: a few spell books left open on the table, a candle burned low in its holder, and a single white feather resting in the middle of the room. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration as she waved a borrowed wand at the feather.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” she muttered, her tone deliberate.

The feather trembled slightly but refused to lift. Instead, it skidded a few inches across the wooden floor.

“Again,” Severus instructed from his chair, his tone calm but firm.

Y/N sighed, gripping the wand tighter. “I’ve said it at least twenty times. Why isn’t it working?”

“Because,” he replied, “you’re trying to force it. Magic requires control, yes, but also intention. You cannot simply will it into being. You must feel it, allow it to flow.”

She groaned, letting her head drop forward in frustration. “This is harder than it looks.”

Severus set down the book he’d been thumbing through and moved to sit beside her on the floor. His presence was steadying, his dark eyes watching her with an intensity that made her heart race.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its usual edge, “no one masters magic overnight. Even the most talented witches and wizards stumble when they first begin.”

“But I can’t even levitate a feather,” she muttered, her tone tinged with disappointment.

“Progress is not measured by perfection,” he said, reaching out to gently tilt her chin so she was looking at him. “Every spell, no matter how small, is a step forward.”

She gave him a small, tentative smile, and he allowed himself a rare moment of softness, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Come,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s try again.”

For the next hour, Y/N practiced under Severus’s watchful eye. Each attempt was met with either a subtle correction or a murmured word of encouragement. When she managed to lift the feather a few inches off the ground, she let out a triumphant laugh, her excitement lighting up the room.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, turning to Severus.

He allowed himself a small, approving smile. “Indeed, you did.”

Unable to contain her excitement, she threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, his hands resting awkwardly on her back.

“You’re a surprisingly affectionate student,” he remarked dryly, though the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

“And you’re a surprisingly patient teacher,” she shot back, grinning.

He shook his head, muttering something about “foolishness,” but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving ever so slightly upward.

As the days turned into weeks, their lessons became a regular routine. Severus taught her simple spells first—lumos to light her wand, accio to summon objects, and even reparo to fix the various things she accidentally broke during her practice.

But not every lesson was smooth.

One rainy afternoon, Y/N was attempting to cast a cleaning charm on a spill she’d made. Instead of vanishing, the liquid exploded outward, splattering both her and Severus with tea.

She gasped, horrified. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Severus!”

He stood there, dripping tea, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might be angry, but then he let out a deep sigh and flicked his wand, vanishing the mess in an instant.

“Perhaps,” he said, his tone dry, “we’ll revisit cleaning charms another day.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, and to her surprise, Severus’s lips twitched in response.

Despite her occasional missteps, Y/N’s progress was undeniable. With each successful spell, her confidence grew, and Severus found himself strangely proud of her determination.

One evening, as they practiced in the dim light of his study, Y/N managed to conjure a small stream of water from her wand. She let out a delighted laugh, her eyes sparkling as she turned to him.

“Did you see that?” she asked, beaming.

“I saw,” he replied, his voice quiet.

Her joy was infectious, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in and kissed him. It was a fleeting kiss, soft and full of gratitude, but it lingered between them like an unspoken promise.

When she pulled back, she looked at him nervously. “Was that okay?”

Severus’s dark eyes searched hers, and for a moment, she thought he might retreat behind his usual stoicism. But then he reached out, his hand cupping her cheek as he kissed her back—slowly, deliberately, as though he were committing the moment to memory.

When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re remarkable, Y/N.”

Her heart swelled, and she smiled, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. “So are you, Severus.”

The weeks passed in a blur of lessons, laughter, and quiet moments shared between spells. Y/N still struggled at times—her wand sometimes sparked unpredictably, and her frustration would boil over when a spell refused to cooperate. But Severus was always there, steady and patient, guiding her with a firm but gentle hand.

One evening, as they sat together by the fire, Y/N leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you think I’ll ever be good at this?” she asked softly.

Severus placed a hand over hers, his touch warm and reassuring. “You already are.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” he said simply.

Y/N smiled, her doubts melting away under his steady gaze. For all his gruffness and guarded nature, Severus had a way of making her feel seen—truly seen.

And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, she realized that magic, for all its wonder and mystery, was nothing compared to the love they had found in each other.

[axel-ambassador]

Wait, can you write Charlie asking Vaggie out in hogbin -okay no that sounds even worse- au?

Or maybe Vaggie's first lesson back after the attack

Chaggie time!!

It was a quiet summer's night, save for the sound of two girls whispering in the comfort of the Carmine residence, sat on the youngest Carmine's bed.

"And suddenly, Odette's in the air being magically suspended by her foot. So she used the same spell to put Clara in the air too! Mamá had to threaten to take their brooms away cuz they wouldn't put each other down!" Vaggie recalled, electing a quiet laugh from Charlie, making her chuckle in turn.

"...I missed this." Charlie sighed with a melancholic smile.

Vaggie managed a grin of her own. "Me too." Her smile dropped as the cause of the decline in their relationship was brought to the forefront of her mind. "I'm sorry I ruined what we had-"

"I know." Charlie gently interrupted. "I've already forgiven you."

"I know, I just...you're so good."

"You're good, too." Vaggie scoffed in response. "I mean it. You've always been good, you just...chose to hide it, and..." She took Vaggie's hand. "You don't have to hide anymore."

Vaggie felt her face heat, and was thankful the room was probably dark enough to hide it. She swallowed, throat suddenly feeling dry. "Charlie..."

"I like you, Vaggie. I always have. I want to be with you, make up for lost time." Charlie confessed, feeling the sweat on the back of her neck as her cheeks erupted in red.

For a moment, Vaggie was speechless. There was no way the girl who had made her question her sexuality was now confessing to her. "You...want to be with me?"

Charlie nodded, ever bold despite her thundering heart. "Only if you want that as well. If not..." Her gaze dropped, darkening ever so slightly but never losing its warmth. "...I'll still happily be your best friend, it'll be like nothing has changed."

"But they have changed! I've changed," Vaggie gestured to herself. "You've changed," she motioned to the tips of black still colored in Charlie's bangs. "You deserve so much better than me. I'm just as bad as Sev-"

"Please." Charlie scoffed. "Sev didn't give two shits about me." Her gaze narrowed on Vaggie's uncovered left eye, or lack thereof. "You threw a quidditch match and the house cup away just to prove how much you cared, and you didn't even expect me to forgive you. That's so..."

"Both incredibly selfish and selfless?"

"Yes, but more than that! You put everything aside just for me. I can't even begin to describe how special that makes me feel." Charlie gushed. Vaggie flushed. "I just..." She rested a hand on Vaggie's left cheek, and Vaggie could only watch her with a wide eye. "I wish you didn't have to suffer because of that."

"It was worth it," Vaggie responded without hesitation, relishing the touch. "Despite how...hard everything is, it's worth it. I'd do it again if it meant earning your forgiveness." Charlie pushed down the tight feeling in her throat, nearly being moved to tears. "And...I know helping me the past few months hasn't been easy. Thank you...for helping me through this, Char."

She turned away, blind spot out of Charlie's view. She swallowed, trying not to choke on her words. "I do want this, but...please, be honest...do you, really want this? All of it?"

Charlie reached over and brushed Vaggie's bangs behind her ear, exposing the nasty scars. The empty eye, the damaged tear duct, the sliced eyebrow, the chopped ear, all of it. "All of it."

Vaggie finally made eye contact. She was still in disbelief. She had only ever dreamed of this moment. "If this is what you really want..."

Charlie reached her other hand up to Vaggie's other cheek. "Do I need to repeat myself?" She teased. Vaggie managed a giddy chuckle. "Can I kiss you?"

"Please."

Their lips connected, officially sealing their relationship.